*CHAPTER I.*
*THE TRAVELLERS.*
Towards the close of a bleak grey February afternoon, in the year 1638,a small party of travellers might have been seen approaching Edinburghby the high road from Glasgow. It consisted of a sturdy brown pony,whereon sat a fair-faced, sunny-haired little girl, whose age could nothave exceeded nine years; a bright-faced, bold-looking lad, walking atthe animal's head, and having the bridle-rein hung loosely over his arm;and a middle-aged gentleman, whose aspect and attire proclaimed him aclergyman. He walked slowly, a little apart from the others, and hishands were clasped before him, and his eyes bent thoughtfully on theground. He was a man somewhat past his prime, of a noble and manlybearing, with a fine open countenance, and a speaking eye, wherein dwelta singularly sweet and benevolent expression.
The shadows of evening were already beginning to gather over thesurrounding scene, making objects at a distance somewhat indistinct.
Yet, truly, there was little at that season of the year to refresh theeye or gladden the heart. The icy hand of winter had scarcely yetrelaxed its grasp on mother earth; there were no green buds on hedge ortree; no blades of promise springing up by the wayside: all wasdesolate, bleak, and cold. Yet the newly upturned furrows smelt freshand sweet, and the purling brooks wandered cheerfully on their way;singing their song of gladness, as if they knew that spring was close athand. Presently the little party ascended a gentle eminence, and thenmany lights were seen twinkling not far ahead.
"See, father, are yon the lights of Edinburgh?" exclaimed the lad, inhis eagerness letting go his hold on Roger's rein.
The minister raised his head, and a light kindled in his eye as helooked upon the clustering roof-trees and towering spires of thebeautiful city.
"Yes, my son, that is Edinburgh," he said in his full, mellow tones."Thanks be to the Lord who hath brought us thither in safety. Would mylittle Agnes like to walk now? The evening dews are falling, andmethinks a little exercise would do you no harm. Very soon now you willbe warmed and cheered by the ruddy glow by Aunt Jean's fireside."
As he spoke, the minister turned to Roger (who at a word from his masterstood perfectly still), and gently lifted his little daughter to theground. It was then seen that her figure was very slight and fragile,her face pale and refined-looking, her whole expression thoughtful andeven sad beyond her years.
"Are you wearied, David?" asked the kind father then; but the lad drewhimself up proudly, and shook his head.
"Wearied! no, no, father. I could walk back to Inverburn, I believe,without resting."
"Keep within the bounds, my boy," said the minister. "See, lead Rogerdown to yon little pool, and let him drink. The poor animal is thirstyand wayworn. Then we will make what haste we can into the city, whichwill of necessity be in somewhat of a turmoil to-night, owing to themany strangers within her gates."
"Father, will there be a great crowd and a noise in Edinburgh?" askedthe little Agnes, somewhat timidly and holding yet more closely by herfather's hand.
"There will be a crowd, my daughter, but no unseemly noise, I trust.The occasion upon which the nation is assembled in her ancient capitalis too solemn for vain clamourings," said the minister, somewhat sadly;and as his eyes once more roamed over the spreading roof-trees of thecity, they were filled with tears. The little Agnes, too young tounderstand the cause of his emotion, still more closely clasped hishand, and looked with awe into his face.
"I wish it would not grow dark so soon, father," said David, nowreturning from watering the pony. "We will see nothing of Edinburgh tillto-morrow."
"But to-morrow, please the Lord, there will be a sight seen inEdinburgh, the like of which there has never been in Scotland," said theminister with kindling eye. "The voice of her people raised in anational testimony against the injustice and oppression of an earthlyruler. May the Heavenly King look down in approval on the faithfulnessof the Kirk of Scotland, and give her strength to stand firm to her vow;ay, to seal it if need be with her blood."
The minister spoke with solemnity and passionate earnestness, whichimpressed his young listeners not a little.
"Father, will the soldiers be out on their horses?" David asked withboyish eagerness; to him the great event to transpire on the morrowmeant a gay pageant to delight the eye and stir the pulse of youth.
"My son, I cannot tell; only I know that peer and peasant, soldier andcivilian, minister and ministered unto, will assemble to-morrow on equalground, animated by one grand purpose, and stirred by a common zeal.May the God of Hosts look down upon and bless the assembled multitudes,"replied the minister; and then a silence fell upon the little partywhich remained unbroken till they entered the city. Even in theoutskirts there were not lacking signs of stir and unusual commotion.The streets were thronged with vehicles and foot-passengers, and thevery air seemed full of murmurings, telling of a nation's heart stirredto its deepest depths. The young lad and his sister looked about themwith lively interest; to them the city was a revelation indeed, in thegreat contrast it presented to the unfrequented roads and quietsolitudes of their native parish. Darkness had fallen when the ministerguided Roger's steps into the Grass-market, where stood the hospitabledwelling which was to shelter them during their sojourn in Edinburgh.It was the abode of the minister's only sister, who was married to awell-to-do merchant, by name Edward Kilgour. Having been duly apprisedof his brother-in-law's coming on that day, Edward Kilgour was waitingat the close mouth, anxiously peering up the street, which was nowalmost in total darkness, there being no appliances then for lightingthe thoroughfares and byeways of the city. Hearing the click of thepony's hoofs, he walked a few steps up the street, and then catchingsight of the little party, he called out in his cheery tones, "AndrewGray of Inverburn, and his little ones, if I mistake not!"
"Yes; thus far hath the Lord permitted us to travel in safety, Edward,"said the minister. "How is it with thee and thine?"
"All well; Jean a little impatient and fearful about you, as is the wayof womenkind," replied the merchant, heartily shaking his brother-in-lawby the hand. "But what! David, and little Agnes too! How did theirmother ever trust them so far?" he exclaimed, in surprise, at sight ofthe children.
"She knew them safe with me, Edward, and I thought that the events ofto-morrow might, please God, make an impression on their young mindswhich time would never efface. And the Kirk, I am thinking, will needboth old and young to stand firm in her defence ere she be crowned andblessed with liberty," said the minister, with a sigh.
"You speak the truth, Andrew," replied the merchant, soberly. "Well, Iwill take Roger to his stall and see that he is rubbed down and fed. Doyou take the bairns upstairs: you know the way."
The minister nodded, and taking his boy and girl by the hand, led themup the dark close and into a low doorway, which, unless he had beenfamiliar with the way, would have been difficult to find.
Aunt Jean heard their steps on the stair, and presently appeared on thelanding with a candle.
"Bless me! Andrew Gray, is that the bairns all the way from the manseof Inverburn?" she exclaimed, her motherly heart warming at sight ofthem.
"Even so, Jean. There will be room and welcome for them as well as fortheir father under this roof-tree," answered the minister. "Edwardtells me you are well; and, truly, you look it."
"Oh, ay, I am well in body!" she answered, blithely, and stooping shelifted the little Agnes in her motherly arms, and affectionately kissedher cheeks. "Eh, Andrew, this bairn's her mother's living image. Howis Ailie and Jane, and that stirring laddie, Andrew? Why did you leavehim at home?"
"His master could not spare him, being busy preparing the ground for theseed," replied the minister. "It was a sore disappointment to the lad.He has a constant craving for something new."
By this time they had entered the wide and comfortable kitchen, wherethe log-fire burned merrily, casting its ruddy glow on the hospitableboard spread for the expected
guest. A wooden cradle stood in thewarmest corner by the ingle-neuk, wherein slept peacefully the one childof the household, a babe of eight months, and the first which hadblessed their hearth and home since their marriage, five years before.
The little Agnes looked very long and earnestly into her aunt's face,never remembering having seen her before.
Mrs. Kilgour had been married out of the manse of Inverburn, at whichtime Agnes was only four years old, but she had never visited it since,and had only once seen her brother's wife, when she accompanied herhusband to Edinburgh on his being appointed to represent the Presbyteryof Lanark at the General Assembly. Travelling in these days was veryslow and laborious, and not unaccompanied by dangers on the roads, owingto the disturbed and unprotected state of the country.
"Ay, but she is like her mother, Andrew," repeated Mrs. Kilgour, as shestooped to unfasten the child's cloak. "She has her very een; may thespirt of the bairn be her mother's likewise! And this is David! He isgreatly grown. I would hardly have known him again! Dearie me, whatchanges time works on bairns, as on other things!"
"You are right, Jean. How has business been prospering with youthroughout the winter?"
"We cannot complain of the measure of prosperity the Lord has vouchsafedto us," Andrew answered Mistress Kilgour. "Edward has had to employanother young lad to help him in his work and still is hard-pressed; buthere he comes himself to tell you all about it."
The merchant now entered the kitchen, and hung up his hat on the pegbehind the door. Now that the light shone upon him, it revealed a shortand somewhat stout figure, clad in homely grey, a broad kindly faceadorned by a short brown beard, and made peculiarly expressive by thetwinkling of a pair of merry, blue eyes.
He was a Lanark man by birth, but had come to Edinburgh to try hisfortunes, and by steady well-doing and shrewd business capacity waslikely to succeed.
"And how are they all at Inverburn? Come, tell me about every man,woman, and child in the parish, Andrew," said the merchant. "It's likea gliff of the heather-scented wind to look upon your faces, bairns, andto think you were reared in the shade of the birks of Inverburn!"
The merchant spoke lightly, but a tear started in his honest eye, as helifted Agnes on his knee, and drew David to his side.
"'Deed they must have something to eat first, Edward, my man,"interrupted Mistress Kilgour. "Come, bairns, to your milk and bread.It's no like the milk and home-made scones at the manse, but it's thebest I have, an' ye get it wi' Auntie Jean's kind, kind love."
They drew in their chairs to the table, and after the minister had askeda fervent blessing on the board, they ate with a will, for their mode oftravelling had given them all appetites.
"You are never asking for _our_ bairn, Andrew," said the fond motherslily, when presently the little one stirred slightly in its cradle.
"Truly I forgot, Jean," said the minister, with a smile; "and yet it wasamong Ailie's last messages--sympathy and love to you about the littleone. God grant she may grow up a blessing to you both."
The little Agnes presently slipped from her chair, and, stealing over tothe cradle, looked in upon the smiling face of the infant. Her own wassuffused with a glow of tender wondering pleasure, which made her auntlook at her again. And when, presently, Mistress Kilgour lifted thechild, Agnes kept close by her side, as if the babe were a magnet fromwhich she could not separate herself.
The conversation during supper turned chiefly upon topics connected withthe parish of Inverburn, in which both the merchant and his wife weredeeply and affectionately interested, for, though they had built up ahome in Edinburgh, their hearts were knit to their native glen in thebonds of a deep, enduring love.
While she cleared the table, Mistress Kilgour entrusted the babe toAgnes, who sat on a low stool holding the precious burden in her arms,with a mixture of love, rapture, and pride glorifying her face. Shortlythereafter, it being near eight of the clock, Mistress Kilgour made downbeds for the children in the adjoining room, and they retired to rest.Then their elders drew up their chairs to the hearth, and began to speakin low, troubled, anxious tones, telling that the topic was one of vitalinterest, of terrible importance to them all. Before they separated forthe night, the minister read a portion from Scripture, and then theyknelt to pour out their hearts' desires before the Lord. The tones ofAndrew Gray's voice trembled sore as he prayed with passionateearnestness that the arm of the Almighty would be about the totteringChurch of Scotland, and that strength might be given to her people tostand up fearlessly in defence of her liberty and purity, ay, eventhough they should be required to seal their faithfulness with theirblood.
"To-morrow will be a great day for Scotland," he said when he rose tohis feet. "Either it will be the beginning of peace or the beginning ofmany sorrows for God's people. It is in times like these we feel theneed of prayer, of constant and pious humbling of ourselves beforeJehovah. There is that within me, my friends, which forewarns me thatwe are about to be visited by fierce and terrible temptations anddispensations. Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest hefall."
Awed by the prophetic earnestness with which their kinsman spoke, themerchant and his wife spoke not, but silently bade him good night.Andrew Gray retired to his own chamber, but not to sleep. He sat longby the uncurtained window, looking out upon the city slumberingpeacefully under the fitful February moonlight, as if all unconscious ofthe issues of the coming day.
During the silent watches of the night the minister of Inverburnwrestled in prayer for Scotland's Church and people, that they might beupheld and kept faithful in the tumults of the struggle to come.