*CHAPTER XVI.*
*AT THE DAWNING.*
Shortly after midnight upon the Monday following that sad Sabbath day,Watty McBean rose up out of his bed, so quietly as not to disturb Bettyasleep in the ben-end, and, hastily putting on his clothes, stole out ofdoors. The harvest moon was at its full, and a light almost as clear asday lay upon the silent earth. The moonlight was very favourable forWatty's purpose, and his face wore a well-pleased expression as heentered the stable where his faithful nag was peacefully asleep. Shelooked round whinnying at her master's step, but he paid no heed to her.Striking a light, he took from an empty stall which he used as atool-house a pick and shovel. These he hoisted on his shoulder, and,leaving the stable, stole swiftly up the village street. As he passedMistress Lyall's he shook his doubled fist at the darkened windows, forin that house several of the dragoons were stationed, under command notto leave the place until they had captured the notorious rebels, whowere known to be in hiding in the neighbourhood; also certain words fellfrom his lips which were scarcely in keeping with his profession as aChristian, or with his old occupation of bell-ringer and minister's manin the parish. Once clear of the village, Watty somewhat slackened hispace, and leisurely ascended the manse brae to the churchyard. On thisgentle eminence the air was scarcely so still, for a light breezestirred the yellow leaves on the birks of Inverburn, and sighed with amournful cadence through the long grasses waving above the lastresting-place of the dead. Passing the manse gate Watty again shook hisfist and applied a very expressive epithet to its unconscious inmate,which would have roused the ire of the Reverend Duncan McLean had heheard it. But he was enjoying his well-earned repose, for he had beenvery zealous for several days in assisting to ferret out rebelliousinsurgents.
Watty entered the churchyard and stepped lightly over the turf to thegreen enclosure where slept so many of those who had first seen thelight in the manse of Inverburn. Laying down his implements, Wattypaused a moment by the double head-stone and wiped his eyes, as he readthe name of Gray, so oft repeated--husband and wife, parent and child,one after the other--until certain newly-chiselled words recorded thathere also slept--
"AGNES GUTHRIE GRAY,
THE DEAR WIFE OF ADAM HEPBURN, OF ROWALLAN, WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE UNTIMEOUSLY, IN THE FLOWER OF HER AGE, BEING SHOT BY DRAGOONS AT HER OWN DOOR, ON THE NINTH DAY OF MARCH, SIXTEEN HUNDRED AND SIXTY-THREE, LEAVING HER SORROWING HUSBAND DESOLATE UPON THE FACE OF THE EARTH."
As he slowly spelled out these pathetic words, for Watty was no greatscholar, tears chased each other down his rugged face, and the heavingof his broad chest told how deep was his emotion. But suddenlyrecovering himself, and as if ashamed of his weakness, he dashed thetears aside, and stepping back for his pick, began his work--that ofdigging a grave. It was a strange and weird occupation for thatmysterious hour following upon midnight, and Watty might have beenexcused had he felt a little nervous over his task. But no such foolishfears disturbed him as he quickly and deftly shovelled out the earth;his mind was filled with sad regretful thoughts of the past, mingledwith foreboding and anxious previsions of the future. And thus busilyoccupied, he made great speed with his work. The bell in the tower rangone, and then two, and still Watty did not halt, but ere the solemnhands moved round to three his work was done, for his spade had struckwith a dull sound on Agnes Hepburn's coffin lid. Then he jumped out ofthe new-made grave, put on his coat again, and walked down to thechurchyard gate. Just then he heard the first cock-crowing from thecurate's hen-roost, and its echo was taken up by chanticleer on aneighbouring farm, announcing to whomsoever might be awake to hear, thedawning of another day. Stepping out of the gate, Watty lookedanxiously up the road, and as anxiously down towards the village,fearing lest the marauders under Mistress Lyall's roof-tree should haveobtained a scent of this morning's work. For about fifteen minutesWatty endured an agony of impatience and suspense. However, to hisunspeakable relief, he beheld something moving at a considerabledistance up the road. He at once advanced to meet it, and as he drewnearer he could distinguish four figures walking two abreast, andcarrying something between them. They also breathed a sigh of relief atsight of Watty, for in these times, though appointments were made, nonecould predict what might transpire to prevent their being kept.
"All ready, Watty?" inquired the voice of Andrew Gray, of Hartrigge, themoment they were within speaking distance.
"A' ready," Watty whispered back, and walking to the rear of the littleparty, he relieved the minister of Inverburn at the end of the coffin.Then slowly, and with measured tread, they moved on to the churchyardgate, up the broad walk, and across the turf to the new-made grave. Thecoffin was then laid gently down on the grass, and Watty, bendingforward, read the name on the plate,
"GAVIN GRAY, AGED 17."
Meanwhile, Adam Hepburn had moved over to the open grave, and was gazingdown upon the coffin, which contained the remains of his beloved, with astrange far-off expression on his face. They saw that he had forgottenhimself and them, and after waiting a moment, David Gray stepped forwardand lightly touched his arm.
"We wait for you, Adam," he said gently. "Will you take the cord at thefeet with me?"
Adam Hepburn started violently, and then stepping forward, took the cordheld out to him; the minister of Inverburn and Hartrigge himself beingat the head. Then very gently they lowered it into the grave, and whenit grated upon the other, Adam Hepburn let go his hold, and turned asidewith a deep groan. The minister of Inverburn took up a handful ofearth, and let it fall loosely on the coffin lid. "Earth to earth, dustto dust, he has changed the corruptible for the incorruptible, and whatis our loss is the lad's great gain," he murmured half dreamily. Then helaid his hand on the arm of the bereaved father, over whose rugged facea tremor had passed, like the first wave of a great sea, adding, withgentle force, "My son, come, let us go hence."
"Not yet; I will wait and help Watty," said Andrew Gray, in a hoarsewhisper; but already Watty, with strong and willing arm, was rapidlyfilling up the grave.
"I wonder whose murdered body will next lie here," said Hartrigge, withstrange, deep bitterness. "Truly, I think, father, we had need soon toextend our burial space."
"Do not speak so bitterly, my son. Let us be thankful that we have beenpermitted to give the dear lad honourable and Christian burial, with hisforbears," said the old man gently. "If the Lord will, may I be thenext to be laid here in peace."
"We'd better get out o' this unless we be tired o' life," said Watty,grimly, pointing with his forefinger to the first streak of dawn on theeastern horizon. "If we dinna get clear off afore the daw'in', some o'the manse folk will be sure to see us."
Mindful of Watty's warning, they prepared to leave the churchyard, andyet they were fain to linger, for many hallowed memories bound them tothe place. Ere he turned to go, Andrew Gray took up the spade and gentlybeat down the turf on the grave, and his last look at his son's lovedresting place was blinded by unwonted tears.
"Watty," said Adam Hepburn, as they walked out to the road, "you hadbetter come with us now, and let us see that boasted hiding of yours onthe Douglas Water. If we are to remain in this district it will take asecurer shelter than the cave at Hartrigge to hold us."
"I'm willint eneuch to let ye see't; but what if I be catched comin'hame?" queried Watty, cautiously.
"You can gather some grass on the roadside, and say you were seeking abite for old Kirsty, if they question you," said Adam. "But you caneasily be home by half six at the latest, unless indeed the place be allthe farther up the water."
"Na, na, it's no' that faur. Weel, I'll just hide my pick and shovel inthe hedge, and gang," answered Watty; so the little party once moreturned their faces to Hartrigge, where the bereaved mother sat in herdesolate house, like Rachel, weeping for
her children, and refusing tobe comforted.
They spoke but little as they walked, for the burden of his thoughts wassufficient for each. The air was now raw and chill, and the lightstruggling over hill and dale dispelled the tender radiance of the moonand gave an aspect almost wintry to the face of nature. The minister ofInverburn several times shivered and his hacking cough and attenuatedappearance indicated that exposure was beginning to tell upon his agedframe. Looking at him, Watty more than once ominously shook his head,and whispered within himself that the minister was not long for thisworld. Thinking they might with safety venture into the house ofHartrigge for some warm breakfast, Andrew Gray, with his father andbrother, turned up the road to the farm, while Adam Hepburn and Wattytook their way by a near cut to the glen, which formed the bed of theDouglas Water. Relieved from the slight restraint of the minister'spresence, Watty found his tongue, and launched forth into a veryvehement tirade against the oppressors of the land, using terms andexpressions which in happier times would not have failed to amuse hiscompanion, but which now he passed unheeded. It was seldom indeed thata smile was seen on the face of Adam Hepburn, and since his wife's deathno man or woman had ever heard him laugh. The keen and pleasant senseof humour which had given such a relish to his company and speech indays gone by, had deserted him now, and he was in every respect analtered man. None was more mournfully conscious of this change thanWatty, who had been wont to have many a bantering jest with the farmerof Rowallan, for whom he had a great liking and respect.
In the glen the sleepy birds were beginning to stir among the boughs,and already the air was full of twitterings, and of the hum of insectsearly on the wing. A heavy dew had fallen in the night, and hungsparkling like diamonds in the hedgerows and on every blade of grass,making the footing very wet, especially where it grew long and rank,close to the water's edge.
As they passed the mouth of the Corbie's Cliff Watty McBean lookedmournfully at the now visible entrance, for the dragoons with theirswords had shorn away all the branches and the clinging tangles whichhad so securely hidden it before. So that no man could possibly hidethere now and expect to be undisturbed.
"Eh, that limmer Martha Miller, if I had her I'd pay her out for hertreachery!" muttered Watty. "It's just as weel she gaed awa' to hersister in Glesca. She wadna hae been safe muckle longer in the place.It was gettin' ower hot for her."
"Ay, she'll never prosper, Watty. She may grow rich for a time on thespoiling of the neighbours she betrayed, but her punishment will comeby-and-by," said Adam, quietly.
"I'm sure I hope sae," returned Watty, fervently. "Weel, here we are.Are ye sure there's naebody in sicht?"
"Scarcely here, before five in the morning, Watty," said Adam, with afaint smile. "It is a dark and gloomy retreat this."
He spoke the truth. They had now reached a very deep and narrow part ofthe glen, the sides of which rose precipitously from the edges of thestream. These abrupt heights were so densely covered with trees, chieflythose dark and gloomy firs common to the mountainous portions ofScotland, that they looked like a solid and impenetrable mass. Thewater, though narrow, was very deep, and made a hoarse and hollowroaring as it rushed among its rough boulders, which looked as if theyhad become detached from the rocky heights above and rolled into the bedof the stream. The light admitted from the narrow space between theheights was very insufficient, and only seemed to add to the gloom.Even in summer the sunshine never penetrated the dark retreat,consequently the common wild flowers did not bloom, although ferns andmosses of rich and varied hues and rare and delicate form grew inbeautiful luxuriance.
"D'ye see ony place whaur a body micht hide?" queried Watty, with atwinkle in his eye.
"Faith, Watty, I believe anybody might be safe enough where we arestanding at this moment. No mounted pursuer, at least, could reach thisspot," answered Adam Hepburn.
"Weel, follow me as best ye can, for there's nae road, no' even asheep-track, to guide ye," said Watty and, immediately plunging into thethicket on the left, he began to scramble up the face of the steep.
It was with some difficulty that his companion followed, but, byswinging himself up by the strong undergrowth, he managed to keep Wattyin sight. At length Watty altogether and mysteriously disappeared, and,though he called out to guide his companion to his whereabouts, Adamcould not discover him. It was intensely dark, and there was scarcelyroom to stand upright, so densely did the trees grow together.Presently Watty appeared again, and then Adam saw that he stood in frontof an overhanging bank almost concealed by long grass and bracken.
"Crawl in efter me," cried Watty, and, getting down on his hands andknees, he crept under the bank and disappeared. Adam followed hisexample, and, as Watty immediately struck a light, he saw, to hisastonishment, that he was in a roomy cavern, where he could standupright with the greatest ease.
"Well, Watty, this is a splendid place, and will doubtless be invaluableto us," he exclaimed. "It is well-nigh impossible that any one shoulddiscover this. But tell me, how many in Inverburn could point it out?"
"No' a leevin' soul but mysel'. I'll tell ye wha shewed it to me, auldRobbie Harden, mony a year afore he deed, an' I never telt a cratur,"Watty assured him, solemnly.
"Ah, that is good! Well, Watty, I am certainly obliged to you forbringing me here," said Adam. "The thing is, I hope I can make my way toit again by myself."
"Oh, that's easy enough. If ye come down noo I'll let ye see the clue,"said Watty, and, accordingly, they again scrambled through the thicketto the edge of the stream.
"Ye see that muckle black rock jist like a table," said Watty, pointingto a huge mass lying in the bed of the water. "It's jist directlyopposite that. If ye keep straicht up ye canna' miss it."
"All right; I'll remember," said Adam, and the twain then left theravine and rapidly retraced their steps towards the haunts of men.
It was now about half-past five, so Watty, in alarm lest he should bestopped and questioned, left Adam Hepburn just behind Hartrigge, andtaking to his heels, fled with the utmost speed back to the village.