Adam Hepburn's Vow: A Tale of Kirk and Covenant

  *CHAPTER XIV.*

  *BETRAYED.*

  The soft and beautiful radiance of a mild September morning lay upon thevale of Inverburn. The sky, though not so cloudlessly blue as in thesummer time, was bright and clear, and masses of soft, dove-colouredclouds were piled up on the horizon, foretelling the approach of agentle rain. The rich hues of autumn were now upon the trees. Beechand hazel-nuts were already falling ripely to the ground, the rowanshung rich and red among their graceful leaves, blackberry and wildraspberry were plentiful and luscious, and in very sheltered early nooksthe bramble was black upon the bough. Yes, the fruits which Dame Natureprovides with such free and generous hands were not lacking, but what ofthe more substantial harvest, what of the yellow corn, which inSeptember was wont either to be stacked upon the fields, or standing inrich and golden fulness, awaiting the sickle of the reaper. Ah! whatindeed? Had some terrible dearth come upon the land, had a woefuldrought withered and parched the fertile Clydesdale acres, and hushedthe reapers song into the stillness of despair?

  I said in a former chapter that the business of life seemed to be at astandstill in Inverburn. So it was still, and not in Inverburn alone,but throughout the length and breadth of Clydesdale, Liddesdale, andNithsdale. For miles and miles the fields lay bleak and desolate, theironly harvest being a wealth of weeds and thistles, which gave to theonce fertile lands the appearance of a wilderness. What devastatingbreath had passed over the smiling land, what evil scourge had wroughtthis woeful desolation? The reason was not far to seek.

  The emissaries of the Government, into whose hands full power overScotland had been given, had swept the southern and western countieswith a devastating host, who burned, killed, and plundered as they went,and left nothing but a trail of blood behind. And the tillers of thesoil, left destitute in many instances of the barest necessaries oflife, could only bow their heads over the desolation which had come uponthem, and be thankful if they escaped with their lives.

  And yet, in those days it came to be a question not easily answered,whether life could be called a boon.

  It was a Sabbath morning, and that deep, solemn stillness peculiar tothe Sabbath seemed to hallow the very air. The birds had hushed theirsongs of gladness as if in reverence for the holy day, the very voice ofthe river, rippling on its way, seemed to be subdued into a tender andmelancholy cadence, instead of brawling noisily in its rocky bed, andthe brown and yellow leaves upon the trees scarcely stirred to theresponse of the whispering breeze.

  While it was yet early, long before the long rays of the noontide sunfell aslant the hills, there might have been seen in various by-pathsand unfrequented ways, straggling little groups of two or threeindividuals all moving in the same direction. Following them, we comeat length to a sweet and sheltered glade, by the side of the clear,swift-running Douglas Water. This sylvan retreat, which might have beena fairy's dressing-room, so rich was it in fresh green beauty, waswarmly and safely protected by high hills, rising abruptly on eitherside, but was open at either end, a narrow path going westward toInverburn, and another eastward, until it converged into what was calledthe Sanquhar road.

  Upon the sloping banks at the base of the hill, and also seated on thegreensward and the boulders nearer the edge of the stream, were gathereda goodly company of men, women, and children, of almost every rank, age,and calling. There were shepherds in their tartan plaids, uncouthfigures in the homely garb of the outdoor labourer, well-dressedfarmers, and a sprinkling of stalwart soldiers, who had escaped theslaughter at Rullion Green. There were also present Graham of Pitoy,with his wife and daughter, and Baxter of Thornilee, both gentlemen ofconsiderable estate in the neighbourhood. Foremost amongst those seatedon the hill might have been observed the red head of Watty McBean, whichshowed in full contrast against the spotless hue of Betty's white cap.

  Several horses, which had brought people from a distance, were quietlyenjoying a dainty bite at the fresh grass, which grew in luxuriance bythe stream, and upon the heights there were some mounted horsemenapparently keeping watch, in order to give timely alarm if any marauderslikely to molest the company should appear in sight.

  There might have been about five hundred people gathered together, whenthere appeared round one of the windings of the stream the familiarfigure of the minister of Inverburn, leaning upon the arm of his sonDavid. They had just emerged from their hiding in the Corbie's Cliff inorder to conduct the service in the glen. Many eyes filled with tearsat sight of their beloved minister, and they shook their headsmournfully at the visible change wrought in his appearance by the longmonths of anxiety and solitary confinement. The minister of Broomhillalso looked worn and thin, and his hair was now as white as snow.

  When the ministers reached the centre of the little throng, a fewminutes were spent in mutual greetings, and then Mr. Gray the elderstepped to the front of the huge boulder which served as a pulpit, andupon which a white cloth was spread, with the Bible above it. Foldinghis withered hands, he said, in solemn and trembling tones, "Let uspray." It seemed as if Nature hushed her many sounds in unison with thestillness which fell upon the assembled worshippers as the long-lovedvoice of their minister, in choice and appropriate language, gaveutterance to a fervent and expressive prayer to the God of Heaven. Aportion of the seventy-ninth psalm was then read, and sung to the sweetand mournful strain of "Martyrs." The words:

  "Against us mind not former sins. Thy tender mercies show; Let them prevent us speedily, For we're brought very low."

  were sung with an intense and passionate fervour which told that it wasindeed the cry of every heart present, and that it was not mere lipservice which had brought them thither, almost at the very peril oftheir lives.

  Turning to the prophetic pages of Isaiah, the minister chose for histext these comforting and appropriate words, "O thou afflicted, tossedwith tempest, and not comforted; beloved, I will lay thy stones withfair colours, and lay thy foundations with sapphires.... Inrighteousness shalt thou be established; thou shalt be far fromoppression, for thou shalt not fear; and from terror, for it shall notcome near thee."

  In his own earnest and persuasive manner the venerable servant of Godendeavoured to comfort his flock, assuring them that though they werenow passing through the bitter waters of affliction, the Lord would notutterly forget his ancient Zion, but would yet restore her to libertyand peace. As he earnestly exhorted them to continue steadfast in thefaith, and to bear manfully their light affliction, which was but for amoment, and would work out its own exceeding weight of glory, his eyesglowed and shone, and his face was transfigured by the light of a holyenthusiasm which shed a warm and cheerful influence upon the hearts ofhis hearers, and restored their fainting courage, until they felt indeedable to do and dare without faltering for the sake of Him who trodbefore them the weary vale of persecution and shame.

  It was a moving sight to look upon the eloquent face of the preacher,which bespoke the inmost feelings of his soul, and to see his thin whitelocks fluttering in the breeze, while his wasted hands were alternatelyfolded or upraised to enforce his earnest words. The multitude, hushedinto rapt and breathless stillness, were unconscious of a figurestealing swiftly up the glen, until a slight scream fell from the lipsof a woman, and Susan Gray of Hartrigge interrupted the sermon byhastily running to meet what appeared to be a wayfaring man, whoseragged garb and miserable appearance proclaimed that he had been long onthe road and had suffered many privations. The minister paused, andturned his eyes towards the wanderer, in whose changed countenance herecognised the features of his first-born son.

  The unexpected arrival of Hartrigge broke up the conventicle, and hisrelations, who were all present, flocked round him, while his friendsand neighbours pressed closely behind, eager to hear the story of hisadventures. But he seemed breathless, and unable to speak for a moment,and then his words were of ominous import.

  "It is surely madness to be holding a meeting her
e, and the dragoons sonear! They have pursued me since daybreak, and I have only escapedthrough being familiar with every by-path on the way. Scatter yourselvesquickly, for they will be upon us in a moment. Father and David, let usmake haste together to our usual hiding. I have longed for the Corbie'sCliff all day."

  Just then a watcher on the western height blew a warning note on thetrumpet, and in a few moments the assemblage melted away like mist inthe noonday sun.

  Jane Gray entreated her brother-in-law, Adam Hepburn, to flee with theministers and Hartrigge to the friendly shelter of the Corbie's Cliff,but he stoutly refused, saying that the soldiers would not be likely totrouble Rowallan again, seeing they had met with so little success ontheir previous visit. But Jane herself was not at all sanguine, and asthey stole homewards by the most unfrequented field paths, her mind wasfilled with strange misgivings regarding Martha Miller, the maid, whohad gone home to spend the Sabbath day with her parents at the NorthLodge, on Inverburn. She was walking a little in advance of Adam, andwas the first to ascend the little hill, from which a glimpse ofRowallan could be had. She stood still there, for in the distance shesaw the gleam of steel, and a party of horsemen riding rapidly up theroad to the farm.

  "See yonder, Adam!" she said, in a trembling whisper; "you must flee atonce, either to the cave at Hartrigge, or into the Corbie's Hole, if youcan reach it unseen."

  "What! and allow you, a defenceless woman, to go down alone among thesebrutal fellows?" inquired Adam, incredulously. "You hardly know whatyou say, Jane."

  "Yes, yes! I know very well; I am not afraid. They will not harm me. Ihave still some of the Burgundy which wrought the charm on Turner," sheanswered, hurriedly. "Oh, Adam! do make haste and flee, in case theycatch sight of us."

  Involuntarily Adam Hepburn grasped his sword, as his eyes turned towardsthe dragoons. Yet he hesitated; for when there were fifty to one, whatwould be his chance? Nay, certain death awaited him if he ventured intheir midst.

  "Run, run, Adam. I entreat you!" exclaimed Jane, in tones of keendistress. "You know there is a price upon your head; and I would notthat I should witness a second deed of violence at Rowallan. Run, mybrother; we cannot yet spare you from our midst."

  "But you, Jane? It is selfish, cowardly, to leave you like this."

  "No, no! I repeat, I am not afraid. I can easily frame an excuse formy absence from the place, should they question me. You can safelyleave Rowallan in my hands. God gives a deep and peculiar courage evento frail women in these times, and I believe I could influence thesemen, bad as they are. Only go, for every moment you stay is an agony."

  "Well, I will; and God forgive me if I am in the wrong, and may Heprotect you, my sister," said Adam, hoarsely. Then, with a fervent gripof the hand, they parted; Adam to steal with caution and speed to somesafe hiding, and Jane to make her way down to Rowallan. She was asingularly brave and fearless woman, and yet her heart quailed a littleas she made haste to get in by the back premises, hoping to reach thehouse and throw off her cloak before she was observed by the dragoons.She was greatly favoured in that respect, for the soldiers made a haltfor some reason or other on the road, and she had slipped unobservedinto the house before they rode into the farmyard. She threw off hercloak, tied an apron about her, and busied herself in the kitchen, justas if continuing her usual morning work. But when she heard them rideinto the yard, with a great din and clatter, she took such a violenttrembling that she was obliged to sit down in order to recover herself.However, when she heard a foot on the step, and a hand on the latch ofthe door, she regained calmness, and rose to her feet. She hadpurposely unbarred the kitchen door; therefore, somewhat to his ownastonishment, he having been otherwise informed, the captain of thedetachment found nothing to impede his entrance. He was still furtheramazed, on entering the kitchen, to behold a woman there, who turned herfair, calm face to him, as if in questioning surprise.

  Captain McNab, though unflinching and uncompromising in the performanceof duty, however painful or harsh it might be, was a gentleman, and didnot address Jane Gray with that insolent familiarity which hadcharacterised Sir James Turner's questioning.

  "Sorry to disturb you, mistress," he said courteously enough. "I amastonished to find you here; we were credibly informed that all theinmates of the house had gone to a field-preaching about a mile distant,and that we should find the coast clear."

  "Your informer might be more zealous than trustworthy, sir," Jane Graymade answer quickly, though her heart grew sick with apprehension.Doubtless Martha Miller had been the informant, and how many othersecrets had she discovered and divulged?

  "It was a wench, one of the serving-maids here, I believe," answered theCaptain candidly. "We are in search of four desperate Whigs, twoministers and two farmers; but I think we will lay hands upon them here.Come, tell me, my sweet dame, how can so comely a gentlewoman as youcountenance such disreputable rebellion?"

  "What you term rebellion, sir, may convey another meaning to my mind,"answered Jane Gray. "Pray, would you call it rebellion to desire toexercise liberty in matters pertaining to conscience?"

  "Faith, you put it glibly," retorted the Captain, with a smile. "Manyof my fellow officers would give but a rough denial to such rebelliouswords, but I would scorn to make war on women. Well, have you anythingto drink in the house? I intended to force an entrance and ransack thecupboards, but it would have a sweeter relish if poured out by thosefair hands."

  "If you will be good enough to step into the inner room, sir, I will setwhat I have before you," answered Jane courteously.

  "Thanks. I will step out first and see what speed they are making withtheir search. We have been well guided to the cunning corner which hassheltered the renegades so long, and the parson himself is with us toassist us in our work," said the Captain carelessly. "Faith, madam, Ido not wonder that the folk get sick of his snivelling ministrations.He is a mean, despicable dog, whom it would do me good to thrash."

  So saying, the Captain sauntered out to the yard again, and Jane Gray,stepping into a little closet, which had a window to the back, saw himenter the barn. Folding her hands, her white lips moved in an agony ofprayer, for without a doubt the secret of the chaff hole was a secret nolonger, and unless warned by the noise overhead, the fugitives could notpossibly escape.

  Several minutes passed, and at length Jane saw McLean, the curate,emerge from the barn with a very disgusted and chagrined expression onhis ill-favoured face. He was followed shortly by Captain McNab, who,with his lieutenant, came slowly towards the house.

  "They have found the nest, but the birds have flown," he said, in tonesof annoyance, as he entered the kitchen. "With your permission,mistress, we will now taste your fare, while my men make a furtherinvestigation of the secret passage, which is indeed a cunningly devisedhiding. Little wonder it has remained undiscovered so long."

  Jane Gray drew a breath of relief, and a silent thanksgiving fordeliverance vouchsafed arose to heaven from her grateful heart. Sheknew at once that the unusual stir and clamouring about the quiethomestead had penetrated the ears of the fugitives in their hiding, andgiven them timely warning to flee. Once out of the subterranean passage,they were comparatively safe, for there was many a cave and snug cornerby the banks of the Douglas Water, where they could shelter till thekindly darkness fell. In about three-quarters of an hour, those who hadfollowed the subterranean passage to its outlet returned to Rowallan,reporting that there was neither sight nor sound of the fugitives to beseen or heard.

  Captain McNab, though considerably chagrined, for it would have beengreatly to his credit and advantage to have laid hands on so many markedrebels, hid his feelings much better than the curate, who, forgettinghis holy office, swore roundly in his disappointment; and vowedincreased vengeance on the name and house of Gray. Serene and matchlesswas the contempt with which Jane Gray regarded him: she never allowedher eyes to rest on his countenance, and never betrayed, by look orgesture, that she heard the rude remarks he addr
essed to her.

  Captain McNab bade Miss Gray a polite farewell, and even apologised forso disturbing her on a Sabbath morning, a courtesy which she gratefullyacknowledged with an expressive glance from her fine eyes and a low bow.

  Mounting his horse at the door, Captain McNab gave the word of command,and the troop rapidly rode away.

  Then Jane Gray, unable to bear the unspeakable relief following upon thegreat strain upon her nerves, sank down on her knees and burst intotears.