Part 14

But after her first interview with him, she began to feel she had done him an injustice. She could not fail to perceive how marvellously these new doctrines had quickened both his mind and his heart. The earnestness with which he explained and enforced them first surprised, then touched her. She thought it only fair and generous not to condemn him unheard, but to allow him a full opportunity of stating his convictions. Otherwise, how could she combat them successfully? And she was resolved upon making the attempt; though less from any abstract zeal for the conversion of heretics in general, than from her intense and personal interest in the fate of this one particular heretic. On the other hand, he was as anxious for her conversion as she could possibly be for his; so that their conversations on the subject of religion were naturally neither few nor passing.

The consequences soon became apparent to those around them, and very painfully so to Alison herself. The faith of her childhood was first shaken, then actually overthrown. In any sensitive mind, this process must necessarily be attended with great suffering; but especially so if nothing be accepted as a substitute for that which is displaced. This in a sense, though only in a sense, was the case with Alison Lindsay. David had indeed presented her with the jewel of Truth, and she had taken it from his hand, and laid it up amongst her treasures; still it might be said that she knew nothing of its beauty or value. For her no ray of light from above had fallen upon it, calling forth its brilliancy and lustre; it was a diamond, but a diamond unillumined by the sunshine; clear indeed and pure, but cold and colourless. How could such a possession as this repay her for all she must surrender for it—for the sparkling brilliant of earthly happiness, as well as for her early faith—once accounted a precious gem, though now discovered to be only a clever, beautiful imitation?

To drop the metaphor, she had received a creed, but she had not yet received life. And something more than a creed is necessary to enable a man—that we say not, a woman—to abandon all that the heart holds dear, whether of association with the past, or of hope for the future. Such sacrifices she felt might now be demanded from her, and her heart shrank back in terror from the demand. It was no wonder, therefore, that as she sat alone that morning her thoughts were very mournful ones.

But the sound of an approaching footstep made her start, and brought a deeper colour to her cheek. She hastily took up her work; but had not added a single stitch to the “pearling” she was embroidering, ere David Stratton stood beside her.

“Mistress Alison, I hae twa or three things to say to ye; hae ye time to hear me?” he asked, in tones which showed that the gentleness and deference with which he always addressed her were mingled in this instance with a shade of embarrassment.

“There’s nothing to hinder, that I ken,” said Alison, glancing at her work. “Isabel’s in the wool-room, sorting wool for the lasses to spin.”

David drew nearer the carved oak chair in which Alison sat. They formed rather a striking contrast. Alison wore a kirtle of fine taffetas of a deep full blue; a silken snood of the same colour edged with silver confined her rich dark hair; and seldom did the bright cold sunshine of March rest on a more graceful form or a fairer face than hers. David was dressed in a maud, or rough gray overcoat, and buskins of untanned leather, which were splashed here and there with mud. The wind had been dealing rather rudely with his brown hair, and his honest and manly, though not handsome face, was flushed with exercise. Thus much the eye could take in at a glance; there were other things, not so apparent, but of deeper significance. In _her_ countenance there was a kind of surface quiet and repose, but underneath this all was restless, and fear and anxiety flowed on in dark waves; in _his_ there was momentary agitation, as if he had just heard some disturbing tidings, but beneath the disturbance there was a settled calm, telling that his soul dwelt habitually in a peace no outward agitation could destroy.

“I hae ridden hame this morn, and I’m but just back again,” he began, in his rather abrupt way.

“Nae need to tell that,” Alison could not help saying, with a quick glance at the mud on his boots. Little heed would she have given to such trifles, had she guessed the thoughts that were occupying his mind.

“I fand there ane young man, familiar to the Laird o’ Dune, wha was speiring after me.”

“Weel?” said Alison, rather wondering what this would come to.

“He brought me tidings;—Mistress Alison, I maun gang my ways, I daur bide here nae langer.”

Alison’s colour changed rapidly from red to pale, and from pale again to red. “But what danger threatens you?” she asked quickly.

“Ye ken that unco weel yersel,” answered David.

“Oh, but they darena touch a gentleman, a laird’s brother”—yet the lips that uttered these confident words were growing white with terror.

“Na, na, Mistress Alice,” said David gently, but with great earnestness, “ye mauna stay yersel on what’s no _true_. Maister Patrick Hamilton was better than a laird’s brither, he was Abbot o’ Ferne; and forbye that, he had the best bluid o’ Scotland in his veins; yet ye ken they brent him to ashes at the stake. But the guid Lord is aboon them a’; gin it’s his will to save me alive, a’ the kirkmen in Scotland canna touch a hair o’ my head; gin it’s his will I suld dee, his holy will be done!”

“But why do ye say sic’ awful things?”

“Because I’m _warned_, Mistress Alice; Erskine sent his servant to warn me. He hath had certain tidings that the Prior and the Bishop o’ Ross (God forgie them) ’ill no rest till they finish their wark. Sae I maun just gang awa’.”

“Do no such thing,” interrupted Alison hastily. “Bide here, Maister David. There’s no place in Scotland sae safe for ye as the laird yer brither’s castle.”

“Ay, but then there’s Geordie. Gin folk begin to speir after heretics at Lauriston Castle, it’s like they wadna end wi’ David Stratton. And that’s why I darena quit the country, lest the blame might fall whaur it suldna, and better men pay the wyte for me.”

“Ye’re no right there,” said Alison eagerly, almost sharply. “Ilka man should fend for himself. Forbye, there are others as deep or deeper than you in it, David. What have ye done mair than John Erskine o’ Dune? Yet he bides safe and siccar—”

“And God keep him safe and siccar, for the sake of a’ that love his name in this puir country. Mistress Alice, when first I kenned the Lord, I was sair fashed wi’ mysel for a’ my foolery anent the Prior’s tithe. But noo I’m richt sure it was God himsel let a’ that be. Gin it hadna been for that, I might hae never learned his truth ava’; and forbye, it’s unco weel the bishops suld misdoot a simple man like me, and hunt me down for a thing like that, or wha kens but they might be doing waur?—Aiblins speiring after Geordie, or Erskine o’ Dune, or that braw young scholar—”

“O David, dinna say such words!”

But her tones, though just a little reproachful, were very low and quiet; and he did not see her face—she had veiled it with her hand. Else surely he would not have gone on—“For the folk wha hae got lear can do sae muckle for the Lord. He canna spare sic’ as thae. He has sair need o’ them to speed his wark here, and to tell ither folk about him. But I’m aye unco slow wi’ my tongue; sae I think, an’ the guid Lord wad let me suffer for him, it wad be just the best—Wae’s me! what hae I done? Alice—_dear_ Alice!”

For Alison could no longer either restrain or conceal the anguish his words inflicted. Did David know _what_ he was doing? There he stood, cold and calm, reasoning about that, to her, dim abstraction he called “the Truth,” and the best way in which its interests might be forwarded, while his own life—his precious life—was an item in the calculation. A mere figure, a something to be carried to this side or that, to be preserved or blotted out, as best might help to produce the wished-for result! To her this indifference seemed horrible. If, in her bitter pain, she could have found words at all, those words would have been, “You care not for yourself, but care you nothing for me?” But words would not come, only tears, and low choking sobs.

David Stratton soothed her with a tenderness of which few would have believed him capable. Not now indeed, but often during the long after years, Alison confessed to herself that it was worth while to have shed some tears and suffered some pain, in order to be comforted thus, and to win such words and looks from that silent, undemonstrative nature.

When she grew calmer, he said remorsefully, “I hae done wrang to say sic’ things. For ye ken, a’s no tint that’s in danger. The king’s aboon the bishops, and our King Jamie makes na muckle count o’ kirkmen. But I lippen a’ to the guid Lord, and Alice, ye maun just do the same.”

“But I canna, David. I’m no like you.”

“Ye haud the Truth, Alice?—ye love the guid Lord Jesus?” The two questions were asked in a quick, eager whisper, and without any pause between, as if they were indeed but one.

Alice answered slowly and sadly, perhaps reluctantly, “I haud what you taught me, David. I dinna pray to saints, I dinna believe in purgatory, I dinna think our ain works can save our souls. But all that doesna make it an easy thing to dee, or—whilk is waur—to see ithers dee.”

What David Stratton felt at that moment came nearer the bitterness of death than anything he had ever known before. “Alice”—he began; but his broad chest heaved with emotion, and for some time the words struggled in vain for utterance. “Alice,” he said at length, stretching out his hand to her—“Alice, forgie me; for I misdoot sair I hae done an ill pairt by ye. I suld hae bided awa’. I suld hae never seen yer face again (though it’s dearer, God wot, than heaven’s ain licht to me!)—that were better far than to drag ye down into a’ this grief and dole. No that it’s dole to me, but for the thocht o’ _you_, Alice. But is it owre late yet to say good-bye—God speed ye—forget a’ that’s been between us?”

Alison rose calm and pale, and put her small hand into his. There was a light in her dark eyes, and her voice, though low and quiet, had no trembling in its tones. “David Stratton,” she said, “it _is_ owre late. There be some gifts that can never be taken back; and of such I hae given you. No that I’m wae for that. Gif I could, I would not be again the merry lass I was ere I kenned you, David. I—I—canna say mair on’t, but take that thought with you through all that may happen to us baith. Whatever God sends, you shall hear no murmur frae my lips. But pray for me, for I wot weel I havena your faith.”

David Stratton did not exaggerate his own danger. But the fear of involving others in the same peril made him deaf to his brother’s affectionate, and under the circumstances really generous entreaties that he would still remain a guest at the castle. On the following morning he returned to his own secluded residence on the sea-coast, intending to live there, in as private a manner as he could, until the storm either broke or blew over.

Isabel tried hard to console her young cousin, and to persuade her that all would yet end happily. David had powerful friends, she said; the Strattons stood well with the king, and he would never allow the kirkmen to proceed to extremities against one of the name. “It was not to be denied,” she added, “that David had advanced very strange opinions, and been very imprudent in his conduct; but yet—”

Here Alison indignantly interrupted her. “Ye’ve no right to say that, Isabel. Gif Maister David makes sma’ count of this world, it’s because he’ll hae a better portion in the world to come than you or I, or aebody else. His faith in God is just wonnerful; it’s nigh the grandest and noblest thing I hae ever seen. But wae’s me!” she added, in an altered tone, “why might we no have been left to live and die in peace like other folk? Wherein have we offended, that all this should come upon us?—I wot weel _he_ would say, ‘God’s will be done.’ But oh, Isabel, _my heart_ willna say it!—at least, no yet.”

VII. =Voices in the Cloud.=

“Thanks for the little spring of love, That gives me strength to say, If they will leave me part in Him, Let all things pass away.” A. L. WARING.

VII. =Voices in the Cloud.=

Three months after that sunny March morning, the young Master of Lauriston rode one day to the gate of his uncle’s dwelling, usually called Stratton House. This was a rude building, half castle, half farmstead, erected by some Stratton of a former generation, who having quarrelled with the laird of his time, chose to lead a life of independence in his own abode. It was situated on a hill, and close to the sea-shore; and many a time from the narrow windows had David watched his little ship as it struggled with the breakers; oftener still, in the gray morning light, had he trod the rough footway to the beach, prepared for a cruise along the coast of Angus, half for business and half for pleasure. Or after such an expedition, he had landed there, bringing with him his troop of swarthy, sunburnt fishermen, to drink huge flagons of double ale, and to fill the gloomy hall with their rough merriment. But these days were passed now, passed for ever. At the time of George’s visit, all within the house was still and silent. David was busy superintending the concerns of his little farm, and the servants were assisting him in the field work. He perceived, however, the approach of his guest, and quickly came to meet him, soiled and heated, but with a face beaming with pleasure.

“Eh, but I’m unco blythe ye’ve come, lad: guid day to ye. Here, Jock,” addressing a boy who had followed him from the field, “tak’ young Maister’s horse.”

George warmly grasped his uncle’s extended hand, and then followed him into the hall, which presented a rather bare and comfortless appearance, having scarcely any furniture but a long table and some benches and settles by the wall. He was pressed to take a cup of sack, a draught of French wine (his father’s present), or even a horn of ale, with other more substantial refreshments, but he declined, promising to wait for the evening meal.

After some little conversation on indifferent subjects, he drew out his precious New Testament, saying, “I think ye wad scarce give me a welcome without this, uncle.”

David’s blue eyes kindled with eagerness; then a shade of sorrow crossed his face, and he said mournfully, “Gin I had to live owre again, I wad tak’ tent, and get book lear while I might, and no be like yon puir cripple at the pool o’ Bethesda, wha had to lie there his lane the haill day lang, and see ither folk gang in and get the blessing, a’ because he couldna fend for himsel, and there was naebody by that wad fend for him, for the love o’ God.”

“But then, uncle, ye ken the Lord Jesus did the wark _himsel_, with ane word of his mouth. It was He wha gave the waters their power to heal, sending his angel to trouble them. An’ if he pleased, he could heal just as well without them.”

“Oh ay, Geordie, I ken what ye’re ettling after.[36] Folk might read yer wee book frae ane end to the ither, and no be the wiser, gin the guid Lord didna speak himsel to their ane hearts the while. When it’s his will to speak, he can do it, an’ he pleases, but book, or priest, or sacrament. For he’s the Lord.”

“That’s owre true, uncle.”

“Ay, but ye’ve no a chance to learn _how_ true, sin’ ye dinna stan’ as I do, like a wrecked seaman on a bit rock, between life and death as a man might say.”

George looked at his uncle in some surprise. Never from the lips of David Stratton had friend or foe heard words of complaint before. He had always made light of danger; almost too light, George had often thought. He answered, with a smile, “It’s time I suld come to speir after you, uncle. I think ye have bided your lane owre lang.”

“Na, it’s no that, Geordie. No that I wadna be blythe to see ye ony day, lad; for yer ain sake, and for the book ye aye bring wi’ ye. But I’m no my lane here ava’. What wi’ the lads and the lasses, and the fisherfolk, there’s enoo to tell the Lord’s love to, and mony’s the hour I spend in the house or the field, or by the sea-shore, just talking wi’ Him. Geordie lad, I kenned him first as the Saviour—the guid Lord that deed for me. But forbye that, I hae come to ken him noo as my ain, anely friend, wha can read off ilka bit thocht or trouble in the heart as easy as you can read thae wee crooked marks in your book.”

“But for a’ that, uncle, are ye no cast down and sorrowfu’ whiles?”

“No that sorrowfu’ Geordie. This life’s no sae lang, nor sae guid either, that a man suld sit down and greet for it, like a bairn wha hae tint a play-toy.”

“But methinks ye’ve no tint all yet, even for this life?”

David’s brow was mournful, though his blue eyes were full of light, as he answered, “Do ye no mind the story ye hae tald me ainst o’ the great King and the puir man, Geordie? The king (David mixed the allegory and its application together)—the king had graith and plenishing and gear enoo, and braw flocks and kye, the puir man had naebut ane wee lambie.” Here his voice failed, and a few moments passed before he was able to resume. “I hae never cared for onything as I care for _her_. And noo, it’s no like I’ll ever see her face again, till we stand thegither at the judgment-seat o’ Christ. But that’s no the waurst to bear. Aft and aft hae I cried shame on mysel for a feckless tentless coof. Why could I no haud my peace and bide my time? What gared me turn my face to Lauriston ava’, quhill that she was there? Gin trouble suld come to me, its nae wonner, I hae done enoo to earn it, owre and owre again. And I thank the Lord I can thole it, thro’ his guid grace. But God help me! I canna thole the thocht o’ her sorrow.” David’s head was bowed upon his hands, and his face was hidden from sight.

“God will help thee, uncle. He hears prayer,” George said compassionately, almost tenderly.

“Hears prayer! I wad ye, lad, he does, or I’d hae gane clean daft ere this. But it’s ill to ken what a man suld pray for whiles. When it’s naebut mysel that’s in it, it’s a’ plain enoo.” His head was raised now, and his eyes shone through the tears that had gathered in them. “Sma’ matter what he gies, or what he taks awa’, sin’ he has gien me his ainsel. And his ‘loving-kindness is better than the life itself; my lips shall praise him.’ Gin I could, I wadna wale to turn ane step frae the gait he has markit for me. For weel I wot, that I’d tyne mair than I’d win by that. I’m just in his guid hand, and there’s nae better place to be in a’ the muckle warld.”

“And Alison?” asked George gently, “is not she there too, in the same guid care and keeping?”

“Nae doot of it,” answered David, who, fortunately for himself, was too simple-minded to doubt that Alison’s clear intellectual perception of the truth was accompanied by genuine faith and love. “Still I canna just mak’ it out. It’s no that easy to trust the Lord wi’ her. Mony’s the time I pray that he wad gie her a bit portion _here_, as weel as in the guid hame aboon—a wee bit joy or comfort, ye ken, even for this puir life. But it’s a’ dark; I canna see ane glint before me, or bring to my mind what he thinks to do wi’ her ava’.”

“Uncle,” said George, slowly and reverently, “he loves her mair than you do.”

Wonder and incredulity mingled in the gaze David bent on him; but after a time these passed away, changing gradually into a full content, calmer than common joy and deeper than earthly gladness. His silence was long; ere he spoke again his ear had caught the sound of footsteps and voices outside, but he heard them as one in a dream, a happy dream, from which he would not willingly be awakened.

“Ye’re richt, lad,” he said at length. “Unco hard it seemed to me to think there _could_ be love mair deep and true than mine. Fule that I was for that! For I ken in my ain heart, just a wee bit, what his love is and can be; and kenning that, whaur I trust my ain soul I can trust my soul’s treasure too, God helping me.” And he stopped, overcome by the fear and shame that so often seizes upon reserved natures when betrayed by strong emotion into unwonted self-utterance.

It was only too easy for George to turn the conversation. Not quite so absorbed as his uncle, outward things had been making rather more impression upon him. “Is it your wont, uncle, to have guests at Stratton House?” he asked, with a glance towards the little window.

“Aiblins it’s the fisher folk,” answered David. “Tho’ that’s no like to be; the boatie suld be unco far by this, maist awa’ to Arbroath.” But he rose and walked quickly towards the door, followed by George, whose curiosity was excited by the arrival of strangers in a place so remote and difficult of access.

Both involuntarily recoiled for a moment from the scene that met their view. The yard seemed filled with armed men, dressed in “jacks” or stout buff leather jerkins, and with steel caps on their heads and spears in their hands. They had entered unchallenged, for the servants were all absent at their work in the fields, and had left wide open the substantial “yetts,” which, if closed, might have been defended for a considerable time even against overwhelming odds. But no one dreamed of danger then. No one knew, that while David Stratton walked quietly by the sea-shore, holding sweet communion with Him whom having not seen he loved, or spoke of Him in simple strong words to his poor farm-servants and fishermen, two such important personages as the Prior of St. Andrews and the Bishop of Ross, assisted by other Churchmen of less degree, had been taking grave counsel together as to the best means of apprehending so dangerous a heretic. They had come to the conclusion that the business required careful management, as a desperate resistance might be looked for from the reckless and daring Stratton of Stratton. Like other great Churchmen of the day, the Prior maintained a number of armed men at his own expense and on his own account. A troop of these “jackmen,” as they were called, were accordingly destined to this service, supposed to be one of danger; and they were purposely placed under the command of a certain Halbert of the Hirst, cousin to that “black Will” whom David once stabbed in a quarrel in Dundee. It was with this man that he now stood face to face, with an instant consciousness of his errand and of all its terrible import. How often do the great moments of our lives steal upon us thus with noiseless footsteps! We may have been watching long for some great joy or sorrow with strained eyes and parted lips; but at last there comes an unguarded hour, when weary lids close unconsciously, and mind and body are at rest, and then, just then, expectation becomes reality, and the very event for which we watched and waited takes us by surprise.

Thus it was that, while a man might count twenty, David stood amazed and silent before Halbert of the Hirst, who briefly and rudely explained his errand, at the same time showing his warrant for the apprehension of the excommunicated heretic. But in another moment Stratton of Stratton was himself again. Not in vain, after all, had he anticipated this solemn hour.

“I’m fain to gang wi’ ye,” he answered, calmly and simply; “and I thank my God I’m no feart to answer for his truth the day.”

Here George interposed impetuously; entreating Halbert to come with him to Lauriston Castle, and promising that, if he did so, his father the Laird would give ample securities for his uncle.