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

  *CHAPTER VII.*

  *A LONG FAREWELL.*

  A special meeting of the Presbytery was convened at Lanark during thefollowing week to consider what action the ministers were to takeindividually and collectively. It was a mere form, because they wereunanimous in their resolution to leave all for conscience sake. In theentire Presbytery there was only one exception to be found, viz., JohnMethven, the minister of Lochlee. He absented himself from theconference of his brethren, an action which, coupled with his attitudein the past, indicated that it was his intention to retain his living atthe Government price. The ejected ministers had three weeks wherein toprepare for the sad change in their circumstances and position. Manywere at their wits' end, for, as the Act forbade that they should residewithin the bounds of their presbyteries, whither could they turn forassistance or shelter? For themselves they felt it not, but what wouldbecome of the wives and little ones rendered homeless and destitute inthe very outset of a bleak Scottish winter?

  Grey, calm, and still broke that November Sabbath morning, the last uponwhich the ministers were to break the Bread of Life to the people oftheir choice over the length and breadth of Scotland. In the vale ofInverburn the dawn was preceded by a thick, heavy mist, which hung lowover hill and moorland, giving a very dreary aspect to the already toowintry face of Nature. But long before the hour of service it hadcleared away, revealing a peaceful, grey sky, relieved by flecks ofbrightness in the east. Not a breath of air was stirring; a silence asof the grave seemed to brood over the land. Very early the worshippersbegan to repair to the house of God. They came from far and near thatday; the shepherd from his lonely shieling in the mountain solitude, aswell as the dweller in the village, was each found in his accustomedplace. Long before the bell began to toll, the churchyard had itsgroups of earnest, sad-faced worshippers discussing in low and fearfultones the evil days which had come upon the land. Very many were toomuch overcome to be able to speak, for the thought that this was thelast Sabbath Day upon which they would hear the voice of their shepherdin his accustomed place was more than they could bear.

  Watty McBean, the carrier, and brother to Betty, the manse maid, wasbell-ringer and minister's man in the parish. He tolled the bell thatday in a slow, solemn, and painful manner, the echo of each stroke beingsuffered to die away ere it was drowned by another. It was the "burial"bell Watty tolled that day, and surely nothing could be more fitting ormore in unison with the feelings of all who heard it.

  At the usual hour Mr. Gray entered the church, but it seemed to thosewho so mournfully and affectionately watched him ascend the pulpitstair, that never had their minister looked so feeble and aged; neverhad his face seemed so worn and ill. As his sunken eye roamed over thesea of faces gathered round him, his tears suddenly overflowed, anddeparting from the usual routine of service, he folded his tremblinghands, and said in broken and feeble tones, "Let us pray!"

  In the manse pew sat Jane Gray, who never since entering the church hadonce uplifted her face from her hands, and by her side her nephew Gavin,whose young face wore an expression of manly resolution, upon which manyremarked.

  Adam Hepburn and his wile were also in their places, and there was noneabsent from the Hartrigge pew, at the head whereof sat Andrew Gray,erect and calm, with his arms folded across his breast, and a hard,stern expression on his face. And although his father's prayer causedmany a bursting sob to echo through the church, he sat unmoved, savewhen his lips convulsively twitched, telling of a storm of passion heldin curb. The psalm was the eighty-fourth, the tune Dundee's "wildwailing measure," fitting words, fitting music to express the tumultuousthrobbings of the people's heart. The minister then read theseventeenth chapter of John, slowly and with tremulous distinctness, andwithout remark or comment of any kind. Next they sang again a portionof the ninety-fourth psalm, then the minister gave out his text.

  "All these are the beginning of many sorrows."

  That sermon was never forgotten by any who heard it. It seemed as ifthe aged servant of God had risen above the frailty and feebleness ofage, for as he proceeded his clear bell-like voice rang through thebuilding with all the eloquence which had made such a stir among the drybones in the earlier days of his ministry among them. He spokepassionately and prophetically of the sea of troubles upon which theLord's Zion was now launched, he forewarned them that the time was athand when they would need to testify to their faithfulness with theirblood, yet he bade them be of good cheer, because it was through greattribulation that the brightness of their eternal crown would be gainedin joy.

  "And now my faithful and well beloved flock, the time has come for me tobid you farewell," he added in conclusion. "In the ordinary course ofnature I could not expect to minister to you for a much more lengthenedspace. As it is, the fiat has gone forth, not from the Eternal King,but from the poor despicable worm who sits upon an earthly throne thatyou and I, beloved, shall no more worship together within this place.Looking upon its walls to-day for the last time I know how unspeakablydear it is to me. It is peopled with rich and hallowed memories of thepast. In this place I have baptised many of you as children, and here,my own children, now worshipping with you, were all consecrated andreceived into the Lord's Church. Beloved, from Sabbath to Sabbath thesemany years I have broken the Bread of Life in your midst, and God be mywitness that I have expounded the Word to you in accordance with thelight vouchsafed to my own soul. I have also had sweet counsel with youin your own homes, in the ordinary course of pastoral visitation, and Icall you to witness that in these visitations I have never failed to befaithful in my personal dealings, when I saw it to be for the glory ofGod, and for the good of souls. Beloved, all that has come to an end.Next Sabbath day neither you nor I will worship within these walls. Whenor how the doors will again be thrown open for public worship I cannotsay. I tremble when I think upon our now desolate Kirk of Scotland,cast out from her heritage, and bidden make her habitation in thewilderness. It is not for me now, and in this place, to say what willbe the reward of these sons of Belial, who have wrought this woe in ourmidst. 'Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord.' Brethren,farewell. I would my tongue could utter what is in my heart this day.It is with no common sorrow I repeat the words; Brethren, farewell."

  The minister ceased, and looked with eyes of unutterable love upon thesobbing multitude. There was no dry eye in the assembly, save that ofAndrew Gray the younger, and his seemed to burn with a strange and luridfire. His hands beneath the book board were so firmly clenched togetherthat the nails were sunk into the flesh. In the midst of these audibletokens of grief, the minister raised his trembling hands, and in slow,clear, solemn tones, breathed upon them his last benediction. Then hesank back in the pulpit, wholly overcome.

  The scene I have just described was no solitary instance; in its mainfeatures it was being enacted that day in almost every kirk and parishin Scotland.

  In the church of Broomhill that day David Gray also spoke his lastfarewell to his flock. His was not in any respect so united acongregation as that of Inverburn. There were many, who, for peace'sake would have had their minister bow to Middleton's decree, and makean outward semblance of acknowledging the bishop. David Gray enteredhis church that day with a heavy heart, not because of the sacrifice hewas about to make--that occasioned him but little concern--but becauseof his wife's coldness and estrangement evinced towards him since he hadannounced his fixed determination to abide by the dictates of his ownconscience. Upon the plea that the younger child could not be left, sheabsented herself from the church that Sabbath morning; and the ministerwas not surprised to behold the Haughhead seat unoccupied likewise. Hedelivered an impressive and heart-stirring discourse from the words, "Hethat taketh not his cross, and followeth after Me, is not worthy of Me,"and when he concluded many were weeping. They crowded round him as hecame out of the vestry, shaking him by the hand and assuring him oftheir continued and unaltered love, and offering
assistance in everyform. It was with difficulty he escaped their loving detention, and,making his way through the churchyard, entered his own garden by theprivate door. He reproached himself that he did not feel a livelysatisfaction in the thought that he had renounced so much forconscience' sake; he felt sore angered at himself for his miserable andforeboding thoughts, which weighed him nigh to the very dust. As he setfoot upon the threshold of the manse, he felt oppressed by the strangestillness of the house. On ordinary occasions, the prattle of hischildren's voices was the first sound which greeted him at his own door.As he stepped into the house, he heard a sound, like that of weeping,proceeding from the direction of the kitchen. Somewhat alarmed, heimmediately proceeded thither, and found Ellen Carmichael, the maid,sitting apparently in the very abandonment of grief.

  "Be quiet, Ellen Carmichael, and tell me the cause of this noise," hesaid, with some sternness. "And what has become of your mistress and thebairns?"

  A fresh burst of tears was Ellen's only answer; but at length shemanaged to sob out some words which whitened her master's face to thevery lips.

  "They're awa', sir; a' awa' tae Haughheid. The laird cam' wi' the coachjist efter the kirk was in, an' the mistress gaed awa' in't, wi' thebairns, an' a' her claes an' the bairns' claes, an' she said she wasna'comin' back. An' I, sir, what cud I dae but sit doon an' greet,thinkin' on you comin' home tae this empty an' desolate hoose?"

  The minister turned about and walked with unsteady step back to thepleasant family room, where, with his wife and little ones, he had spentso many happy hours. It had a desolate, deserted, dreary look, and thevery fire seemed to have died in despair in the grate. He looked abouthim in a dazed manner, and then sinking into a chair, these wordsescaped his lips in a deep groan of anguish:

  "If I be bereaved of my children, I am bereaved."

  Verily that was a day of sharp and bitter searching for the minister ofBroomhill; nevertheless, ere the hushed silence of the night fell, hehad found peace in his desolate home.