“Know then, my soul, God’s will controls
Whate’er thou fearest;
Round him in calmest music rolls
Whate’er thou hearest.”
Mistress Alison Lindsay sat alone in one of the smaller apartments of Lauriston Castle. She had scarcely moved since Lady Isabel quitted the room, more than an hour before; the cunning “stitch-work,” with which she had been occupied, lay unheeded on the table; her fair face was clouded with care and anxiety, and her large dark eyes, which so often sparkled with merriment, were full of thoughtful sadness, and now and then dimmed with tears.
Alison’s heart was indeed sorely troubled and cast down within her; but why was this? The answer is easy; the same Word that had brought peace and joy to the heart dearest to her on earth, had brought bitter sorrow and perplexity to hers. For the present life, fear and anguish where all had been bright before; for the future, light indeed, but light that disturbed and dazzled, without guiding or cheering the bewildered soul. It perplexed and troubled her that the peace of her little world should have been invaded by these “new doctrines.” The old faith was good enough for her, good enough for her kindred and her friends, and certainly good enough for Maister David Stratton. She knew him ere this strange spell had fallen upon him; she thought him then as brave and bold a gentleman as ever claimed a lady’s hand; and she would not willingly have had him changed. She had been so happy, so content with her lot, envying no one, desiring nothing beyond what she had either in possession or in prospect, when the consequences of David’s perverse quarrel with the Prior fell like a thunderbolt upon her, causing her the first real sorrow she had ever known. Yet even while she blamed, in her heart she half admired his reckless courage and daring. And she never ceased to anticipate a satisfactory termination of the dispute, through the mediation of his friends, and the slow but sure actings of his own good sense.
Great, therefore, was her horror when, upon his late arrival at Lauriston, he committed himself openly to sentiments which put a more formidable obstacle in the way of his reconciliation with the Kirk, than personal quarrels with half the kirkmen in Scotland would have done. Naturally intelligent and thoughtful, she had more definite ideas on the subject of heresy than anyone in the castle, except Sir William Ker. It would not have been possible for her to become, without knowing it, more than half a Protestant, as her less reflective cousin Isabel had already done. She was too well informed upon the tenets of her own faith for this; and besides, she did not possess one of those illogical, though perhaps in some respects happily constituted minds, in which opinions actually inconsistent with each other can remain together as peaceably as the leopard and the lamb will do in the future millennium. She knew only too well that David’s words were heresy; and she believed that heresy meant ruin, both to soul and body. And for life or death, for good or evil, his fate and hers were bound together. She had never loved him half so well, and yet she had never felt half so indignant with him. Nor was her anger unreasonable; since, as she then supposed, it was solely in the pride of his heart, and in his unreasoning wrath against the kirkmen, that he threw himself into that yawning gulf of heresy, thus very nearly committing an actual as well as a spiritual suicide. She did not think that any form of doctrine, as such, could possess much interest or significance for David Stratton. She supposed that in his eyes the errors of the Catholic Faith consisted in its being upheld by such men as the Prior of St. Andrews; and that the charm of the new doctrines might be found in the fact that, if they prevailed, neither priories nor parishes, nor the rents and tithes accruing therefrom, would be left to Patrick Hepburn and Robert Lawson.
But after her first interview with him, she began to feel she had done him an injustice. She could not fail to perceive how marvelously 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 luster; it was a diamond, but a diamond un-illuminated by the sunshine; clear indeed and pure, but cold and colorless. 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 color 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 color 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 color 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 siccax, 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 ioo 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 we 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 worthwhile 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 relucantly, “ 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 idlers 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 light 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 was 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 near no murmur frae my lips. But pray for me, for I wot weel I havens 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 Stratton 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.”