*CHAPTER XXVI*
*REST.*
The golden radiance of a summer sunset lay upon the vale of Inverburn.The year was in its prime, and everywhere the wealth of her beauty wasscattered with no stinted hand. The harvest was ripe for the sickle inthe fertile lowlands, and even on the bleaker uplands there was a lovelyyellow tinge on the standing corn, which promised an early reaping.Yes, there were peace and plenty in the smiling land once more, for thelong reign of bloodshed and terror was over, the house of Stuart hadfallen to rise no more, buried in the ruins of its own iniquity, and awise, just and upright ruler now wielded the sceptre on the throne ofEngland.
There were not altogether lacking evidences of the dark days which hadbeen. Here and there, on some sunny slope or in some sheltered valley,a black and mouldering ruin indicated where the spoiler had waved hisdestroying brand, and there yet remained many a broad acre leftuntilled, because those whose inheritance it was had been destroyed,root and branch, old and young, until not a living representative wasleft.
But in the main, Scotland had returned to her old-time peace andprosperity; again the voice of the husbandman was heard in the fields,again the women folk went about their daily tasks without fear ortrembling, and last, and best of all, the kirks were open on the SabbathDay once more, for the free and pure worship of the Most High.
The village of Inverburn that summer evening presented much the sameappearance as it did when first we made acquaintance with it. Thepleasant voices of the children at their play filled the summer air, onthe cottage doorsteps or in the trellised porches the women sat at theirknitting or spinning, while the broad benches in the doorway of thehostelry had each their complement of sturdy yeomen discussing, overtheir foaming tankards, the events of the day or the graver memories ofthe past. About the hour of sundown there was observed, coming slowlyalong the wide and pleasant road from Lanark, two pedestrians, for whosecoming the villagers waited with that keen curiosity so characteristicof country folk. They walked very slowly, as I said, and though oneappeared to be of tall and erect figure, the other was much bent, andwalked leaning heavily on his companion's arm. Just as they entered uponthe village street, and speculation began to run higher regarding them,the attention of the idlers was distracted for a little space by theclatter of hoofs in the opposite direction, and presently a horse andrider came rapidly down the slope and drew rein in front of the inn.The horseman was a young man of goodly stature and fine appearance, witha boyish, open countenance, and a winning, fearless eye.
"Guid e'en, Sandy Gray!" cried one or two with familiarity which waspardonable, seeing they had known the lad from his infancy, and some ofthem his godly forbears before him.
"Guid e'en!" he answered back frankly. "Here, Willie, my man," he addedto a curly-headed urchin playing on the step, "run in and tell yourmother I want to see her about ale for the reapers."
"Ay, man, is the hairst [harvest] ready on Hartrigge?" queried one ofthe older men. "Mony a day I bound a stent [sheaf] behind your faitheron the rigs o' Hartrigge."
"Ay, Robin, ye'd better come up and bind a stent after me, then, justfor auld lang syne," said the young man and a slight shade crossed hissunny face.
At that moment the two pedestrians came directly opposite the inn doorand there stopped. Sandy Gray wheeled round his horse, and regardedthem with a curiosity almost as great as that exhibited by hisneighbours. Their attire was such as these simple villagers had neverbefore seen, being distinctly foreign in its fashion, a thing sufficientin itself to invest the strangers with extraordinary interest. SandyGray courteously saluted them, and then one spoke, and it seemed to theyoung man that the first word awakened some chord in his heart which hadlong been asleep.
"Pray, can you tell me, young sir, if there be any of the name of Graystill to the fore in this parish?"
The young man gave a violent start, and a wild hope sprang up in hisheart.
"Yes, I am a Gray; I am Alexander Gray of Hartrigge, son of that AndrewGray who fell at Bothwell, and whose forbears were so long ministers ofthis parish," he said, with trembling eagerness. "And you! you! I amnot mistaken now that I see your faces. I remember you quitewell--Uncle David and Uncle Adam, thank God!"
"Can it be possible that I look upon the face of my brother's son? Nowthe Lord be praised!" exclaimed the more aged and infirm of the two,and, advancing, he held out two trembling hands to his nephew, which theyoung man, alighting from his horse, warmly grasped, while the tearsrained down his cheeks. Then he turned to Adam Hepburn, whose facebetrayed his deep satisfaction, though his joy did not find such readyexpression.
The villagers, who had watched this scene with consuming interest, nowrose with one accord, and with a cheer came flocking about the returnedwanderers, for those who had not been personally acquainted with thesetwo sufferers knew their names as household words.
"And now tell me, lad," said the aged minister, when he could freehimself from these friendly welcomes and again speak with his nephew,"you spoke of Hartrigge. Can it be that I have returned to find a Grayin Hartrigge still?"
"Yes, yes; I live there, Uncle David; and my mother and dear Aunt Janealso are in the place," he answered, and the minister did not noticethat he did not say they dwelt in the house. "Nannie is married now,and, Uncle Adam, she is living at Rowallan, of which her husband, WalterFleming, is the farmer."
"And there is an Agnes Gray at Rowallan as well as a Gray in Hartrigge!"said the minister. "You hear that, Adam? the old stock is not dead yet,but has developed once more into a goodly tree, for which, O my God, Ithank Thee."
"An Agnes Gray at Rowallan yet, did you say?" asked Adam Hepburn,dreamily. "But there was no Rowallan when I left, only the blackenedruins of the homestead. What changes are these?"
"The old laird is dead, and that dear, blessed saint, Lady Hamilton, hasrebuilt Hartrigge and Rowallan and would not let a foot but ours upontheir thresholds," said the young man. "But come; we cannot stand hereall night. Come away home. Oh, what a night this will be beneath theroof-tree of Hartrigge! Here, Uncle David, get on Jess's back, andUncle Adam and I will walk beside you, and so we will soon be home."
The minister accordingly gladly mounted the animal, and Sandy took thebridle rein over his arm, and the little party moved off up the mansebrae, followed by the cheers of the delighted villagers.
As they passed the manse and the kirk they involuntarily stood still,and the minister took his hat from his waving white locks and bent hishead a moment on his breast, while Adam Hepburn fixed his eyes on onegreen spot under a spreading yew tree, as if they would fain dwell therefor ever. Then they went on again, and the minister told his nephew ina few brief words how they had been blessed to meet in Holland, and hadbeen vouchsafed a measure of prosperity and usefulness there, but howtheir hearts had ever yearned for their native land, until the time camethey could return to it without fear.
This talk occupied all the way to the farm, at which young Sandy was notsorry, for he did not desire as yet to be more closely questionedregarding his own household at Hartrigge.
The farm at Hartrigge now presented a very fine and striking appearance,the new steading [farm buildings] and commodious dwelling-house,standing so imposingly on the brow of the hill, being thrown into strongrelief by the brilliant green of the summer foliage and the brightgolden hue of the ripening grain.
At the foot of the little hill, sheltering cosily under the fir-wood,there stood a neat cottage with a garden-plot in front, which was gaywith summer bloom. Just as the little party came in sight on theprivate road a woman's figure came to the door, and shading her eyeswith her hand, looked long and intently at it, greatly wondering what itmeant. She was a sweet and comely-looking person, though long past herprime, and her fair, calm face bore the impress of many sorrows, yetpeace dwelt abidingly upon it now.
She presently turned about, called to some one within, and anotherfigure, much older and feebler loo
king, and wearing a widow's garb,joined her on the step. And thus they were standing when the party cameup.
"Susan! Susan! it is the answer to our many prayers!" said Jane Gray,tremblingly. "If these be not David and Adam, our exiled wanderers, myeyes strangely deceive me."
Then she sat down on the bench at the door and burst into tears.
Why should I linger over that sacred meeting? Could any human pen do itjustice? I think not.
After a little Sandy touched the arm of his Uncle David, and begged himto come away up with him to the house, and the others would follow. Hegave the old man his arm, and they ascended the hill, walked slowly (tooslowly for Sandy's impatient feet) through the fir-wood, and round tothe front of the house. Then, with trembling hand, Sandy opened thedoor and led his uncle in. In the pleasant family room in the ruddyevening glow there was a sweet and restful picture. On the hearth therestood a cradle, and in a low chair near to it the figure of a woman--ayoung woman--too young almost, one might have thought, to be a wife andmother.
"Is that you, Sandy? Don't make a noise, dearie, for baby has been sotroublesome, and is just asleep."
It was a voice of winning and exquisite softness, and when presently thespeaker rose, the old man saw a sweet and lovely young creature, with afair, rose-tinted face, and deep, tender blue eyes, which reminded himof those blue eyes which had charmed him long ago.
"Is this your wife, my lad? You kept this pleasant surprise to thelast," said he, with a sweet smile, and advanced with extended hands.
"Yes, my wife, Uncle David, but something, nay a great deal more," saidthe young man, hardly knowing what he said. "Oh, uncle, uncle! it isyour own daughter Lilian who is my wife, and our little son yonder isnamed David Gray, out of our love for you. Lily, my dear, my love, thisis your father, come home from exile, as we have so long hoped andprayed he would."
For a moment father and daughter stood still, and then these words fellfrom the old man's lips, in accents of trembling joy--
"It is enough. Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace!"
* * * * *
I cannot linger over these happy moments, so fraught with deepest joy,and yet so shadowed by undying memories and unutterable yearnings forthose who were not! Before many minutes were passed they missed AdamHepburn from their midst, and looking from their southern window theysaw him wending his solitary way towards Rowallan. And they let him goin peace, knowing the unutterable yearnings of his soul.
* * * * *
So gleams of sunset joy were vouchsafed to these beaten pilgrims, whoseway through life had been so long under shadow of the cloud. And therewere Grays again in Hartrigge and Rowallan, and it was hoped that therewould be a Gray again in the manse and kirk of Inverburn, when thelittle David, destined from his birth for the ministry, should be grownto manhood. The family of Burnet of Haughhead was now extinct, save forSandy Gray's wife. The spoiled daughter of the house had not longsurvived the death of her boy, who succumbed to his constitutionalweaknesses at the age of fifteen. Gilbert Burnet and his wife were deadalso, and Haughhead in the hands of a distant connection, who was provedto be the nearest male heir. While any of her Burnet kindred lived,Lilian Gray would never have been permitted to follow her mother'sexample, and marry a Gray. Her happy home was a haven of peace and restto her father, who grew young again in heart in her blithecompanionship. How dear each was to the other, or what unutterablethanksgiving dwelt continually in their hearts, I cannot tell you. AdamHepburn spent his time betwixt Hartrigge and Rowallan, but as wasnatural, was oftenest at the latter place. He was a quiet, gentle,unobtrusive old man, who seemed to live much in the past. He appearedlike one who had no hold upon this present life, but who was simplysojourning at a wayside inn, waiting and waiting for a summons to comefarther on. But is it not so with us all? The old fiery spirit seemedto be utterly quenched, but no man or woman ever heard him allude to thestormy or terrible past, and when the events of these stirring timeswere made the subject of conversation, or even distantly alluded to, henever failed to at once separate himself from the rest. He spent much ofthe time in the churchyard, and would sit for hours upon his wife'sgrave, with his well-worn Bible for a companion, an object of strangecompassion to all who saw him there, and who knew the story of hislife-long faithfulness to the memory of one woman.
One sweet summer evening they missed him from among the happy circle atHartrigge, and knowing he was not at Rowallan, they grew alarmed at lastat his long absence, and went in search of him. As was natural, theyturned their steps first to the "auld kirk-yaird." He was sittingthere, in a down-bent posture, his head almost touching his knees, andhis face hidden on the pages of the open Book. David Gray stepped tohis side, and touching his arm, said very gently--
"Adam, my brother, it is growing late; come away home."
There was no motion in the silent figure, which sat so still as to alarmthem. Then David Gray slipped his hand beneath the bent head, andlightly laid it on the breast, but there was no motion there.
"He has passed away from us," said the minister, tremblingly, "and thisnight has looked once more upon the face of his beloved, after theseforty weary years. It was the hour and the place he longed for. I haveoften heard him say it. Let us give thanks to our God for His abundantlovingkindness vouchsafed to our weary brother this night."
Ended now the storm of life, ended the long desolation, the bitteryearnings, which had these many years riven that lonely heart. Ended,too, his brief lingering in the sunset at the wayside inn; and for AdamHepburn now came the eternal enjoyment of that sweet rest whichremaineth for the people of God.
THE END
PRINTED BY CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED, LA BELLE SAUVAGE, LONDON, E.C.
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