Part 10

Young Ayton sighed deeply on being made aware of the gloom and dejection which pervaded his beloved country. "Alas!" he cried, "that such things are permitted to take place; but surely," he continued, "sooner or later there must come a day of reckoning."

"There will come a day of retribution," said Mr. Denoon solemnly, "and the consequences thereof may be dreadful. The persecuted adherers of the Covenant may indeed suffer long, but in the end they will turn on their oppressors, and a general rising take place throughout Scotland to repel the invaders of their rights; but God grant that such a fearful alternative may be avoided, and Scotland spared the horrors of a bloody civil war."

"Amen," said his companion; "but should necessity require it, may every true Scotchman be found enrolled beneath the banner of the Covenant!" then he quickly added, while the faltering tones of his voice betrayed his agitation, "Reverend father, I would to heaven you could ever meet with Mary Cunninghame, so persuaded am I that you might under the mercy of God, be the instrument of her conversion. She is young and enthusiastic; ardent and zealous, it is true, in favour of her religion, but then, what other has she ever known? All her friends are Roman Catholics, and have early inculcated in her youthful mind the doctrines of their Church, to the exclusion of all others: but were she instructed by some sincere and devoted servant of God in the pure and glowing truths of our simple faith, she might indeed become a sincere Protestant. Oh, father," he continued, "do this, and you will overwhelm me with gratitude, for every moment that passes over my head is fraught with sweet remembrance of her!"

"My son," said Mr. Denoon in a tone of tender sympathy, "you are very young, and your heart and affection still retain all the exquisite tenderness of one's early days, while the generous feelings of your nature are aroused within you at the thought that she whom you so deeply love must regard you as faithless, and unworthy of the confidence formerly reposed in you; but who amongst us have not, at some period of their lives, been liable to misconception? In many cases all has been made right in the end; and please God, should I have an opportunity, Mary Cunninghame shall not remain long in ignorance of your real worth and steadfast devotion towards her. Remember, however, as I told you before, affliction falls to the lot of every man on earth; and as for me, sorrow has been my companion since childhood. I too loved a maiden with all the fervour of youth, but it pleased the Almighty to remove her from this scene of trial ere ever I had called her mine; while one by one my parents and brethren fell around me, until I stood alone, even as the oak survives the stormy blast which laid its companions prostrate in the dust. But," continued the venerable patriarch, raising his hat reverently as he spoke, and allowing his grey hairs to float in the breeze, "even in the midst of my afflictions I recognised the wisdom and goodness of the hand that smote me; for, deprived at one fell stroke of all whom I loved, perchance too well, on earth, I but clung the more closely to Him who sticketh closer than a brother. Yes, my son, it is when bowed down beneath a load of sorrow, such as seemeth to mortal eyes too grievous to be borne, that the real confiding Christian experiences the unspeakable blessings to be derived from a firm belief in the doctrines of Christianity. Amid the darkness and gloom which surrounds him, he beholds his Father's face bright with pitying love; he recognises the benevolence of the motive even while smarting under the weight of the infliction, and is supported amid the dangers and difficulties which encompass his path through life by the comforting assurance to be derived from the gracious words, 'whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth.'"

Just at the moment Andrew Ayton had framed a suitable reply to this address on the part of his companion, the hour of three rung out from the city churches. Uttering an exclamation of regret at the arrival of the hour when he must return to the university, he darted hastily from his seat, and expressing his disappointment at this unseasonable interruption to their conference, ventured to express a hope that it would be resumed on the following day. Mr. Denoon having cheerfully responded to the wish, they shook hands and parted.

At an early hour on the following morning, Inchdarnie once more retraced his steps to the sea-shore, where he was shortly afterwards joined by Mr. Denoon. In the course of conversation, Andrew Ayton informed his companion that it was his intention at once to quit the university of St. Andrews, and to endeavour, by every means in his power, to aid those whose cause he now so warmly espoused; adding that it was his most earnest desire that Presbyterian ministers might be induced to visit Fifeshire, in order that those poor people who were deprived of all opportunity of hearing Episcopalian clergymen, might not be altogether left without a preacher. Mr. Denoon replied to this wish on the part of his young friend, by placing in his hands a letter that morning received from the Rev. Mr. Blackader, in which he made known his intention of presiding over a meeting shortly to be held at Divan.

"Oh, merciful Father!" cried Inchdarnie in a transport of joy, "and shall I then have an opportunity of seeing that good and holy man whose noble bearing during his great and unmerited misfortunes has already filled my soul with admiration and esteem, and awakened in my breast the most ardent desire to know him, and if possible receive from him some counsel necessary for the guidance of my own steps through the dark and tangled mazes of life?"

"Yes, my young friend," said Mr. Denoon; "he has indeed given us a bright example to follow. Never shall I forget the holy, pious resignation depicted on his countenance that morning when, with many others of his brethren, he was constrained to abandon the flock the Lord had committed to his care. It was on a Sabbath morn--the last on which he should ever address his parishioners from the pulpit of Traquair Church. Saddened but not utterly cast down, he entered his little garden, there to strengthen himself to bear the burden imposed upon him by private communion with his Maker. In a little while I ventured forth to join him. He was standing in a contemplative attitude, his head leaning on his hand, and his eyes rivetted on the ground. My dear friend!" I exclaimed.

"Hush, hush," he said; "list to these bells--these sacred bells now inviting those to enter the house of God who may never again worship within its walls."

I stood and listened. There they came pealing through the air, these hallowed chimes, the heavy stillness of the atmosphere rendering them painfully distinct, as they knelled forth the expiring liberties of the Church of God. Mr. Blackader remained mute and motionless while they lasted, and then when the last faint note died away on the passing breeze, he started suddenly from his reverie, and ringing my hand convulsively, withdrew to his chamber, there to fortify himself by earnest prayer for the coming trial.

"All the surrounding heights," continued Mr. Denoon, "were thronged with people, eager, and yet afraid to press into the church, lest it might chance to hurt their minister, as it would be termed by their enemies a breach of good order. At length many of them gathered together in small groups in the church-yard, and conversed in whispers, while they anxiously awaited the appearance of their beloved pastor. The object of their solicitude soon came forth from the manse, his step firm, his bearing erect, as that of one who had nought to fear from the malice of men. True, there was deep sorrow written on his brow, but it was mingled with an expression of almost cheerful serenity, for he had placed his faith and hopes in Him whom he had chosen as his guide and ruler even unto death. He ascended the pulpit; he gave forth the psalm in a loud clear voice, and his prayer was delivered with his wonted firmness and composure. As he proceeded with his discourse every eye was moist with tears, and many gave way to involuntary bursts of sorrow. In the midst of the sermon an alarm was raised that a party of soldiers were on their way from Dumfries to seize him, and that already they had crossed the bridge. Upon receipt of this intelligence, Mr. Blackader hastily pronounced the benediction, dismissed the congregation, and withdrew to his manse, there to await the arrival of the soldiers. They came, but contented themselves with merely taking down the names of those who were absent from their own churches, and then returned to head-quarters. After their departure, Mr. Blackader collected the remains of the congregation in his own house, and finished the sermon. The people remained lingering about the door, unwilling to leave their pastor while in danger of being arrested. Some of them implored his b;essing, while others again expressed their willingness to die in his defence. Mr. Blackader thanked them for their ready zeal in his behalf, but conjured them to avoid giving their enemies cause of offence."

"Go," said he, "and fend for yourselves: the hour is come when the shepherd is smitten, and the flock shall by scattered. Many are this day mourning the desolations of Israel, and weeping, like the prophet, between the porch and the altar. God's heritage has become the prey of the spoiler; the mountain of the house of the Lord as the high places of the forest. When the faithful pastors are removed, hirelings will intrude whom the Great Shepherd never sent, who will devour the flock, and tread down the residue with their feet. As for me, I have done my duty, and now there is no time to evade. I recommend you to him who is able to keep you from falling, and am ready, through grace, to be disposed of as the Lord pleases."

"During the following week," continued Mr. Denoon, "a party of rude soldiers attacked the manse of Traquair, and Mr. Blackader was forced to seek safety in flight; since which time he has been wandering through Scotland, preaching the gospel of peace, and everywhere exhorting the people to sobriety and gentleness of conduct."

Young Ayton's face flushed, and he enthusiastically exclaimed, "O that I were accounted worthy to stand at the helm with those mighty leaders who present so dauntless a front to the furious waves which threaten every instant to overwhelm them in destruction!"

"Courage, Inchdarnie," replied his reverend friend; "there is that in you which, through the grace of God, must yet render you distinguished; but be watchful and diligent, and follow the counsels of those who possess knowledge and wisdom sufficient to guide you in the way everlasting."

After much interesting conversation regarding the disturbed aspect of affairs, it was finally agreed upon between them that Mr. Denoon should, on the following Saturday, proceed to Kirkcaldy, there to meet Mr. Blackader and conduct him to Inchdarnie, where young Ayton should be in attendance to receive him. All being thus arranged for their future meeting, the two friends bade each other farewell for the present, as Mr. Denoon was about to proceed to Cupar, there to meet with some other devoted friends of the cause.

While on his way hack to the university, Inchdarnie encountered a young man whom he had frequently seen in the house of Mrs. Cunninghame, the aunt of Mary Cunninghame, and who immediately inquired if he could afford him any information respecting their mutual friends, who had suddenly quitted St. Andrews, and gone, no one knew whither. Young Ayton stammered forth some incoherent reply, and greatly to the astonishment of his friend, who stood staring after him in speechless amazement as if utterly at a loss to comprehend such extraordinary conduct, he broke from him and darted into an adjoining street, where he stood for some minutes leaning against the wall, pale and motionless as a statue. Having at length summoned up strength sufficient to proceed on his way, he regained his apartments, where he gave way to a passionate burst of grief. Mary Cunninghame was gone--gone from him for ever. She had willingly deserted him, and cast him from her thoughts as a thing too worthless to be remembered. It was indeed a bitter pang to hear. He felt his own weakness, and offered up an earnest supplication, in the deep solitude of his chamber, that grace might be given him from above. The hours flew on in their rapid flight, unmarked, unheeded in their progress, for he was seeking for comfort where it alone may be found--at the foot of the cross of Christ.

At a late hour on the same evening a young man, whose form was closely enveloped in the folds of a large cloak, and his cap drawn over his brow, so as in some measure to conceal his features, might have been seen slowly wending his way up the long dark avenue which led to the Priory, the late residence of Mary Cunninghame. This, as the reader may have already conjectured, was no other than Andrew Ayton, who had come in order to take a farewell look at a place linked with so many sad and tender memories. The hour and the scene were alike attuned to melancholy. The rays of the sun, now rapidly sinking behind the distant hills, were transmitted through the leafy boughs of the aged elms, and threw a dim cathedral light over the otherwise darkened avenue. On approaching the house, Inchdarnie was painfully struck with the air of desolation which reigned around. The Naiad still threw upwards a silvery shower of crystal drops from each uplifted hand, but the flowers which once bloomed in rich and grateful profusion now hung their graceful heads disconsolate and forlorn, as if they too were aware that the kind hand which formerly cherished them was gone. The casements were no longer open to admit the grateful breeze which wantoned amongst the ivy-clusters clinging to the walls, and an ill-omened magpie, rendered bold through long possession, now croaked forth a fierce defiance at the unwelcome intruder, from the jessamine bower where formerly he had held sweet converse with Mary Cunninghame. His heart wrung with untold anguish. Inchdarnie advanced with faltering steps towards the little gate which led into the garden. He opened it gently--he entered. All was unchanged, and yet, to him, how changed. Although the garden lay bathed in the glorious light of sunset, it seemed as though light had in reality departed, no more to cheer him with its gladdening beams. There was the seat from which Mary Cunninghame had started with a joyous exclamation to greet him on his entrance that fatal night. The chair remained, but the occupant--where was she? The funereal boughs of the old yew-tree waved noiselessly in the breeze, and seemed, to the excited imagination of young Ayton, like so many demons tossing their great arms to and fro, as if inviting him to enter within the charmed circle of the traditionary yew. At this instant the noise created by the opening of the gate caused Inchdarnie to turn suddenly round, when his eyes fell on the stooping form of an aged woman, who had evidently came with the intention of making all secure for the night.

"Holy Mary!" she exclaimed, crossing herself devoutly on observing the tall shrouded form of Andrew Ayton, who, recognising in her a retainer of the Cunninghames, advanced towards her for the purpose of making inquiries regarding her absent employers.

"The saints above he praised!" cried the aged domestic, "that it is you, Mr. Ayton, and no midnight marauder; oh, how you did startle me! When first I saw you standing beneath the shade of the trees I took you for some robber, who being made aware of the absence of the lady of the house, had taken advantage of the circumstance to steal into the garden with the intention of making his way into the priory. Holy St. Jerome,----"

"Whither has Mrs. Cunninghame gone?" impatiently interrupted Inchdarnie.

"Have you not been made aware?" exclaimed the old woman with an air of astonishment; "but I forget," she added; "you had ceased coming about the house for some little time before Miss Mary took so badly----"

"What!" cried young Ayton in an agonised tone of voice, "was Mary--I mean Miss Cunninghame--ill before she left the priory?"

"Holy mother! yes," was the reply; "so much so, that at one time we feared she never should have been able to quit the house alive."

Inchdarnie smote his hand on his forehead, and paced hurriedly to and fro for the space of a few moments. When he returned, he was, to all appearance, calm and collected, but his voice was husky with emotion, and sounded deep and hollow as he again demanded "whither they had gone?"

"To England," replied his informer, "there to join Miss Cunninghame's parents, who propose taking her to Italy on account of her weak state of health. I this morning," she continued, "received a letter from her aunt, which contained this intelligence, as also that poor Miss Mary was still very weak and languid."

"O God! and have I then killed her?" groaned forth young Ayton, almost frantic at the thought. At this instant he raised his eyes; they encountered the dark green boughs of the sepulchral-looking yew; he started, for the sight of that tree recalled to his memory the doom which, as Mary Cunninghame had informed him, was denounced on the person who ventured within its sacred precincts, or vowed aught save holy vows beneath its hallowed shade. The old woman perceived the steadfast gaze with which he was regarding the gloomy-looking tree, and again she crossed herself devoutly and mumbled over some half-dozen Paternosters, as if for protection against some unseen foe.

"Knowest thou aught concerning the legend told in connection with that yew?" at length inquired young Ayton.