Part 12

“They did worse than all that, uncle; they cursed good and honest men, cast them out of the kirk, ay and killed them an they could, gif they dared to confess that Jesus was the Christ, or to say they believed in him,”—and a dark shadow passed across young Lauriston’s face. Perhaps he was thinking of a scene he had witnessed, not so many months before, at St. Andrews,—the death by fire of “ane Henry Forrest, a young man born in Linlithgow,” “for none other cause but because he had ane New Testament in Englis,” and that he constantly affirmed “that Maister Patrick Hamilton was a martyr, and that his articles were true, and not hereticall.”

But he only said, “I can give you, from my book, a true history of one they cast out.” And then he half read, half repeated, the story of the man blind from his birth, whose eyes the Saviour opened, and who afterwards confessed his name so boldly before the Pharisees.

David Stratton did not, by word or sign, evidence either interest or impatience. He stood still, leaning against the casement, and looking out upon the moonlit castle-yard, and the pasture-lands beyond, with rows of stately trees. Ever afterwards with that scene was associated in his mind the first hearing of those marvellous words, “I am the light of the world,” and the vague awe, and wonder, and sense of mystery they awoke within him.

At last George read, “Thou wast altogether born in sins, and dost thou teach us? and they cast him out.”

“_That’s just like me_,” said David emphatically, turning towards him again. “Na, na,” he added, in a lower voice, “they cast _him_ out because he told them the truth anent our Lord’s wonderfu’ wark,—_I’ve_ nae done like that.”

George went on quietly: “Jesus heard that they had excommunicate him; and as soon as he had found him, he said unto him, Dost thou believe on the Son of God? He answered and said, And who is it, Lord, that I might believe on him? And Jesus said unto him, Thou hast both seen him, and he it is that talketh with thee. And he said, Lord, I believe. And worshipped him.”[29] Then, without a word of comment, he closed the book and restored it to its hiding-place.

David’s eyes followed it wistfully. “It’s a braw thing ye hae got book lear, Geordie,” he said.

George was naturally not displeased at this unwonted admission on his uncle’s part. “And there’s no book like this book,” he answered; “God’s ain hand has written every line and letter in it.”

“But can ye mak’ the meaning out, callant? For I misdoot that’s unco hard.”

“Whiles,” said the youth humbly; “and I pray God day by day to teach me more and better. But the hour is late, and your foot is aye early in the stirrup, uncle, so that I should not tarry.”

Good-nights were then exchanged, and without further conversation George left the room.

David Stratton stood long at the lancet window—how long he never knew. Strange new thoughts filled his mind, and for the first time for weeks even the Prior of St. Andrews and the Vicar of Ecclescreig were forgotten. For he did not, as might be imagined, amuse and gratify himself by applying the fiery denunciations he had just heard to these his personal enemies. They had indeed impressed and delighted him at the time; but what he afterwards heard almost swept them from his memory. Unaccustomed to abstract thought, though full of practical shrewdness, a mere exposition of doctrine would perhaps hardly have left a clearer impression on him, when delivered in his native tongue, than if it had been couched in Latin; but his mind was quick to grasp and strong to retain the circumstances of a story. Nor did he only retain them passively: he was accustomed to reflect, after a fashion, upon his own doings and those of other men; and to his imagination, the blind man of the gospel was as real, and not more distant, than if he had lived or was living then in Edinburgh or St. Andrews. For what did he know or care about those fifteen long weary centuries that lay between? The restoration of sight to the blind—that was very wonderful, to be sure. He knew a blind man, who used to sit at the door of St. Mary’s Abbey Kirk in Dundee, and to whom he had many a time given an alms as he passed. He wondered what would old Simon think if some one were to come one day and open _his_ eyes. And who was that _some one_ whose word, whose touch, had such power? It was Jesus, the Son of God. How good it was of him to do it—and to do it for a poor unknown man, a blind beggar, no better than old Simon Hackett! And, moreover, he did not send one of the holy apostles to him, though that would have been marvellously kind and condescending—he did much more. He himself spoke to him, and touched him.

Here it will be observed that the goodness of the act impressed David far more than its greatness. There was a reason for this. It is the tendency of all spurious imitations to lower the value of the thing imitated in the popular mind. Thus, Rome’s lying legends had, as it were, cheapened miracles in the eyes of men. They were accustomed to hear, and to believe, stories of wonderful works, which, as mere exhibitions of superhuman _power_, apart from wisdom or goodness, are to the calm and dignified narratives of the gospel as the blaze of an illuminated city to the pale and distant, but enduring, glories of the starry heavens. A hundred blind men, or a thousand, restored to sight, would not have astonished David beyond measure, or too sorely taxed his faith. But the personal human kindness with which that awful Being, the Son of God (of whom, when he thought at all, he thought with vague terror as the Judge of mankind), stooped to deal with this one poor blind man, surprised and touched him deeply. Little wonder, he thought, that the man spoke up so bravely before the Pharisees (David called them the _Bishops_) to bear witness to his goodness! And very like them to cast him out for it!

But how did the poor man feel when he found himself an outcast, cursed by the kirkmen, abandoned by all his friends, and in danger of worse harm to follow, belike both to soul and body? Probably he was sore perplexed and terrified. Ay, but then “Jesus found him.” Found him, was it, or met him—which did Geordie say? _Found him_; he was sure of it. “It wasna that he forgathered wi’ him by chance in the highway, but he _speered after_ him, for he heard that they had excommunicated him.” And he spoke to him so gently and kindly, and gave him, no doubt, a short and clean shrift from all his sins, better than all the bishops in that country could do. Would, oh would that he were alive now! However distant he might be, David Stratton would go to him, were it twice as far as the shrine of St. James of Compostella—twice as far even as that Hierusalem whither Friar Scott had travelled lately—he cared not. Had he to go the whole “gait” on foot, he cared not, if so be that at the end he might throw himself at the feet of that great and good One, and say to him, “Lord, I too am cast out of the Kirk by these wicked, covetous bishops, wilt thou not let me confess my sins to thee, and give me thy pardon?”

But the Lord Jesus was not to be found at Compostella, nor yet in Hierusalem—he knew that. It would be a good thing, doubtless, for a man to pray in these holy places, or to bring back relics of wonderful virtue, as Friar Scott had done—fragments of stone from the pillar to which Christ was bound, and such like; but to meet our Lord himself personally, and to speak with him, that was another matter clearly. Friar Scott, with all his bragging, had never bragged of _that_; nor would he have believed him if he had. Yet nothing less would do for him, in his present sore distress and difficulty—for such he now confessed it to be. And then he remembered that the Lord was not on earth at all, in any place—he was in heaven, at God’s right hand. Could he not pray to him there?

This was the first glimmering perception of the real purpose and meaning of prayer that dawned upon the mind of David Stratton. Hitherto he had always thought of it as a meritorious action, by means of which good things might be obtained and evil ones averted, through the assistance and mediation of the Virgin and the saints, to whom by far the greater part of the prayers he knew were addressed. Now he began to think it might possibly be a way of communication between this world and the other, by which he might actually succeed in conveying a request about which he was very much in earnest to the ear of the great Son of God himself.

His prayer, if prayer it may be called, was couched in words like these: “Lord, they hae cast me out. I wad find thee an’ I could; but sin’ I canna do that, I ask thee to find me. And gie me, thysel, shrift and pardon for a’ my sins; for ye ken I canna get it frae the kirkmen, and I’m a muckle sinner in thy sight the day—God help me. Amen.”

Such were some of the thoughts that filled the mind of David Stratton during the silent hours of that night, to him for ever memorable. What he felt cannot be traced so easily as what he thought. There is a sanctuary in almost every soul into which no other human soul can penetrate. None but He who has searched and knoweth the hearts he made, could understand the strange new-born impulse which brought David Stratton, in his trouble and danger, to the feet of the merciful Saviour, of whose grace he had heard that night for the first time. “He is great, he can help me—he is good, perhaps he will.” Thus much could be expressed in words; but not so the strong sense of his goodness, and the first dawnings of love and trust in the heart that was ignorantly and half unconsciously, yet really, turning towards Him.

IV. =Dawnings of Light.=

“I bring my guilt to Jesus, To wash my crimson stains, White in his blood most precious, Till not a spot remains.” REV. H. BONAR.

IV. =Dawnings of Light.=

Other eyes were wakeful that night, and other minds were busy, upon Master David Stratton’s account. The Lady of Lauriston, as we are already aware, had set her heart upon bringing about a reconciliation between him and her husband. She did not anticipate much difficulty with the Laird, over whom she possessed almost unbounded influence. And even without her interference, he would probably have speedily regretted his quarrel with a brother to whom he was really attached; and the rather because of the dangers and difficulties of David’s present position. His wife’s persuasions, therefore, combined with his own relentings, soon brought him to a state of mind to hear with much thankfulness of the mission George had undertaken in the capacity of peace-maker.

“But it’s na use,” he answered, with a desponding shake of the head. “I ken Davie unco weel; he’s that stubborn, a man might cut him in twa, and no gar him turn frae his ain gait.”

“Leave him to me,” said the lady in reply. “I ken for sure he came back with George last night, for I heard his foot as he gaed to his chalmer; and ye’ve but to keep still, Andrew, and to speak him fair, when I bring him into the hall to breakfast, as, the saints helping me, I’ll try to do. Speak him fair anent his kine or his boat, or his braw new house that he’s plenishing in Dundee—onything ye list but the kirkmen and the cursing.”

“And yer bonnie cousin Alison, that he’s like to tyne[30] for his foolery?” asked the Laird, with a smile.

“Ay, Laird, that were best left to me too. Weel as ye think ye ken Maister David,” she added after a pause, “_I_ ken him better. He’s a dour chield, and unco stubborn, but he’s manful; and it’s a lang gait he wadna gang for the man or the woman he truly loves. And he loves Alison Lindsay.”

“And she—what of her, Isabel?”

“Tut, Laird; ye mauna be speering owre mony questions. I’m not my cousin’s father confessor.”

“Ye’ll be plainer with David, I hope.”

“No need for that. He that loves can understand what is but half spoken.” And Lady Isabel could not be induced to explain herself farther.

The Laird’s question, however, was a very natural one; nor was the fact that Alison Lindsay had been promised by her father to David Stratton in reality any answer to it, for every one knows that the sacrifice of a girl’s inclinations to the interest or convenience of her kinsfolk was a matter of daily occurrence in those rough times. David was ten years older than his intended bride; he was neither very handsome nor very rich, and he was greatly her inferior in refinement and cultivation—for both Isabel and her young cousin had received their education in a convent, where, besides the peculiarly feminine art of skilful embroidery in its various branches, they were carefully initiated into the mysteries of reading and writing; and were, in fact, for their time, well educated if not accomplished women. Yet, in spite of all this, Alison Lindsay _did_ return David Stratton’s affection. If a reason should be asked, it may perhaps be rendered (strange as this may appear) in the very words by which the Lady Isabel described her brother-in-law’s character: “He’s a dour chield, and unco stubborn; but he’s _manful_.” As men admire nothing so much in women as perfect womanliness, so women, even the gentlest, usually admire manliness in men more than any other characteristic. In Alison’s eyes, “Maister David Stratton of Stratton” was a hero; nor need we pause to inquire whether or not he was transfigured by her imagination into something essentially different from what he really was; it is enough to have stated the fact, that the life of this rude, obstinate, daring gentleman of Angus was far more precious in the eyes of some one else than it was in his own.

Without a great deal of difficulty, George succeeded the next morning in detaining his uncle until the Lady Isabel appeared. Purposely abstaining from any allusion to what had passed the night before, he sought to wile away the time by conversation upon indifferent subjects. Amongst other things, he chanced to ask what had become of a favourite bay mare, which he had been wont to ride when he came to Lauriston. David told him, with some regret, that he had sold her before Pasche, being then anxious for a sum of money to complete the purchase of his new house in Dundee.

George asked who had bought her; perhaps thinking the mare a safer subject of conversation than the house, which he well knew had been destined by his uncle for the reception of his bride.

“Wae’s me!” answered David; “wha suld buy her but John Erskine o’ Dune. Mair’s the pity! Owre guid for him to hae sic a bonny beast to carry him, wi’ a’ his outlandish nonsense.”

But George’s face brightened wonderfully at the mention of John Erskine’s name.

“Then you’re acquaint with the Laird of Dune, uncle?” he asked.

“As weel as I’m like to be. Leeze me on a man wi’ a guid Scot’s tongue in his head, forbye a guid Scot’s heart in his bosom, and tak a’ yer newfangled outland folk.”

“There’s no truer Scottish heart in all the realm than that of John Erskine of Dune!” cried George, unable any longer to keep silence. “Uncle, you know him not. But I pledge ye my word there are few like him. A learned, godly gentleman”—But here he stopped suddenly, recollecting that the praise he was so liberally bestowing on his friend would hardly sound well in his uncle’s ears.

“Oh ay, unco learned, nae doubt. I hae heard he’s gaun to set up a schule at Montrose, to lear the puir bairns Greek, forsooth! Guid wark that for a laird! He’d better hae them taught to put the stane and to shoot at the popinjay, sae he’d hae a chance to make _men_ o’ them, at least.”

George could not help laughing at this representation of the case; but he admitted that the Laird of Dune was endeavouring to found an academy at Montrose for the study of Greek, being anxious that the intelligent youth of his native land should learn to read the word of God in the language in which it is written. “For he loves the word of God with his haill heart,” said George. “And I ken no one who understands it so weel. He hath expounded mony things unto me.”

Here the entrance of the Lady Isabel put a stop to the conversation. It will be easily seen that a woman like the Lady of Lauriston was sure to come off victorious from any verbal encounter with a man like David Stratton. But beside all other advantages, she had a powerful though silent ally in the piece of folded paper she held in her hand. Alison Lindsay’s letter was indeed no more than a quaint and rather formal appeal to her “loving cousin,” asking her to entreat the Laird to take into his service a certain old retainer of the Lindsays, “muckle Sawney Gordon,” who had been so unfortunate as to displease one of her hot-headed young brothers. But then there was a brief postscript, which ran thus:—

“Shoulde Maister Stratton come unto Lauriston, it were as weall to tell him that all his friendis, and they that were his friendis, merveille at his temeritie, or rather proude rashnesse. For his soule’s wealle, no to say for that of his temporall Estaite, entreate him to reconseille himselfe to Holie Kirke, quhill as yett thare is tyme.”

Perhaps the words might have seemed cold and harsh, had not Isabel shown David the paper upon which they were written. It was blotted with tears. He took it in his hand, and held it there for one moment, his strong fingers closing over it with a nervous grasp, and trembling as they closed. Then he silently gave it back, rose from his seat, and strode across the room.

When he reached the door, he paused, as if in doubt. Lady Isabel took advantage of his momentary irresolution; she had something still to say which he could not choose but hear. She told him quietly she had long been desirous to receive a visit from her cousin Alison, as she knew the motherless girl was often lonely in her father’s house; and that she thought she could overrule any objection her relatives might make to her coming to Lauriston. Should this plan succeed, Maister David would have many opportunities of pleading his own cause, and it would be very much his own fault if he did not turn them to good account. She did not _say_, but she hinted, that in reality one thing, and only one, was necessary in order to the accomplishment of all his desires—and that was his reconciliation with the Church.

In the meantime, he could not but feel—and he did feel—that the Lady of Lauriston was his warm and true friend. As might have been anticipated under the circumstances, his quarrel with the Laird terminated speedily. No formal reconciliation took place, nor did many words pass between them; but both were willing to bury their last night’s altercation in oblivion; and Isabel obtained her wish, and saw David seated by her side at the table in the great hall, to partake of their substantial morning meal.

The brothers spent the day in hunting, accompanied by a party of the Laird’s retainers, and by George, whose studies did not indispose him for manly sports and exercises.

On the following morning, however, David asked his nephew if he had not some good falcons, and proposed that they two should go out hawking together. George, who was not particularly fond of the pastime of falconry, consented, at first rather unwillingly, then joyfully and eagerly, as he began with trembling hope to guess the wish that prompted his uncle’s request. They set out, with falcons on their wrists, but declining the attendance of the Laird’s falconer or of his assistant. And when they reached a quiet place in the fields, David, without a word, hooded his falcon and sat down, motioning George to do the same.

Then he said, in a low but eager voice, “Hae ye brought yer book, callant?”

George produced it.

“Read me mair o’ yon blind man the guid Lord Jesus speered after.”

“There’s no more told of him,” said George. “The last thing is this: ‘He said, Lord, I believe. And he worshipped him.’”

“And does the Book no tell us gin the guid Lord gied him shrift or pardon? For I mind weel the kirkmen cast him out, and wad hae naething to do wi’ him. Not ane priest or friar amang them a’ wad hear his confession, I wad ye.”

“What I hae read ye tells us all. He believed on the Lord Jesus Christ; and he who thus believes _is_ pardoned, whether the priests say it or no.”

“How do ye ken that?” asked David, with a wondering look.

By way of reply George read the 3rd of John, adding from time to time such brief explanations as he thought necessary, and in particular telling, very simply and clearly, the story of the brazen serpent.

So still and silent was the listener, that George almost feared he had fallen asleep. He was undeceived, however, when, drawing a deep breath and fixing his eyes upon him with a look of intense interest, David asked, “But what can a man do wha has been a muckle sinner a’ his life?”

“I have told you, uncle. ‘Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ.’”

“That’s unco weel for douce honest folk. But I hae stuck Black Will o’ the Hirst wi’ my whinger.”

“Gif ye had done waur than that, uncle, still the Lord Jesus wad forgive ye, and wad be blythe to do it. See, I will tell ye—” and he found the 23rd of Luke, intending only to read the story of the dying thief; but he read instead the whole of the grand and touching narrative in which it is set, like a gem in a diadem of gold. “And thus,” said George Stratton, “He suffered for our sins, ‘the just for the unjust, that He might bring us to God.’ For ‘He himself bare our sins in his own body on the tree.’”

“Bare our sins?—I dinna just tak’ ye up, Geordie.”

“Though you stuck Black Will with yer whinger, the Lord Jesus’ll _pay the wyte_.[31] On the Cross, with his ain bluid, he paid the wyte for all our sins. And ye’ve nought to do, but just to plead what he has done with the Lord Almighty, and to take the guid comfort of it to yer ain heart.”

“Oh, Geordie—Geordie, lad—it’s owre guid—it canna be—” David’s voice was trembling with emotion.

“But it’s _true_, uncle; I could find ye mony other places in God’s book that tell the same.”

David was silent for a moment or two, then he said, very seriously, “George, my lad, I’m right siccer ye wadna deceive me, for ye ken I lippen[32] to ye. But I’m no that siccer ye mightna be misled yersel, for ye’re but a haflins callant, wi’ a’ yer book lear. And I’d gie a’ the warld just to find the truth. But wae’s me! wha’s to tell it? The priests are a pack o’ misleared carles themselves; they ken neither new law nor auld, like the puir doited Bishop o’ Dunkeld.”

“The Lord himself will teach you, an’ ye ask him.”

“Wha has taught _you_?”

“I think He has,” said George reverently, and in a low voice. “But as for men’s teaching,” he added, “it was some of the lectures of Maister Gawin Logie gared me first think of these things, when I was a determinant at St. Leonard’s College. Afterwards I forgathered with the Laird of Dune, and he gave me this Testament, and told me mony things whilk have helped me to understand it.”

Soon afterwards they returned to the castle.

David was unusually silent and thoughtful during the rest of the day; and, to the surprise and regret of his brother, and still more of his nephew, he announced his intention of leaving them the next morning. Having remonstrated in vain against this decision, they asked him where he intended to go.

He hesitated a little, then said: “Weel, to be plain, it’s a’ anent my bonny bay mare—fool that I was to part wi’ her. I’m sair wirried wi’ yon puir beastie, that’s nae mair fit for a gentleman than ony aver[33] ye’d tak’ frae the pleugh. Sae I’ll just gang to Erskine o’ Dune, aiblins he’ll gie me my ain back again.”