Adam Hepburn's Vow: A Tale of Kirk and Covenant. Annie S. Swan
estate of Inverburn. Andrew Gray had entered it on his marriage, seventeen years before, and was therefore drawing near the expiry of his lease. Having been trained as a practical farmer, he had converted the somewhat poverty-stricken acres into rich and fertile soil. He was a careful, prudent man himself, and, having married Susan Baillie (the daughter of the farmer under whom he had learned his business), one eminently fitted to be a true helpmeet to him in every way, he was a prosperous, and might even be called a rich man.
In disposition he was not nearly so lovable as his brother, the minister of Broomhill. He was by nature rather harsh and stern, and, though his anger was not easily kindled, it was a slow and deadly fire which did not quickly burn out. Had his wife not been of a singularly sweet and amiable temperament, Hartrigge would not have been such a happy, peaceable household as it was. And yet Andrew Gray was a sincerely good man, rather austere in his religious views, perhaps, but ardently attached to the Church of Scotland, and passionately jealous regarding all her ancient privileges. Four children had blessed Hartrigge with the sunshine of their presence--Gavin, the eldest; then Jane, a quiet douce maiden of fourteen; then merry, rattling Sandy; and sweet, winsome, gentle-eyed little Agnes, whom they called Nannie, to distinguish her from her namesake aunt at Rowallan.
Hartrigge was distant about two miles from the manse, the road leading in a southerly direction through rich and beautiful scenery, exquisitely varied by all the changing tints of spring. Here the tender, delicate green of the beech showed in sharp relief against some sombre fir; again the silver buds on the chestnut gleamed side by side with the brighter hue of the larch and the mountain ash. Cowslip and daisy dotted every grassy slope, and the hedgerows already were gleaming white with hawthorn bloom--so early had the summer burst in fragrance on the earth.
About a mile beyond the massive stone gateway which gave entrance to the grounds surrounding the mansion-house of Inverburn, a low white gate shut out intruders from the private road leading to Hartrigge. This familiar barrier Donald took at a bound, and in five minutes afterwards was galloping round the path which cut through the fir wood surrounding the house. It was a substantial dwelling, of plain and sober aspect, befitting its inmates, and, though there was ample garden ground in front, there were no flowers blooming sweetly as in the manse garden. Everything was austerely neat, simple, and plain. Gavin rode the pony round to the kitchen door, and, dismounting, tied the rein to a projecting hook placed in the wall for that purpose. Then he bounded into the house, It was milking-time, and the maids were in the byre (cowhouse), and he knew that his mother would be upstairs putting the younger ones to bed, for everything moved by clockwork in that most methodical of houses. The sound of voices in the ben-end (parlour) proclaimed that his father was giving Jeanie her evening lesson, which Gavin boldly interrupted.
"Grandfather sent me to bid mother and you come to the manse, father," he said, impetuously. "Mr. Guthrie from Stirling is here, and would like to see you. And I am to go to Rowallan and tell Uncle Adam and Aunt Agnes to be ready to drive down with you when you come for them."
Andrew Gray closed his book and rose to his feet, with a gleam of interest brightening his rugged face. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, whose physique was suggestive of giant strength, while his keen, stern black eye and massive jaw indicated an indomitable will. He was plainly dressed in rough homespun, and looked what he was--a substantial, well-to-do Clydesdale farmer.
"Mr. James Guthrie! Surely his coming was not anticipated, Gavin," he said in tones of surprise. "Was your grandfather very pressing? It is somewhat late to leave the house to-night."
"Yes; I believe it is something special, father, and I must away. Well, Jeanie, have you learned to milk Mysie yet?" he added, teasingly, to the quiet-faced little maiden, who was being initiated into all the household ways.
"Yes, I can milk her fine, Gavin, all but the strippings!" she answered, proudly. "Are you going away already?"
At that moment Mrs. Gray, having heard Gavin's voice upstairs, entered the room. She was a comely, pleasant-faced woman, with shrewd, grey eyes, in which shone a kindly, and at times very humorous gleam. She looked very young to be the mother of her tall son, for her figure was well preserved, and even graceful, her cheeks red and bonnie, as they had been in her girlhood. She appeared much pleased to hear of the invitation to the manse, and at once said they could go, for Sandy and Nannie were asleep, and Margaret, the more responsible of the two maids, could very well see to the house in their absence. So after another teasing word to Jeanie, a run upstairs to look at Sandy and Nannie sleeping in their beds, Gavin mounted Donald again, and turned his head into the field-path which led straight to Rowallan.
If Hartrigge was noted for its simplicity and absence of all outer adornments, Rowallan was renowned for the exquisite beauty of its natural situation and surroundings, as well as for the taste with which the little garden was laid out and kept.
Hartrigge stood upon a somewhat bleak and barren hill. Rowallan was sheltered in a cosy hollow, protected on every side from every wind that blew. It also formed a part of the lands of Inverburn, but was considerably smaller in extent than its neighbour.
And yet it had sufficed as a dwelling-place and livelihood for the Hepburns for generations. There had been an Adam Hepburn in Rowallan as far back as the country folk could remember or tell, and an Adam Hepburn of Rowallan had left his ploughshare at the call of patriotism, and had met his death on the fateful field of Flodden; an Adam Hepburn had signed the Covenant at Edinburgh, three-and-twenty years before, and though he was now gathered to his fathers, there was an Adam Hepburn in Rowallan still. True friends and generous foes the Hepburns had ever been, faithful to their plighted word, scorning the very name of meanness or dishonour. A wild, passionate impetuous temper was the family failing, and yet for deeds done, or words spoken in the heat of anger, they were ever ready to make amends. Although Adam Hepburn was married to Agnes Gray, her brother Andrew, at Hartrigge, had never taken kindly to him. Both were good men, and yet there was a strange antipathy between them, and it was better that they should not meet often. There was nothing of rigid solemn austerity about Adam Hepburn, and he often indulged in good-humoured banter against his brother-in-law's solemnity; yet none could have a truer reverence for things divine than Adam Hepburn. Under the gay exterior there was a deeper, more earnest current of feeling, which kept him in the paths of righteousness and peace. Both Uncle Adam and Aunt Agnes were almost worshipped by the young folk at Hartrigge, and also by the little Hepburns, the children of Adam's brother, who was a well-to-do merchant in the town of Lanark. Even manse Donald himself seemed to know and love the way to Rowallan, for he fairly capered and whinnied with delight when he came in sight of the cosy homestead at the foot of its sheltering hill. It was indeed a sweet spot. The house was whitewashed, and built in a low, rambling style, with many a quaint gable and window, about which crept green and lovely creepers, as well as time-honoured honeysuckle and wild-rose. A little lawn in front sloped down to a broad swift-running stream, which had its being in the hill to the east of the house, and which danced merrily over its pebbly bed on its way to join the noble Clyde. In the stillness of the April evening its bosom was broken by many a circling eddy, where the lusty trout leaped up to catch the buzzing insects which hummed in the drowsy air.
Catching sight of his aunt standing in the doorway, Gavin waved his cap, a salutation to which she replied by fluttering her white handkerchief in the breeze. And as if in response to a word from her, her husband joined her outside, and they came slowly along the path to meet the messenger. They were a goodly pair. Adam Hepburn stood six feet in his stockings, and his tall figure was well-built and splendidly proportioned, while his fine head, with its clustering, chestnut curls, was set firmly on his shoulders, giving the idea of strength and resolution as well as manly beauty. His face was sunny, open, and honest as the day; his keen, blue eye, with its humorous gleam, his firm yet tender mouth, redeemed the face from any harshness which the strongly-marked features might otherwise have given. His wife had fulfilled all the gentle promise of her girlhood. She was a sweet, shy, shrinking woman, such as makes the sunshine of home for one, but who is lost sight of in the busier ways of life. She was like the gentle lily-of-the-vale, breathing forth in her quiet life an unseen but exquisite perfume, which shed its influence on all around it. Of her husband's strong, deep, yearning love for her I cannot write; it was the passion of his life, and she was indeed the very desire of his heart and the apple of his eye. And she loved him, if less demonstratively,