Adam Hepburn's Vow: A Tale of Kirk and Covenant. Annie S. Swan
knew them safe with me, Edward, and I thought that the events of to-morrow might, please God, make an impression on their young minds which time would never efface. And the Kirk, I am thinking, will need both old and young to stand firm in her defence ere she be crowned and blessed with liberty," said the minister, with a sigh.
"You speak the truth, Andrew," replied the merchant, soberly. "Well, I will take Roger to his stall and see that he is rubbed down and fed. Do you take the bairns upstairs: you know the way."
The minister nodded, and taking his boy and girl by the hand, led them up the dark close and into a low doorway, which, unless he had been familiar with the way, would have been difficult to find.
Aunt Jean heard their steps on the stair, and presently appeared on the landing with a candle.
"Bless me! Andrew Gray, is that the bairns all the way from the manse of Inverburn?" she exclaimed, her motherly heart warming at sight of them.
"Even so, Jean. There will be room and welcome for them as well as for their father under this roof-tree," answered the minister. "Edward tells me you are well; and, truly, you look it."
"Oh, ay, I am well in body!" she answered, blithely, and stooping she lifted the little Agnes in her motherly arms, and affectionately kissed her cheeks. "Eh, Andrew, this bairn's her mother's living image. How is Ailie and Jane, and that stirring laddie, Andrew? Why did you leave him at home?"
"His master could not spare him, being busy preparing the ground for the seed," replied the minister. "It was a sore disappointment to the lad. He has a constant craving for something new."
By this time they had entered the wide and comfortable kitchen, where the log-fire burned merrily, casting its ruddy glow on the hospitable board spread for the expected guest. A wooden cradle stood in the warmest corner by the ingle-neuk, wherein slept peacefully the one child of the household, a babe of eight months, and the first which had blessed their hearth and home since their marriage, five years before.
The little Agnes looked very long and earnestly into her aunt's face, never remembering having seen her before.
Mrs. Kilgour had been married out of the manse of Inverburn, at which time Agnes was only four years old, but she had never visited it since, and had only once seen her brother's wife, when she accompanied her husband to Edinburgh on his being appointed to represent the Presbytery of Lanark at the General Assembly. Travelling in these days was very slow and laborious, and not unaccompanied by dangers on the roads, owing to the disturbed and unprotected state of the country.
"Ay, but she is like her mother, Andrew," repeated Mrs. Kilgour, as she stooped to unfasten the child's cloak. "She has her very een; may the spirt of the bairn be her mother's likewise! And this is David! He is greatly grown. I would hardly have known him again! Dearie me, what changes time works on bairns, as on other things!"
"You are right, Jean. How has business been prospering with you throughout the winter?"
"We cannot complain of the measure of prosperity the Lord has vouchsafed to us," Andrew answered Mistress Kilgour. "Edward has had to employ another young lad to help him in his work and still is hard-pressed; but here he comes himself to tell you all about it."
The merchant now entered the kitchen, and hung up his hat on the peg behind the door. Now that the light shone upon him, it revealed a short and somewhat stout figure, clad in homely grey, a broad kindly face adorned by a short brown beard, and made peculiarly expressive by the twinkling of a pair of merry, blue eyes.
He was a Lanark man by birth, but had come to Edinburgh to try his fortunes, and by steady well-doing and shrewd business capacity was likely to succeed.
"And how are they all at Inverburn? Come, tell me about every man, woman, and child in the parish, Andrew," said the merchant. "It's like a gliff of the heather-scented wind to look upon your faces, bairns, and to think you were reared in the shade of the birks of Inverburn!"
The merchant spoke lightly, but a tear started in his honest eye, as he lifted Agnes on his knee, and drew David to his side.
"'Deed they must have something to eat first, Edward, my man," interrupted Mistress Kilgour. "Come, bairns, to your milk and bread. It's no like the milk and home-made scones at the manse, but it's the best I have, an' ye get it wi' Auntie Jean's kind, kind love."
They drew in their chairs to the table, and after the minister had asked a fervent blessing on the board, they ate with a will, for their mode of travelling had given them all appetites.
"You are never asking for our bairn, Andrew," said the fond mother slily, when presently the little one stirred slightly in its cradle.
"Truly I forgot, Jean," said the minister, with a smile; "and yet it was among Ailie's last messages--sympathy and love to you about the little one. God grant she may grow up a blessing to you both."
The little Agnes presently slipped from her chair, and, stealing over to the cradle, looked in upon the smiling face of the infant. Her own was suffused with a glow of tender wondering pleasure, which made her aunt look at her again. And when, presently, Mistress Kilgour lifted the child, Agnes kept close by her side, as if the babe were a magnet from which she could not separate herself.
The conversation during supper turned chiefly upon topics connected with the parish of Inverburn, in which both the merchant and his wife were deeply and affectionately interested, for, though they had built up a home in Edinburgh, their hearts were knit to their native glen in the bonds of a deep, enduring love.
While she cleared the table, Mistress Kilgour entrusted the babe to Agnes, who sat on a low stool holding the precious burden in her arms, with a mixture of love, rapture, and pride glorifying her face. Shortly thereafter, it being near eight of the clock, Mistress Kilgour made down beds for the children in the adjoining room, and they retired to rest. Then their elders drew up their chairs to the hearth, and began to speak in low, troubled, anxious tones, telling that the topic was one of vital interest, of terrible importance to them all. Before they separated for the night, the minister read a portion from Scripture, and then they knelt to pour out their hearts' desires before the Lord. The tones of Andrew Gray's voice trembled sore as he prayed with passionate earnestness that the arm of the Almighty would be about the tottering Church of Scotland, and that strength might be given to her people to stand up fearlessly in defence of her liberty and purity, ay, even though they should be required to seal their faithfulness with their blood.
"To-morrow will be a great day for Scotland," he said when he rose to his feet. "Either it will be the beginning of peace or the beginning of many sorrows for God's people. It is in times like these we feel the need of prayer, of constant and pious humbling of ourselves before Jehovah. There is that within me, my friends, which forewarns me that we are about to be visited by fierce and terrible temptations and dispensations. Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall."
Awed by the prophetic earnestness with which their kinsman spoke, the merchant and his wife spoke not, but silently bade him good night. Andrew Gray retired to his own chamber, but not to sleep. He sat long by the uncurtained window, looking out upon the city slumbering peacefully under the fitful February moonlight, as if all unconscious of the issues of the coming day.
During the silent watches of the night the minister of Inverburn wrestled in prayer for Scotland's Church and people, that they might be upheld and kept faithful in the tumults of the struggle to come.
CHAPTER II.
A NATION'S TESTIMONY.
Chill and grey broke the morning of that memorable day over the city of Edinburgh. The inmates of Edward Kilgour's household were early astir, and the elder folk partook of breakfast by candlelight.
"I suppose your place of business will be closed to-day?" said the minister enquiringly to his brother-in-law.
"Yes; there will be little business done to-day, I fancy, except by the taverns and other places of like resort, which must be open to supply refreshments to the many strangers," replied Edward Kilgour. "There will be a goodly number of Inverburn folks in this morning?"