“I bring my guilt to Jesus,
To wash my crimson stains,
White in his blood most precious,
Till not a spot remains.”
Rev. H. Bonar
Other eyes were wakeful that night, and other minds were busy, upon Master David Stratton’s account. The Lady of Lauriston, as we are already aware, had set her heart upon bringing about a reconciliation between him and her husband. She did not anticipate much difficulty with the Laird, over whom she possessed almost unbounded influence. And even without her interference, he would probably have speedily regretted his quarrel with a brother to whom he was really attached; and the rather because of the dangers and difficulties of David’s present position. His wife’s persuasions, therefore, combined with his own relentings, soon brought him to a state of mind to hear with much thankfulness of the mission George had undertaken in the capacity of peace-maker.
“But it’s na use,” he answered, with a desponding shake of the head. “I ken Davie unco weel; he’s that stubborn, a man might cut him in twa, and no gar him turn frae his ain gait.”
“Leave him to me,” said the lady in reply.” I ken for sure he came back with George last night, for I heard his foot as he gaed to his chalmer; and ye’ve but to keep still, Andrew, and to speak him fair, when I bring him into the hall to breakfast, as, the saints helping me, I’ll try to do. Speak him fair anent his kine or his boat, or his braw new house that he’s plenishing in Dundee — onything ye list but the kirkmen and the cursing.”
“And yer bonnie cousin Alison, that he’s like to tyre for his foolery?” asked the Laird, with a smile.
“Ay, Laird, that were best left to me too. Weel as ye think ye ken Maister David,” she added after a pause, “I ken him better. He’s a dour chield, and unto stubborn, but he’s manful; and it’s a Lang gait he wadna gang for the man or the woman he truly loves. And he loves Alison Lindsay.”
“And she — what of her, Isabel?”
“Tut, Laird; ye mauna be speering owre mony questions. I’m not my cousin’s father confessor.”
“Yell be plainer with David, I hope.”
“No need for that. He that loves can understand what is but half spoken.” And Lady Isabel could not be induced to explain herself farther.
The Laird’s question, however, was a very natural one; nor was the fact that Alison Lindsay had been promised by her father to David Stratton in reality any answer to it, for everyone knows that the sacrifice of a girl’s inclinations to the interest or convenience of her kinsfolk was a matter of daily occurrence in those rough times. David was ten years older than his intended bride; he was neither very handsome nor very rich, and he was greatly her inferior in refinement and cultivation — for both Isabel and her young cousin had received their education in a convent, where, besides the peculiarly feminine art of skilful embroidery in its various branches, they were carefully initiated into the mysteries of reading and writing; and were, in fact, for their time, well educated if not accomplished women. Yet, in spite of all this, Alison Lindsay did return David Stratton’s affection. If a reason should be asked, it may perhaps be rendered (strange as this may appear) in the very words by which the Lady Isabel described her brother-in-law’s character: “He’s a dour chield, and unto stubborn; but he’s manful” As men admire nothing so much in women as perfect womanliness, so women, even the gentlest, usually admire manliness in men more than any other characteristic. In Alison’s eyes, “Maister David Stratton of Stratton” was a hero; nor need we pause to inquire whether or not he was transfigured by her imagination into something essentially different from what he really was; it is enough to have stated the fact, that the life of this rude, obstinate, daring gentleman of Angus was far more precious in the eyes of someone else than it was in his own.
Without a great deal of difficulty, George succeeded the next morning in detaining his uncle until the Lady Isabel appeared. Purposely abstaining from any allusion to what had passed the night before, he sought to while away the time by conversation upon indifferent subjects. Amongst other things, he chanced to ask what had become of a favorite bay mare, which he had been wont to ride when he came to Lauriston. David told him, with some regret, that he had sold her before Pasche, being then anxious for a sum of money to complete the purchase of his new house in Dundee.
George asked who had bought her; perhaps thinking the mare a safer subject of conversation than the house, which he well knew had been destined by his uncle for the reception of his bride.
“Wae’s me!” answered David; “wha suld buy her but John Erskine o’ Dune. Mair’s the pity! Owre guid for him to hae sic a bonny beast to carry him, wi’ a’ his outlandish nonsense.”
But George’s face brightened wonderfully at the mention of John Erskine’s name.
“Then you’re acquaint with the Laird of Dune, uncle?” he asked. “As weel as I’m like to be. Leeze me on a man wi’ a guid Scot’s tongue in his head, forbye a guid Scot’s heart in his bosom, and tak a’ yer newfangled outland folk.”
“There’s no truer Scottish heart in all the realm than that of John Erskine of Dune!” cried George, unable any longer to keep silence. “Uncle, you know him not. But I pledge ye my word there are few like him. A learned, godly gentleman” — But here he stopped suddenly, recollecting that the praise he was so liberally bestowing on his friend would hardly sound well in his uncle’s ears.
“Oh ay, unco learned, nae doubt. I hae heard he’s gaun to set up a schule at Montrose, to lean the puir bairns Greek, forsooth I Guid wark that for a laird! He’d better hae them taught to put the stane and to shoot at the popinjay, sae he’d hae a chance to make men o’ them, at least.”
George could not help laughing at this representation of the case; but he admitted that the Laird of Dune, was endeavouring to found an academy at Montrose for the study of Greek, being anxious that the intelligent youth of his native land should learn to read the word of God in the language in which it is written. “For he loves the word of God with his haill heart,” said George. “And I ken no one who understands it so weel. He hath expounded mony things unto me.”
Here the entrance of the Lady Isabel put a stop to the conversation. It will be easily seen that a woman like the Lady of Lauriston was sure to come off victorious from any verbal encounter with a man like David Stratton. But beside all other advantages, she had a powerful though silent ally in the piece of folded paper she held in her hand. Alison Lindsay’s letter was indeed no more than a quaint and rather formal appeal to her “loving cousin,” asking her to entreat the Laird to take into his service a certain old retainer of the Lindsays, “muckle Sawney Gordon,” who had been so unfortunate as to displease one of her hot-headed young brothers. But then there was a brief postscript, which ran thus: —
“Shoulde Maister Stratton come unto Lauriston, it were as weall to tell him that all his friendis, and they that were his friendis, merveille at his temeritie, or rather proude rashnesse. For his soule’s wealle, no to say for that of his temporal! Estaite, entreate him to reconseille himselfe to Holie Kirke, quhill as yett thane is tyme.”
Perhaps the words might have seemed cold and harsh, had not Isabel shown David the paper upon which they were written. It was blotted with tears. He took it in his hand, and held it there for one moment, his strong fingers closing over it with a nervous grasp, and trembling as they closed. Then he silently gave it back, rose from his seat, and strode across the room.
When he reached the door, he paused, as if in doubt Lady Isabel took advantage of his momentary irresolution; she had something still to say which he could not choose but hear. She told him quietly she had long been desirous to receive a visit from her cousin Alison, as she knew the motherless girl was often lonely in her father’s house; and that she thought she could overrule any objection her relatives might make to her coming to Lauriston. Should this plan succeed, Maister David would have many opportunities of pleading his own cause, and it would be very much his own fault if he did not turn them to good account. She did not say, but she hinted, that in reality one thing, and only one, was necessary in order to the accomplishment of all his desires — and that was his reconciliation with the Church.
In the meantime, he could not but feel — and he did feel — that the Lady of Lauriston was his warm and true friend. As might have been anticipated under the circumstances, his quarrel with the Laird terminated speedily. No formal reconciliation took place, nor did many words pass between them; but both were willing to bury their last night’s altercation in oblivion; and Isabel obtained her wish, and saw David seated by her side at the table in the great hall, to partake of their substantial morning meal.
The brothers spent the day in hunting, accompanied by a party of the Laird’s retainers, and by George, whose studies did not indispose him for manly sports and exercises.
On the following morning, however, David asked his nephew if he had not some good falcons, and proposed that they two should go out hawking together. George, who was not particularly fond of the pastime of falconry, consented, at first rather unwillingly, then joyfully and eagerly, as he began with trembling hope to guess the wish that prompted his uncle’s request. They set out, with falcons on their wrists, but declining the attendance of the Laird’s falconer or of his assistant. And when they reached a quiet place in the fields, David, without a word, hooded his falcon and sat down, motioning George to do the same.
Then he said, in a low but eager voice, “Hae ye brought yer book, callant?”
George produced it.
“Read me mair o’ you blind man the guid Lord Jesus speered after.”
“There’s no more told of him,” said George.” The last thing is this: He said, Lord, I believe. And he worshipped him.”
“And does the Book no tell us gin the guid Lord gied him shrift or pardon? For I mind weel the kirkmen cast him out, and wad hae naething to do wi’ him. Not ane priest or friar amang them a’ wad hear his confession, I wad ye.”
“What I hae read ye tells us all. He believed on the Lord Jesus Christ; and he who thus believes is pardoned, whether the priests say it or no.”
“How do ye ken that?” asked David, with a wondering look.
By way of reply George read the 3rd of John, adding from time to time such brief explanations as he thought necessary, and in particular telling, very simply and clearly, the story of the brazen serpent.
So still and silent was the listener, that George almost feared he had fallen asleep. He was undeceived, however, when, drawing a deep breath and fixing his eyes upon him with a look of intense interest, David asked, “But what can a man do wha has been a muckle sinner a’ his life?”
“I have told you, uncle. Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ.”
“That’s unco weel for douce honest folk. But I hae stuck Black Will o’ the Hirst wi’ my whinger.”
“Gif ye had done waur than that, uncle, still the Lord Jesus wad forgive ye, and wad be blythe to do it. See, I will tell ye — ” and he found the 23rd of Luke, intending only to read the story of the dying thief; but he read instead the whole of the grand and touching narrative in which it is set, like a gem in a diadem of gold. “And thus,” said George Stratton, “ He suffered for our sins, the just for the unjust, that He might bring us to God.’
For He himself bare our sins in his own body on the tree.’”
“Bare our sins? — dinna just tak’ ye up, Geordie.”
“Though you stuck Black Will with yer whinger, the Lord Jesus ‘ll pay the wyte. On the Cross, with his ain bluid, he paid the wyte for all our sins. And ye’ve nought to do, but just to plead what he has done with the Lord Almighty, and to take the guid comfort of it to yer ain heart.”
“Oh, Geordie — Geordie, lad — it’s owre guid — it canna be — ” David’s voice was trembling with emotion.
“But it’s true, uncle; I could find ye mony other places in God’s book that tell the same.”
David was silent for a moment or two, then he said, very seriously, “George, my lad, I’m right siccer ye wadna deceive me, for ye ken I lippen to ye. But I’m no that siccer ye mightna be misled yersel, for ye’re but a haflins callant, wi’ a’ yer book leas. And I’d gie a’ the wand just to find the truth. But wae’s me! wha’s to tell it? The priests are a pack o’ misleared caries themselves; they ken neither new law nor auld, like the puir doited Bishop o’ Dunkeld.”
“The Lord himself will teach you, an’ ye ask him.”
“Wha has taught you?”
“I think He has,” said George reverently, and in a low voice.” But as for men’s teaching, “he added,” it was some of the lectures of Maister Gawin Logic gazed me first think of these things, when I was a determinant at St. Leonard’s College. Afterwards I forgathered with the Laird of Dune, and he gave me this Testament, and told me mony things whilk have helped me to understand it.”
Soon afterwards they returned to the castle.
David was unusually silent and thoughtful during the rest of the day; and, to the surprise and regret of his brother, and still more of his nephew, he announced his intention of leaving them the next morning. Having remonstrated in vain against this decision, they asked him where he intended to go.
He hesitated a little, then said: “Weel, to be plain, it’s a’ anent my bonny bay mare — fool that I was to part wi’ her. I’m sair wirried wi’ you puir beastie, that’s nae mair fit for a gentleman than ony aver ye’d tak’ free the pleugh. Sae I’ll just gang to Erskine o’ Dune, aiblins he’ll gie me my ain back again.”
The Laird shook his head. “Ye’re no that wise, brother,” he said, “to twine wi’ yer siller the noo.”
And he kindly offered him the use of an excellent horse of his own, saying that Geordie would show him the animal, and could tell his merits from experience.
George, however, evidenced a decided want of alacrity in the business; and being too keenly interested in the proposed visit to the Laird of Dune to behave with his usual tact and readiness, he actually drew upon himself a sharp reproof from his father for his unwillingness to accommodate his uncle. “It sets ye weel,” he said, “wi’ twa guid horses o’ yer ain, to grudge brown Rob to yer uncle. In my day, young folk didna set sic’ store by themsels, and had main thought for their forbears.”
“Leave him his lane, Andrew,” said David, warmly. “He’s a guid lad, is Geordie — nae better between this and the Solway.” A speech that surprised the Laird a little, but pleased him considerably.
So the next morning they parted; David promising soon to revisit his brother, and in the meantime to behave with as much circumspection as he could, and to avoid any course of action calculated to increase the hostility he had provoked. But he would promise no more than this; no did he express the slightest inclination to seek a reconciliation with the Church.