Part 12

In company with his reverend friend, Andrew Ayton visited numbers of the poorer class of people inhabiting the shire of Moray, and attended several meetings where Mr. Denoon officiated as clergyman. Before quitting Elgin, the latter, in accordance with a wish expressed to that effect, made known his intention of holding a conventicle in the ruins of Pluscardine. The morning of the day appointed for the meeting having arrived, Mr. Denoon and Andrew Ayton set off for the ruined priory. The day was beautiful, and on their arrival they found the interior of the ruins thronged with an eager multitude in readiness to receive them. Inchdarnie was impressed beyond imagination with the touching solemnity of the scene, as Mr. Denoon, taking his stand on a huge fragment of stone dislodged from the building by the relentless hand of time, proceeded to address the congregation. The rays of the sun at this moment penetrating through the ivy-clad windows, tinged with a golden lustre his venerable locks, and imparted an air of majesty to his countenance, in harmony with the heavenly messages he was entrusted to deliver. He spoke, and as his voice resounded through the vast space with the force of a trumpet, arousing his hearers to a sense of their danger, young Ayton felt the incapacity of the most gorgeous pageantry to add to the grandeur of words like these. While all eyes and ears were fixed on the preacher with an earnestness that precluded all other sights and sounds, Inchdarnie was startled on observing a strange face, almost shrouded beneath a brass helmet, gazing in at one of the windows. Unable to credit his senses, he kept his eyes fastened on the spot with an eagerness that was almost painful. His suspense was not of long duration. Again the same form presented itself, but this time accompanied by several others, who stationed themselves near every possible outlet, so as to shut out all hopes of escape. His worst fears realised, Andrew Ayton sprung from his seat, and shouting, "Betrayed, betrayed!" he drew his sword, and dashing through the midst of the terror-stricken congregation, placed himself by the side of Mr. Denoon as though determined to share his fate. The latter stood calm and resolute, while those by whom he was surrounded evinced their readiness to fight in their own and his defence. At this instant a soldier, who from his proud bearing and superior style of dress appeared to be the leader of the party, entered, and approaching Mr. Denoon, politely uncovered his head, while he expressed his regret that so unpleasant a duty as that of arresting Mr. Denoon should have devolved upon him; but that, however repugnant it might be to his own feelings to do so, yet his orders must be obeyed, and Mr. Denoon must therefore prepare to accompany them, adding that no harm was intended to any of the congregation, who were at liberty to retire if so inclined.

"Arrest Mr. Denoon!" cried Inchdarnie, "never!" so saying, he raised his sword on high, and was about to rush on the officer, when Mr. Denoon, throwing his arms around him, besought him to forbear; then turning to the commander, he demanded of him whither he had orders to take him?

"To Dundee," was the reply, "there to await further instructions."

"The Lord's will be done!" piously exclaimed Mr. Denoon, raising his hands and eyes to heaven as he spoke; then turning to the people, who loudly expressed their sympathy, he bade them be of good cheer, as the Lord would soon find them another and more zealous pastor.

While parting with Inchdarnie, many tears were shed on both sides, but to all his young friend's entreaties that he would permit him to strike one blow in his defence, he simply replied: "My son, it is the duty of a Christian to suffer, and to suffer meekly; if it please the Lord we shall meet again, and till then farewell;" so saying he expressed his readiness to depart, whereupon the officer, his head still uncovered, courteously led the way to the spot where his men stood armed to receive the prisoner.

For some little time after the departure of the soldiers, Andrew Ayton remained motionless, and apparently overwhelmed with grief. He had lost his kind, sympathising friend, and that at the very moment when he stood most in need of his assistance. What was to be done? At this moment the thought darted through his head, could he not be rescued? Regarding the suggestion as a sunbeam sent by the Almighty to comfort him in the midst of his affliction, and heedless of the numbers who stood around watching his every motion, Inchdarnie knelt for one moment in silent prayer, and then starting to his feet, hurried from the ruins. His resolution was taken; he would follow the soldiers until such time as he could meet with some friends who would aid him in the attempted rescue. Having informed the relations with whom he had been staying, of his intentions, Andrew Ayton threw himself on horseback, and galloped off in the direction pursued by the dragoons. He soon came within sight of the party, and observed, to his great satisfaction, that they were few in number, and evidently not over-anxious regarding the safety of their prisoner, whose venerable form young Ayton could plainly descry stationed in midst of the dragoons. As an Indian unceasingly follows in the track of his intended victim, so Andrew Ayton kept in the wake of the soldiers, riding when they rode, halting when they halted, until at length they arrived at Dundee. After having carefully marked the house, to which Mr. Denoon was conducted, Inchdarnie put spurs to his horse's sides and galloped straight to Cupar, where he expected to obtain the necessary assistance. Having speedily collected together a number of young men eager to undertake anything that promised them some amusement, he retraced his steps to Dundee. All remained the same as when he had left. The two soldiers still kept guard before the house in which Mr. Denoon was confined. Leaving his companions in a little wood near the entrance to the town, Andrew Ayton, having disguised himself so as to preclude all possibility of recognition, proceeded to reconnoitre the premises, in order to discover the most feasible plan for effecting Mr. Denoon's escape. He soon satisfied himself that the back part of the house, which looked into a little garden, was totally defenceless. No soldier was stationed there to keep watch, and the windows were easy of access and without protection of any kind. Having made himself acquainted with these particulars, Inchdarnie rejoined his friends in the wood, where they determined to remain until night should further their scheme. When the shades of evening had closed around them, the party issued from the wood, and advanced singly, so as to excite no suspicions of their real purpose in the breasts of those they might chance to encounter towards the back of the house indicated by Inchdarnie, which, standing as it did a little apart from the others, occupied a position highly favourable for their purpose. Having stationed all his companions save one at the foot of the garden, so as to be ready in case of danger, Andrew Ayton advanced towards one of the lower windows, and with the assistance of his friend succeeded in reaching it. After pausing a moment to recover breath, he gently endeavoured to raise the sash. This was an anxious moment with them all, and the beatings of Andrew Ayton's heart were painfully audible, so fearful was he lest their plan should prove a failure. To their inexpressible delight, however, it yielded to his touch. The first step was now gained, but the worst remained behind. He entered and found himself in a small unfurnished room, having a door at the extreme end; this he also perceived to be open, and marvelling much at the carelessness of those in charge, he threaded his way along a narrow passage, on both sides of which were stationed doors. This was rather puzzling to one unacquainted as young Ayton was with the geography of the house, but summoning up all the courage of which he was possessed, he placed his hand on the handle of the one nearest him; it opened, and he saw at one glance that it was also uninhabited. In like manner he tried another equally yielding to his touch; he entered, and seated by a small wooden table, on which burned a solitary candle, he beheld his venerable friend. With difficulty suppressing a cry of joy at sight of one whom he almost feared was lost to him for ever, Andrew Ayton rushed forward, while Mr. Denoon, equally delighted and astonished at the unexpected appearance of one whom he regarded in the light of a son, started from his seat, and clasping him to his bosom, mingled his tears with his.

"Father!" at length said young Ayton in a whisper, "you must this instant fly with me--all is in readiness; I have faithful friends, who are at this moment waiting my return with anxious impatience. Oh, do not delay, but hasten to gladden their eyes with your presence!"

Mr. Denoon sadly shook his head while he replied, "Would it not be a cowardly action, and unlike that of One who gave up his own life as a ransom for many, were a minister to fly from his earthly foes? Would it not seem as if----?"

"Oh, do not say no, reverend father!" interrupted Inchdarnie: "do not neglect the opportunity God hath given you of making your escape from the hands of your enemies, in order that you may yet preach to those in need of a shepherd. Of what use are you here?" he continued. "What lost souls are there you can reclaim from perdition? and were you once to regain your liberty, what unspeakable comfort might you not be able to render those who require consolation?"

"My son, in that you say truly; there may be much for me to do, and the word liberty soundeth sweet in the ears of a captive;" so saying, Mr. Denoon expressed his willingness to depart.

Rejoicing in the success which had hitherto attended his plan, Inchdarnie conducted Mr. Denoon to the window where his friend was stationed, who received the aged man in his arms and placed him in safety on the ground. Treading as noiselessly as possible, the party, employing the same precautionary measures in their retreat as during their approach, retraced their steps to the wood where horses were ready saddled and bridled to conduct them to Cupar, whither Inchdarnie determined at once to proceed. On their way thither Andrew Ayton apprized Mr. Denoon of all that had taken place since the morning of his capture in the priory, and in his turn was made acquainted with what had befallen his reverend friend since his imprisonment.

"How fortunate," said Mr. Denoon in continuation, "that you should have fixed on this night for effecting my deliverance. Had you delayed another day, I should have been removed from Dundee, to go I know not whither; and to that circumstance is to be attributed the fact of there being so few precautions taken as regarded my safety; for in general every door and window was carefully fastened ere night had closed in."

Inwardly returning thanks to the Almighty for the kindness he had evinced towards them in thus disarming the soldiers of all suspicion of danger, they pursued the rest of their journey in silence. On arriving at Cupar, the two friends deemed it essential for their safety to part. Mr. Denoon determined upon going to St. Andrews, where he had some trusty friends; while Inchdarnie, fearful of remaining longer in Fifeshire, expressed his intention of at once proceeding to Perth, there to visit Mr. Wellwood, whose acquaintance he was most anxious to make.

"God bless and prosper you! my dear young friend," said Mr. Denoon, warmly grasping Andrew Ayton by the hand as he bade him adieu; "under the providence of God I this night owe my life to you; and oh, that I may spend it in the service of Him to whom it by right belongs!"

"Farewell, my noble, kind preceptor," replied Inchdarnie, "and should we never meet again in this valley of time, God grant I may so follow in your steps that we may spend eternity together;" so saying, they parted--and for ever. As Andrew Ayton pursued his solitary way towards Perth, he was attracted by sounds of lamentation which appeared to proceed from a house situated at a short distance from the road along which he was proceeding. Always ready to hearken to the voice of suffering--and judging that in this case some assistance might be necessary--he leapt from his horse and knocked gently at the door. Finding that no notice was being taken of his repeated demands for admission, he fastened the impatient animal to a ring in the wall, and, raising the latch, entered the house, where he beheld a sight that made him tremble. Stretched on the cottage floor lay the apparently lifeless body of a man bathed in a pool of blood, while at his head sat an aged female ghastly with despair. No wail of sorrow burst from her bloodless lips, but her eyes were fixed on the face of the dead man with that stony gaze which bespeaks the bitterest anguish, and near her was seated the wife of the deceased, whose passionate bursts of sorrow had first attracted the notice of Andrew Ayton.

"Good God!" he exclaimed, on beholding this terrible spectacle; "what means this?"

On hearing the voice of a stranger, the younger female lifted her head, but unable to speak, she merely pointed to the deceased, and then burying her face in her hands, gave way to fresh bursts of sorrow.

"O do not grieve thus," said Inchdarnie, "but tell me, in heaven's name, who has been the author of this bloody outrage; and if it should be in my power to render you any assistance----"

"Assistance!" screamed the old woman in a shrill voice of agony, and starting to her feet as she spoke, "can you restore us the dead? Can you bring back light to the eyeballs, and life to the stiffening frame? Can you blast with heaven's lightning----?"

"Oh, hush mother, hush! use not these awful words!" exclaimed the anguished wife; "it is not for us to curse our----"

"Interrupt me not!" cried the aged matron. "Can you blast with heaven's lightnings," she continued, "the mitred head of him who ordered the deed to be done--that rendered me childless in my old age? O may the curses of a bereaved mother cling to his soul, and drag him down--down! But I will be avenged," she continued, the frenzied light of madness blazing in her sunken eyes, "I will be avenged, and that right soon; God has promised it; the heavens frown not in wrath when I cry for revenge! And when that day comes, when he, the bloody prelate, kneels in the very dust begging for that mercy he this day denied to me, then--then will he know the bitterness of kneeling at the foot of man, and kneeling in vain." Here, thoroughly exhausted by her own violence, the heart-stricken mother threw herself on the body of her child, screaming aloud, "My son! my son!"

Overcome with horror at the wretched scene, and perceiving that assistance could not be of any avail, Andrew Ayton, after he had thrust some money into the passive hand of the more gentle mourner, quickly regained the door, and mounting his horse, which stood pawing the ground with impatience to be gone, galloped hastily onwards to Perth. Now that the excitement which had hitherto sustained him had in some measure subsided, Andrew Ayton began to experience the effects of the fatigue arising from the scenes through which he had passed, and to realise the necessity there was of his obtaining some repose; accordingly he alighted at the first public-house that afforded hopes of entertainment for man and beast. In the course of the following morning he resumed his journey, and entered the "Fair City" as the light of day was departing. Being very desirous of seeing Mr. Wellwood, who was then thought to be dying, he made at once for the house in which he resided. It was a humble apartment into which he was ushered; no signs of luxury, barely of comfort, greeted the stranger's eye. The ceiling was low and dark, and the casement small; yet through that narrow aperture the sun's rays entered wooingly and kissed the pallid brow of a young man--sole tenant of the solitary apartment--who instantly rose from his chair and advanced a few steps, although with apparent difficulty, so much was he wasted by sickness, to welcome Andrew Ayton. As each of the young men had heard frequent and favourable mention made of the other, both paused for one moment as if by mutual consent, and earnestly gazed in each other's face. What a contrast did they at this moment present! There stood young Ayton, his long fair hair hanging in waving masses on his shoulders; youth written on his brow--his blue eyes bright with enthusiasm, and his tall elegant figure erect and bold; while opposite to him was one on whose forehead the cold band of death had set its seal. Although comparatively young in years, he was old with anxiety and suffering; his flushed cheek and lustrous eye, his damp forehead and short dry cough, all attesting the fatal presence of consumption. To gaze on them thus was to imagine a meeting between life and death, or that between two warriors; the one bravely arming for the coming fight, and the other, weary of the strife, about to repose after having borne the burden and heat of the day. At length Mr. Wellwood spoke, and his voice was low and sweet as he expressed the pleasure it gave him to see Mr. Ayton; while the latter grieved beyond measure on beholding Mr. Wellwood so feeble and attenuated, could scarce command his voice sufficiently to make a suitable reply. After the lapse of some little time, during which both sat silent, Mr. Wellwood, who had been gazing in a dreamy manner on the few blighted flowers adorning his window, emblems of his own untimely fate, demanded of Andrew Ayton if Archbishop Sharpe had committed any further outrages on the Presbyterians.

"Oh! Mr. Wellwood," burst forth Inchdarnie, "words cannot paint the deep hatred that haughty prelate bears towards us; he would, if possible, blot our names from the book of life; the wholesale murders committed by his orders are terrible beyond imagination; and not contented with what has been already done, he daily devises fresh means of torture. Had you seen what I witnessed while coming hither, it would never have been effaced from your memory; the lifeless corpse, the bereaved wife, and the maniac mother--all are before me even now. That such men are permitted to live only to commit crimes revolting to humanity is indeed strange!"

As Mr. Wellwood gazed on the countenance of the noble youth, which glowed with a beauty almost unearthly in its brightness, and marked as it was by an expression of melancholy sometimes seen on the faces of those who are not destined to remain long in this world, the mysterious veil which conceals the future from our sight was for one moment drawn aside. His dying eyes beheld what was soon to be accomplished, and he exclaimed, "You will shortly be quit of him; he will get a sudden and sharp off-going, and you will be the first to take the news of his death to heaven."

Inchdarnie reverently bowed his head in token of submission to the decrees of the Almighty. So pleased was he with the gentle bearing and pious exhortations of Mr. Well wood, that he remained with him until pretty near his decease, which occurred not long afterwards, when he was obliged to return to Inchdarnie, there to comfort with his presence his beloved mother, then labouring under severe indisposition. In danger of being imprisoned should his presence be discovered in the neighbourhood, Andrew Ayton durst not continue long in his father's house; but during the winter months and the ensuing spring he kept himself concealed in one of the cottar's houses, where he ran little risk of being detected.

It was now the fifth of May, 1679, and Andrew Ayton still lurked in the neighbourhood of Inchdarnie. On the morning of the day in question, a letter was placed in his hands; he glanced at the superscription, turned pale as death, and tearing it open, perused its contents with eyes whose wild expression would have terrified the beholder, while the trembling of the paper attested the agitation under which he laboured. The contents were as follows:--

MY DEAREST ANDREW,--I have struggled, and struggled in vain, to banish your image from my heart; wherever I have been, in England or in Italy, still you were present, and the words you last uttered on that fearful night have rung in my ears till they almost maddened me. All this weary time, in spite of my better judgment, I indulged in the fond delusion that you would endeavour to find me out, and that all should be made right again--vain hope. Months rolled on without any proof on your part of continued affection, and at last I was constrained to believe you had indeed forgotten me. In spite of all my assumed composure, despair took possession of my heart. Numberless suitors addressed me in all the glowing language of the sunny south, but I turned a deaf ear to their honied vows, and sighed in secret over the remembrance of one still too dear to me. At length, greatly to my delight, we returned to Scotland; and in the expectation of seeing you, I accompanied my aunt to the dear old priory. You were gone, but I heard from Deborah of your grief in the garden, and my heart melted within me at the recital. Again, I encountered one day during my accustomed walk a dear friend of yours, named Mr. Denoon (here Andrew Ayton's face glowed with delight); he seemed to know me--how I cannot tell--for he stopt and spoke to me of you. O! what sweet words of comfort he breathed to my anguished soul! He did not seek to undermine my faith (and for that I love him), but he told me of your love, your sorrow, and unaltered constancy, and prayed me to relent. Dear old man; he said although he grieved for my sake that I was not a Protestant, yet that should not prove an obstacle to our earthly happiness, for (and this rejoiced me more than anything) although the outward forms of our religion were so wholly at variance with each other, yet if our hearts were right in the sight of God, and we were sincere in our love towards him, they should always be acceptable in his sight. O Inchdarnie! whether it was that I really believed him or wished to do so for your dear sake, I know not, but I wept from joy; and he, dear, kind old man, was almost as much affected as myself. He then told me of your having aided his escape, and I listened with pride to the narration. We parted, soon to meet again. With the knowledge of my friends, I flew to your dear, venerable aunt, the Lady Murdocairnie (in whose house I am now residing), and told her of all that had passed between us, upon which she took me in her arms and blessed me, and advised me to write you, stating my unaltered love and anxiety to behold you. Come then, Inchdarnie; gladden me once more with your presence, and tell me with your own lips whether you will forgive, your loving

MARY CUNNINGHAME.

With a cry of joy Andrew Ayton started to his feet, rushed to the stable, and too impatient to wait for the tardy groom, he saddled his horse, sprang on its back, and darted off as if on the wings of the wind. Away he sped on his errand of love. The birds sung sweet above his head, he felt as blythe as they; he was going to join his Mary--his darling Mary. On, on, on; mountains, streams, and fields seemed to rush madly past him, so rapid was his course. All grief for him was at an end; Mary had forgiven him--Mary still loved him--they should yet be happy--alas!