“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.
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 quarreled with the laird of his time, chose to lead a lite 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 forever. 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 draft 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 ower again, I wad tak’ tent, and get book tear while I might, and no be like you puir cripple at the pool o’ Bethesda, wha had to lie there his lane the Mill 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 wank 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. Folk might read yer wee book frae ane end to the ither, and no be the wiser, gin the quid 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 ower 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 ower 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 fisher folk, 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 seashore, 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 se Lang, nor se 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 tall 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 brave 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 cool. Why could I no haul 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, ower and ower 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 garie 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 frac the gait he has markit for me. For weel I wot, that I’d tine 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 I” 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 name 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 I” he asked, with a glance towards the little window.
“Aiblins it’s the fisher folk,” answered David. “The’ 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.
But Halbert shook his head. His orders were precise, he said: he was to bring Maister David Stratton, dead or alive, to St. Andrews, and he would not be found wanting in his duty to those that sent him for all the lairds in Scotland, be they who they might.
George would have pleaded further, but David silenced him, saying, “Na, na, Geordie; dinna fash yersel, it’s a’ richt.” Then turning to Halbert, “Ye’ll bait yer horse and tak a drink? You puir lads’ll no be laith for that, seeing the day’s unco het, and it’s a Lang gait up the hill.”
Halbert, however, declined the proffered hospitality, which he feared might cover some snare. His impatience to set out on his way was extreme. He could scarcely believe his own good fortune, in having so easily secured his captive, and every moment’s delay seemed to him fraught with unknown perils of rescue, flight, or evasion.
The farm servants, as yet surprised and curious rather than alarmed, now came running in from all directions.
One of them was immediately desired to saddle a horse for his master, but on no account would Halbert lose sight of the prisoner even for a minute. Perceiving this, David asked George to bring him a little money and a few other necessaries for his journey, giving his directions with a calmness that contrasted strongly with his nephew’s ill concealed agitation.
When George returned, David was already taking a hasty but kind farewell of the perplexed and terrified servants.
Halbert of the Hirst stood a little apart, leaning upon his spear; perhaps he was beginning, in spite of himself, to feel a sort of respect for his captive. George turned towards him, and in a few words bespoke his courtesy and good offices for Maister David, making very free use of the name and influence of the Laird of Lauriston. This was little, certainly, to do for a relative so dear to him, but it was all he could under the circumstances. Then came the parting moment.
David lowered his voice, “Geordie, lad, will ye do me ane kindness the day, for auld lang sync?”
“Onything ye list, uncle.”
“Then stay not―ride quick to Edzell (the family seat of the Lindsays), and tell the tale o’ what has chanced wi’ me. For I’m feart the country folk’ll hae a phrase about it, and mak’ it waur than it is, ten times ower. But I lippen a’ to you, Geordie. Yell do the best ye can, and help and comfort her, for my sake. Tell her God is wi’ mc, and he’ll no leave nor forsake me, even to the end. And I’ll pray day and nicht for her, for thy guid faither and mither, and for thee, Geordie. God bless thee, lad!”
It was no shame to that brave man that he took his young kinsman in his arms, strained him to his heart, and pressed his lips to his. Nor to George that his tears fell fast, and his voice was not calm enough to return his uncle’s blessing. For they were parting beside the grave, and they knew it.
A few minutes afterward George stood alone, watching the soldiers as they marched down the hills, with the sun flashing upon their steel caps and spears. The blow had fallen so suddenly that he could scarcely realize it; yet its very suddenness was, in some respects, a merciful provision. Had there been time and opportunity, the habits of his previous life might so far have prevailed with David Stratton as to induce him to offer some resistance. The manners of the age, and the lawless state of the country would have excused such a course; and, moreover, David might well have felt that, though he owed loyal obedience to “the king as supreme,” he owed none to proud and domineering Churchmen, who, according to their too frequent practice, were taking justice―or injustice―“at their own hand.”
Yet, natural and excusable as a violent resistance might have been, David would have forfeited much thereby. There is great dignity in submission; dignity which the heart feels, even when the reason cannot analyze it. No rebuke is so crushing as that which the apostle addressed to the persecutors of his day, “Ye have condemned and killed the just, and he (loth not resist you.”
And “he who suffers conquers;” that is, he who suffers willingly, patiently, bravely. Victories thus won, silent and often unnoticed though they be, are the best and noblest earth’s trampled battlefield has ever witnessed; nor, however times may change, shall they wholly cease, until He comes who shall bring peace to the nations.