Part 9
Andrew Ayton remained stationary a while, gazing after the retreating figure of William Auchmutie, until rousing himself, as with a mighty effort, from his momentary fit of abstraction, he murmured, half aloud, "and now for a bitter task;" then pulling his cap still lower over his forehead, he strode off rapidly in a contrary direction to that pursued by his cousin. After proceeding a short distance along the sea-shore, he struck into a narrow path amongst the rocks, which led towards a fine old avenue surrounded by aged elms, whose dusky foliage lent an air of sadness to the scene, in keeping with the impressive silence which reigned around.
The house approached by this avenue was an ancient, venerable-looking edifice, which, during the time of the haughty Cardinal Beaton, had been the residence of one of the popish dignitaries then holding office in the cathedral of St. Andrews. There was an air of monastic seclusion about the mansion which accorded well with the gloomy nature of the approach. The walls were overgrown with ivy, whose luxuriant growth almost concealed from view the windows designed to impart light to its inhabitants, while the dreamy murmurs of a fountain stationed near the entrance attuned the heart of the listener to melancholy yet pleasing reflection. Andrew Ayton stood still a while beneath the shade of one of the lofty elms, to gaze unseen on this picture of peaceful seclusion, until finding his thoughts too painful for long indulgence, he walked hastily onwards, and opening a wicker-gate which stood at some little distance from the mansion, was admitted into the old-fashioned garden belonging to the place, where a youthful maiden was seated, working embroidery, under the umbrageous boughs of one of the apple-trees with which the garden abounded. At sight of the intruder the young girl uttered a cry of joy, and bounded eagerly forward, exclaiming--
"Why so late, Andrew, why so late? Here have I been seated all alone for hours in this dreary old garden, which, with its quaint devices, reminds me so forcibly of the one attached to the convent where I resided in France, only"--but here, for the first time, observing the sad, troubled expression of young Ayton's face, she paused in her description to inquire what ailed him, adding, "I am sure you study far too closely at that nasty university; aunt says so too, but she has been noticing how wretchedly out of spirits you have been for some time past, and wonders what can be the reason of it; do tell me, Andrew," she implored, placing her hand confidingly in his, while two of the loveliest eyes in the world were fixed on his face with a look of tender entreaty impossible to withstand. Andrew Ayton smiled faintly, and pleading some slight excuse for his apparent depression of spirits, passed his hand caressingly over her luxuriant black tresses, which hung in massy folds over her swan-like neck, while he led her towards a seat placed beneath an old yew-tree, whose mournful hue harmonised well with the nature of the communication he was about to make.
"Oh, not there, not there!" exclaimed the young maiden shudderingly, dragging young Ayton away from the tree as she spoke.
"Wherefore?" was the inquiry.
"O, it is so gloomy, and there is a strange tradition told in connection with it which makes me shudder whenever I look on it."
"And pray what is the tradition?" inquired Andrew Ayton, endeavouring by every means in his power to delay the moment of explanation.
"I know not the circumstances which gave rise to the prediction," replied the maiden, "but it bodes approaching death to one or both of those who beneath its venerable boughs breathe of aught save of that pertaining to holy things."
"Why, then, have a seat placed there at all?" said young Ayton, smiling at the strange superstition.
"It has been there from time immemorial," was the reply, "and no one would be found hardy enough to attempt its removal." Then evidently with a wish to change the subject, she said, in a livelier tone, "but come hither, you lagging knight, and see what I have been doing for you in your absence." So saying, she led him by the hand towards the tree where she had herself been seated, and holding up for his admiration the piece of embroidery she had just finished on his entrance, representing a Venetian lady singing her evening hymn to the Virgin, said laughingly, "I have worked this at the request of my worthy aunt, who desires that you will immediately hang it up in your chamber at the university, in order that, by feasting your eyes on this holy subject, and your mind with the thoughts it must give rise to, you may be preserved from the fatal errors of Protestantism."
The lips of her lover--for that Andrew Ayton was such the reader must by this time have discovered--became ashen white during this playful sally of the merry-hearted girl, and, seizing her by the hand, he constrained her to seat herself by his side, while he exclaimed, in a voice rendered husky by intense emotion--
"Mary Cunninghame, is it not true that we have loved each other since the days of our childhood?"
"Yes," was the faint reply of the startled maiden, who sat with her eyes rivetted on the pale face of the inquirer, awaiting the issue of this strange address, in speechless anxiety.
"Ere ever you went to France," continued her lover, "when we roamed hand in hand through the bonnie woods of Craigeholm, seeking for wild flowers with which to adorn thy curling tresses, I sighed for the day which I hoped would see us united. I thought of it--dreamed of it. When you left me to go to France, then was I miserable indeed. My only happiness consisted in re-visiting the old familiar haunts of my happier hours. And yet they seemed changed to me, for the angel presence which diffused a charm around these hallowed spots was gone; and I fled with an aching heart from those scenes which reminded me so forcibly of you. Every trifle bestowed by you on me in these halcyon days was treasured up by me as a gem of the most priceless value. They were watered by my tears--they were the confidants of my sorrows; and look, Mary, I have worn this even till now." So saying, young Ayton took from off his neck a narrow piece of blue ribbon, to which was attached a small amber cross. Mary Cunninghame gazed on this small token of affection with eyes suffused with tears, and, unable to speak, motioned her lover to proceed with his disclosure, which he did as follows:--
"Such being my constancy during your absence, you will in some measure be able to guess the intensity of my happiness on your return. You were restored to me more beautiful than ever--my wildest dreams had never dared to picture aught so fair; and oh, what pleased me more than all, was the knowledge you were still unchanged towards me. I read your affection in one glance of those sweet truthful eyes, and I was overwhelmed with joy. As you may remember, shortly alter your return I came hither, and you--from a desire to be near me, and to enliven with your bright smiles the hours not devoted to study--accepted your aunt's invitation to stay with her during the absence of your parents in England. You came, and expressed your surprise at the change which had taken place in me in the space of the few months we had been separated; then, Mary, was the commencement of the struggle between duty and my love for you. Formerly I was a sincere believer in the doctrines of the Romish Church, and would have repelled the charge with indignation had any one ventured to assert that I should yet be a Protestant. But now things are altered. I chanced one day, during my leisure hours, to take up a pamphlet entitled, 'The Sufferings of God's Children,' and opening it carelessly, I read one or two pages, without reflecting on what I was reading; suddenly a passage struck me with overwhelming force, and becoming then deeply interested, I went on and on, and the farther I proceeded, the more I was convinced of the truth of the statements therein contained. I read of the dreadful cruelties inflicted on the hapless members of the Church of Scotland; how her children are driven to the wilds and fastnesses of their native country, there to worship, in silence and in solitude, the God of their fathers. I wept over the numberless atrocities that have been committed, and I arose from the perusal of the book with the firm resolution of inquiring farther into the doctrines of the Protestant Church, persuaded, as I then was, that they must be of a truly elevating and comforting character thus to render their holders superior to all attempts made to torn them from their revered yet simple faith. Mary," continued young Ayton, "from that day I have been an altered being. At first I was torn with doubts and apprehensions as to the line of conduct I should pursue, knowing, as I did, the love you entertained for the Romish religion; but a voice kept always whispering in mine ear--search, search, and I did search until I found peace and consolation in the blessed light of Protestantism. Mary, I am now a Protestant; are we to part?"
With a sharp cry as though an adder had stung her, Mary Cunninghame darted from her lover's side, her lips quivering with emotion, and her face white as marble, so overcome was she by the shock she had received on hearing this communication.
"Oh!" she wildly exclaimed, pressing her hand to her heart as though to still its beatings, "tell me anything--anything but that. Say you are a beggar; convince me, if you will, that you are no longer worthy of my affection, my esteem, yet I should regard you as I have ever done, but oh! not that you have abandoned the only true Church. Tell me," she continued, the rapidity of her utterance attesting the intense excitement under which she laboured, "that it is false--that you have wilfully, cruelly deceived me, and I shall bless you for the words--speak!"
"Mary," said her lover, calmly and sorrowfully. "I have indeed told you the truth: I am now a convert to Protestantism; and God alone knows the agony I have endured while telling you this, knowing, for I see it in your eyes, that we must part. But Mary, ever fondly-beloved Mary, we are both young; let us therefore pray to God that he may grant us time, and a portion of his Holy Spirit, to do that required of us. You"--here he paused for a moment overcome with emotion--"will be courted by the rich and the great of your own faith, and may soon find one to console you for the lover lost, while I----"
"You!" scornfully interrupted Mary Cunninghame, her eyes flashing with indignation as she spoke, "will, I suppose, comfort yourself in a similar manner; the recreant in religion will soon prove a recreant in love; but learn this, fair sir, that from this day henceforward, Mary Cunninghame ceases to regard Andrew Ayton in any other light than that of a base apostate, and will tear him from her heart as easily as she now tramples under foot what hitherto she had valued above anything in her possession." So saying, the indignant girl hastily withdrew from its hiding-place a ribbon similar to that worn by her lover, to which was attached a small gold heart, a present from him in younger and happier days, and dashed it with violence on the ground.
The lips of Andrew Ayton trembled with agitation during this proceeding on the part of her he loved so fondly, and more than once he was on the point of throwing himself at her feet and surrendering all save his hopes of her, but a higher power restrained him, and he muttered half audibly, "far better thus; if she deems me so faithless she will forget me all the sooner. Poor Mary, she knows not what I suffer; God grant me strength to bear the burden imposed on me." Then turning to Mary Cunninghame, who, more than half repenting of what she had done, stood gazing on the beloved and till that day cherished ornament, as it lay bruised upon the ground, addressed her thus:--"God bless you, my darling Mary, and grant you a lighter heart than I bear away with me this night; and oh! if in his great goodness and mercy he sees fit to turn you from that Church to which you now so fondly cling, send for me, should you feel your heart in any degree softened towards one whose only grief at this moment is his losing you;" so saying, he darted towards her, and seizing her hand ere ever she was made aware of his intention, he pressed it again and again to his lips, gazed for a moment wildly in her face--and tore himself away. For days after this occurrence, Andrew Ayton remained shut up in his chamber, permitting no one to intrude on his privacy save William Auchmutie, who came to take leave of him before quitting St. Andrews. This latter personage was as gay and lively as ever, but not even his brilliant sallies of wit could extract from his cousin the faintest shadow of a smile, so that he soon withdrew in indignation at his failure. Young Ayton was indeed almost broken-hearted at what had taken place. He felt as many others do when similarly situated, that he never knew the real extent of his love for Mary Cunninghame until she was lost to him for ever. The circumstance of her having so carefully preserved the little golden heart he had placed round her neck on the morning of her departure for France, affected him deeply, and the look of indignant grief with which she tore it from its sanctuary during their last interview, was indelibly engraven on his imagination. His only resort now was the sea-shore, where he would sit for hours gazing with vacant eyes on the mighty waves as they dashed with violence against the rock on which the ancient castle of St. Andrews is situated.
One day, while indulging in his wonted reverie, he observed an aged man coming swiftly down amongst the rocks who, when he had seated himself on a neighbouring stone, fixed his eyes with a melancholy gaze on the brilliant sunbeams as they danced on the heaving waters. There was something in the appearance of the stranger at once striking and commanding. In figure he was tall and slender, while a slight stoop at the shoulders indicated a tendency to constitutional delicacy, in some measure counteracted by the bronzed hue of his cheek, which betokened constant exposure to the elements; while the vigorous strides with which he had descended the tortuous path leading to the shore, proved his capabilities for undergoing great and enduring fatigue. Andrew Ayton felt as if attracted by some invisible power towards the venerable stranger, and he gazed on him with a feeling of awe and reverence for which he was in some measure unable to account. After the lapse of a few moments spent thus in meditation, the stranger turned his mild yet penetrating eye full on the face of his companion, and pointing with the stick which he held in his hand towards the glittering sunbeams, addressed him thus:--
"Young man, these sparkling messengers resemble the hopes and joyful aspirations of youth, gladdening with their presence the dull waters of life. The spring-time of existence beneath their bright influence is indeed as a beautiful dream, but ah! how different the awakening. The youthful traveller goes forth into the world eager to run the race and win the goal. All nature seems to rejoice with him in his sweet anticipations regarding the future. The blue sky smiles above him--the green earth teems with glowing beauties around him--the song of the birds is more thrilling and tender; all serves as it were, to feed the fond delusions of youth. But soon there comes a change. Dark threatening clouds obscure the bright sunbeams. The aspect of the heavens is changed; fierce storms arise, the smooth waters swell into mighty billows, and man awakes from the dreams of his youthful hours to arm him for the combat--is it not so?"
"Yes, father," said young Ayton with a deep-drawn sigh, for he felt the full force of the simile.
The dejected air with which these simple words were uttered did not escape the observation of the stranger, for he quickly resumed, eyeing his companion keenly as he spoke: "But, on the other hand again, youth is prone to be easily dejected. According to the bright and sanguine anticipations of that season of hope, so is there a corresponding amount of depression, should anything occur to mar or lessen the amount of happiness we expected to enjoy in our progress through life. But he is not worthy of the prize who thus faints and succumbs at the outset of his career; no, the youthful warrior, like the Christian of old, must arm him for the fight. He must rise superior to all the crosses and afflictions he is called upon to endure. He must fix his thoughts on the mighty end to be achieved, which will guide him as a beacon through the darkness and difficulties which surround his path; and although the object to be attained may seem far beyond his reach, yet assuredly he will triumph in the end."
Andrew Ayton recognised the justice of the stranger's observations, and being desirous to repose implicit confidence in one who seemed, from the wisdom of his counsels, to be able to direct him as to his future walk in life, he recounted to him the history of his love and subsequent conversion to Protestantism.
"My son," exclaimed the stranger, warmly grasping the hand of his companion, "God has indeed been gracious to you in bringing you thus early in life to a knowledge of what is to be desired above all earthly things, and although the sacrifice of your youthful affections may appear at first a burden hard and grievous to be borne, yet He is faithful who promised we will not be tempted above that we we able to bear. We are all called upon to suffer; and it is the duty of the Christian to say with resignation, 'The Lord's will be done.' None of us are exempted from sorrow and trial, and it is wisely ordained that it should be so, in order that we may be prepared for another and a brighter world."
Here the stranger paused for a moment, and then resumed with inquiry, "perhaps you are not aware, my son, that I am a minister of the suffering Church of Scotland?"
"I deemed, father, that you belonged to the Covenanting body," said young Ayton, "from the air of deep sadness seated on your brow."
"Yes," said the stranger sadly; "every true member of the Presbyterian religion must, in these fearful times, bear on their countenances the tokens of a sorrowing heart within. Oh! my son," continued the aged man, "unite with me in prayer that the destruction which at present menaces our beloved Church may be averted, and that God in the greatness of his strength may visit and relieve his people."
Andrew Ayton, deeply overcome at sight of the old man's sorrow, knelt with him on the sand, and prayed that He who had promised grace to help in every time of need might look down from his throne on high, and strengthen those about to go forth in defence of their Covenants.
"O God of Battles," exclaimed the venerable stranger aloud, in the fervour of his devotion, "behold and visit us in our affliction; stretch out thy right hand and save us from the dangers which threaten us, that a remnant may be saved to worship thee according to the ways of our fathers. O heavenly Father, the mighty ones of the earth are arrayed against us, but if thou, our Father, art with us, what have we to fear from the hate and malice of our enemies." The petitioner then went on to pray for those appointed to suffer martyrdom in the cause of their religion, that their faith might be strengthened in the last hours of their sojourn on earth, that no tortures inflicted on them by their merciless persecutors might have the power of inducing them in their agony to yield up their glorious privileges; that those ministers unjustly deprived of their churches might be enabled to preach the blessed doctrine of salvation with comfort and edification to those who hungered and thirsted after the truths of the gospel amongst the mountains and valleys of Scotland; and that the Almighty would be graciously pleased to hear the prayers and petitions of his children. Towards the conclusion of his supplication, he besought the blessing of the Lord on the head of him who had so recently become a convert to Protestantism--that he might long be spared to labour in the Lord's vineyard, and his hands be strengthened for the work he had yet to perform; but if the Almighty, in his wisdom, was pleased to remove him from thence in the spring-time of life, that there might be laid up for him a crown of glory, such as is promised to those who have fought the good fight. Thus prayed the venerable stranger; and it was an affecting sight to view the grey-haired soldier of the cross, who had grown aged in the battles of the Lord, and the golden-haired youth, who had newly donned his armour for the fight, kneeling side by side on the solitary shore, with no ear to hearken to the voice of their petition, save His to whom all hearts are open--all desires known; and no sound to disturb the tenor of their thoughts save the wild roar of ocean, as it rolled along, obedient to the commands of its creator--"Thus far shalt thou come and no farther."
"By what name shall I for the future address one with whom I have become so singularly acquainted?" inquired the stranger on rising from his kneeling posture.
"I am Andrew Ayton; and you?"
"Am styled Walter Denoon."
Young Ayton was delighted beyond measure at having formed a friendship with one whom he had so frequently heard, and expressed an earnest desire that the acquaintanceship so auspiciously commenced might be continued during their lifetime. Mr. Denoon save utterance to a similar wish, adding that he had but a few days to remain in St. Andrews, whither he had come for the purpose of visiting some near and dear friends, before proceeding to Morayshire, where he had much labour to accomplish. In the course of conversation, Andrew Ayton ventured to express a hope that the cause of the Church of Scotland was not so desperate as they had been led to imagine; but in reply to this, Mr. Denoon informed him that, instead of the accounts they had received having been exaggerated, they had in many cases come far short of the sad reality; and the sanguinary acts on the part of the government had everywhere filled men's minds with terror and consternation. As an example of what he alluded to, Mr. Denoon proceeded to make his companion acquainted with much that had taken place during the time he had remained in retirement; how government had placed the price of four hundred pounds sterling on the heads of the most celebrated field-preachers, and issued letters of intercommuning against all those persons who had neglected or declined to appear in court and take the oath of abjuration. How the father was forced to give evidence against the son, and the son against the father--the daughter against the mother, and the husband against the wife; and that driven to madness by the inveterate persecution of the government, the people had forsaken their homes and fled to the wilds and solitudes of their country, or sought in a foreign land that peace and safety no longer to be found in Scotland; preferring to encounter any degree of hardship, even death itself, to the horrors of miserable incarceration in dungeons, or the tortures of perpetual apprehension. "The King," continued Mr. Denoon, "is evidently dreadfully embittered against the Covenanting party, regarding them as morose, sullen, blood-thirsty fanatics, on whom all his benefits are entirely thrown away. He has been led to believe by the prelatic body that the hierarchy is in danger, and is therefore determined to bear the Presbyterians down by every means in his power. They are, as he terms them, the enemies of his unhallowed pleasures, and must needs suffer for being so."