“He came to me in love and my heart broke,
And from its inmost depths there rose a cry,
My Father, oh, my Father, smile on me!”
And the great Father smiled.”
Night and the Soul.
SOME time elapsed before David Stratton fulfilled his promise of revisiting his relatives at Lauriston; nor did they hear much about him during his absence. One winter evening, however, they were all assembled at supper in the great hall; the Laird and his Lady, with her young Cousin Alison―then a guest at the castle, the Master of Lauriston, and the Capellan, Sir William Ker, occupying the upper end of the board; while “below the salt” the numerous retainers of the Laird took their places according to their respective ranks. The sound of horse hoofs, and then the blast of a horn, gave intimation of the approach of a visitor; and in a very short time David Stratton, followed by two or three attendants, strode into the hall.
He was warmly welcomed by the Laird and Lady; and there were others present who, although less demonstrative, were probably no less pleased at his arrival. A seat was soon placed for him at the Lady’s right hand, and the butler despatched for a stoup of the best wine in the laird’s cellar, to improve the cheer and to celebrate his arrival.
All went merrily forward for some time, and every one present seemed in high good humor. There was no lack of conversation; although David was not communicative on the subject of his own proceedings since they parted. He had always enough to say upon the usual country sports and occupations; and, much to the surprise of his hearers, he added upon this occasion several amusing stories of the manners and customs of foreign nations, and particularly those of the French, in whom the Scotchmen of that day took such a lively interest. He said they had been lately told him by a friend, and he retailed them with great spirit, so as to occasion a good deal of harmless merriment. But one thing George particularly noticed, no oath or profane expression of any kind passed his uncle’s lips. Did the presence of Alison Lindsay refine and soften him, or was there any other influence at work?
“Seems to me there’s something no just canny about ye, Davie,” remarked the Laird at last. “Ye couldna talk better, gin ye were as weel traveled a gentleman as holy Friar Scott himsel.”
“Dinna tell me o’ Friar Scott,” said David, with a strong expression of disgust. “Hae ye heard of his cantrips in Edinburgh”
“Oh, ay; I hae heard that he fasted frae meat and drink twa and thirty days―gin it wasna for ane drink o’ cauld water.”
“Lees and clashes!” returned David, very unceremoniously.
Sir William Ker here thought it his duty to interpose; and ventured to reprove Maister David for his skepticism, telling him that Friar Scott’s miraculous fast was, as he himself stated in a sermon preached at the Market Cross, “be helpe of the Virgin Mary,” and ought not therefore to be spoken of lightly.
David answered, with a seriousness that took all present by surprise, that he did not believe the blessed Virgin possessed the power to do what Friar Scott attributed to her; but that if she did, he thought better of her than to suppose she would exercise it for the purpose of enabling a man of notoriously evil character to escape the payment of his just debts.
Upon this Sir William, who had for a long time cordially disliked David, lost his temper, and availing himself of the license usually allowed to those of his profession, even dared to tell the Laird’s brother to his face that he was no better than a heretic and a reprobate.
The Laird fully expected to see David’s whinger spring from his belt, and flash across the table. He looked helplessly towards Isabel, as indeed he was accustomed to do in most of his difficulties, in the expectation that her ready wit would find a way out of them.
In this case, however, her interposition was not necessary. David’s cheek burned, but he answered quietly, “It’s no se wonnerful you should say that, sir priest.”
Perhaps there is no greater test of a gentle nature, or its opposite, than the manner of meeting unexpected forbearance in an antagonist. A gentleman is softened, and repays courtesy with courtesy; a man of vulgar nature regards moderation as a sign of weakness; and presumes accordingly. Sir William thought the usually rude and overbearing Maister David must have some good reason for being afraid of him; he therefore boldly followed up his fancied advantage by requiring him to retract what he called his blasphemy against the blessed Virgin, saying there were present unlearned persons who were scandalized, and might be injured by what he had said.
This second impertinence was too much to bear. David relaxed his strong guard over himself, and answered hastily: “That which I say I never unsay, least of a’ at the bidding of a knave priest.”
“Thou hast thine answer, Sir William,” cried the Laird, with undisguised satisfaction; “so eat thy supper, man, and haud thy tongue.”
But David looked very ill at ease. “you was na answer ava’,” he said at length, and with an evident effort. “Sir William, I pray your pardon.”
The priest would have felt much less astonishment had he struck him in the face. He stared at him in silence, unable to think of a suitable reply, while the Laird muttered, “Hech, sirs! ―what’s got into ye, Davie?”
But Sir William had not tact or common sense enough to make some courteous answer, and then quietly drop the subject. It should perhaps be mentioned in his defense, that he entertained well founded suspicions of the orthodoxy of his patron’s son; and while a due regard for his temporal interests had hitherto prevented his openly attacking the Master of Lauriston, he compounded with his conscience by making as many general demonstrations against heresy as he could in his presence. Besides, Maister David being already excommunicated and under the ban of the Church, it was both meritorious and comparatively safe to attack him. He therefore attempted to “improve the occasion.” His pardon for any personal insult, he said, was granted before it was asked, as he cherished no resentment except against the enemies of Holy Kirk; but he trusted Maister David would ask the forgiveness of the blessed Virgin for what he had presumed to say of her, which he again averred (crossing himself while he spoke) to have been downright blasphemy, and near akin to “the Englishmen’s opinions.” “Thae pestilent heretics,” he continued, “hae even dared to say there’s na sic’ thing ava’ as purgatory.”
“That hae I never said, nor shall I, wi’ the guid help o’ God,” answered David, with a quick glance of his blue eye, but a quiet thoughtful face.
“I’m blythe to hear it,” said the priest; and he cast an unmistakable look of triumph upon George, who, like every one else at the table, was watching his uncle with wander and interest.
But David presently resumed: “I believe in ane purgatory, by the whilk folk are cleansit frae a’ their sins―the’ recious bluid of our Saviour Christ. Forbye,” he added in a lighter tone, “ye may ca’ the troubles o’ this present evil wand a kind o’ purgatory, an’ ye list. But these twa, I ken nae ither.”
George, who for months had thought the same, and yet never dared to utter his thoughts with such boldness, now deeply felt the truth of our Lord’s words, “The first shall be last, and the last shall be first.” But he could not do less than come promptly to his uncle’s support, and follow the example of his fearless confession.
“You have spoken truly,” he said, “for God himself cloth testify in his holy Word that the bluid of Jesus Christ, his Son, cleanseth us from all sin.”
If Lady Isabel had been slow to interpose between David and the priest, she was prompt enough in stopping the discussion when she saw her son so disposed to compromise himself. She begged there might be no more talk of such “gruesome things” as heresy and purgatory and the like; and the Laird followed up her efforts by pressing David to take more wine, assuring him it was the part of a wise man to eat and drink, and to do his duty by his family and his estate, leaving all these puzzling questions to be settled for him by the priests and the doctors. “Forbye,” he added with a laugh, “an’ the said priests catch us meddling wi’ what doesna concern us, it’s like enough they’ll gie us, for our sins, a taste o’ the kind o’ purgatory you talk of, Davie―to wit, a hantle grief and dolor in this life.”
“Aiblins,” answered David; “but he that saves his life shall lose it.”
As soon as George could find an opportunity of speaking to his uncle alone, he warned him against Sir William Tier, saying that their opinions were by no means safe with him.
“I ken that, lad,” answered David; “but I maun speak the truth.”
“Uncle,” said the young man humbly and sorrowfully, “your courage shames my weakness.”
“I havens se muckle to twine as you,” replied David; “forbye, I hae had muckle mair forgien me.
Oh, Geordie lad, I dinna mind that the guid Lord hae ever done sic’ wonnerfu’ things for ony puir sinner! Think on’t yersel. I had nae thocht o’ him; I cared for naething but thae puir bits o’ gear, and―and the hopes and pleasures o’ this life. But then, first, he gied me a kind o’ start anent my ain foolishness, fechting wi’ the prior for the teinds. He let them cast me out o’ the Kirk (that’s nae God’s Kirk ava’, but the synagogue o’ Satan); and when my heart was sair vexed, and I didna ken whilk gait to gang, and a’ was black as midnight― na shrift nor pardon for me, and I just beginning to think I was the maist awfu’ sinner in a’ Scotland―then, lad, He speered after me. He sought me his ainsel, he showed me how a’ my sins were clean forgiven, naebut because he deed on the Cross to tak’ them awa’. And noo I hae naething mair to do but to love him, and to witness for him, and to tell ither folk ilka day how guid he is.”
George’s eyes were dim with tears of joy and thankfulness. “Blessed art thou,” he could not help saying, “for flesh and blood hath not revealed it unto thee, but our Father in heaven.”
“That’s ower true,” answered David. “Yersel, or the Laird o’ Dune, or ony man, might hae tald me thae things twa hundert times, and I wadna hae minded ane word. But the guid Lord has Bien me―I canna find the name for’t, gin it’s no a new eye to see, a new ear to hear, and a new heart to feel. It’s like as I hae been a dead man a’ my days, and I’ve naebut wakened up and begun to live the noo. Eh, but, Geordie, its wonnerfu’!”
Wonderful it certainly was, as all who came in contact with David Stratton could not fail to acknowledge. We who are accustomed to breathe an atmosphere pervaded by Christian sentiment and opinion, may find it hard to realize the greatness of the change even the outward change which was wrought in him. The entrance of God’s word had indeed given light, and given understanding to the simple. But love as well as light was shed abroad in his heart, and that richly. He who had once been overbearing, rude, violent, ready to offer offense and quick to take it, was now “ane vehement exhortar of all men to concord, to quietness, and to the contempt of the world.” Nor did he fail to practice that to which, with the “vehemence” that belonged to his character, he thus exhorted others. He was noways inclined to hide his light under a bushel; it was too real, too marvelous for that. Like the little child who, seeing the first star appear in the shaded evening sky, cried out in wonder and delight, “God has just made a new star in heaven;” so, when the light which had been shining from the beginning of the world first reached his soul, David felt as if for him God had “made a new thing in the earth;” and he could not but tell the marvel to all those around him.
He had therefore scarcely been three days at Lauriston ere more of Scripture truth was heard from his lips than there had been in two years from those of the cautious and thoughtful George. He avowed his convictions openly, for he was a stranger to fear. He spoke to his brother, to the Lady. Isabel, to many of the retainers; and above all, he was eager to communicate to Alison Lindsay the knowledge he esteemed so precious. For with him faith was knowledge. That which he had seen and heard he declared to others. He was totally untroubled by doubts, either of any of the doctrines of Scripture or of his own interest and acceptance in Christ. His natural character contributed to this: in his mind there were no half lights and shadows; all lay in clear sunshine or in utter darkness, all was positive, well defined, certain.
Though David’s knowledge of the Word of God often surprised his nephew, he was still dependent upon others for all he acquired, being himself unable to read. It was his special delight, during hise stay at Lauriston, to induce George to accompany him to some quiet place in the fields, and to make him read for him chapter after chapter from the New Testament. George loved this occupation as much as his uncle did; and found the readings, and the conversation that always followed them, very profitable to his own soul. Their positions were strangely reversed. He who had once been the pupil was now himself so deeply taught of the Spirit that he became in his turn the teacher; and many were the passages in the Word of God upon which he was able to throw the light of experience.
George and David often talked together of their friend and instructor, the Laird of Dune. From this remarkable man, whom Knox tells us “God had in those days marvelously illuminated,” David received nearly all the human teaching he ever had. He consequently so loved and revered John Erskine, that he even came to regard his favorite project of the Greek Academy at Montrose not only with approval, but with enthusiasm. There was indeed something touching in the desire this unlearned man evinced to secure to others the best fruits of learning.” “Wha cares a bodle,” said he to George, “whether the bairns get the lean in Greek or in Latin, or in our ain guid Scot’s tongue, se’s they do learn that the blessed Lord loved them, and deed for a’ their sins?”
“Then you think, uncle, that the Greek school will prosper?”
“Nae doot o’ that. There’s ane young man has begun to teach the bairns the New Testament―vera young, but by ordinar learned, and o’ guid family, brither or brither’s son to the Laird of Pitarrow―ane George Wishart. He’ll do something, gin the bishops dinna burn or banish him, as they’re like enough to do to ony man wha reads the Word o’ God, either in Greek or English.”
George often wondered at the apparent coolness with which David alluded to such terrible probabilities, and tried to exhort him to caution and prudence. But he was not so indifferent as his nephew supposed to the dangers that menaced every one who dared to profess “the new Faith;” and if he received his well meant warnings in silence, it was only because he could not argue, while he felt at the same time that but one course of conduct was possible to him, and that he must pursue it, lead where it might.
Perhaps this day his heart was softened by the recollection of a promise which only the night before he had obtained from Alison Lindsay; for a look of pain, almost of perplexity, stole over his face, and it was some time before he spoke again.
But at last he said, quietly, “Whaur’s the Book, Geordie We’ll hae tint a’ our reading time.”
“What shall I read ye?” asked George; for David nearly always selected the portions they read together.
He said at once, “The tenth o’ Matthew;” and George read the precious words of comfort addressed by the Saviour to those whom he sent forth as sheep in the midst of wolves. His double command, “fear not,” and “fear”―fear not them which kill the body, fear Him who is able to destroy both soul and body sounded very full of meaning in the ears of men who knew that those who could kill the body were not far off. And very precious was his assurance that, notwithstanding every danger that menaced them, “the hairs of their head were numbered” by that Father who loved and would protect them.
But when George read, “Whosoever shall deny me before men, him will I also deny before my Father which is in heaven,” David Stratton could no longer control his emotion. Rising from his seat on the trunk of a fallen tree, he threw himself suddenly on his knees, and lifted up his eyes and hands to heaven as one in an ecstasy of prayer. For some moments he was silent, but at length he spoke aloud, or rather “burst forth in these words:” “O Lord, I hae been very wicked, and justly mightest thou take thy grace frae me. But, Lord, for thy mercy’s sake, let me never deny thee, or thy truth, for the fear of death or corporal pain.”
George said “Amen” to his prayer, but he felt awed, as well as touched and solemnized. And it may be that his heart shrank in terror from the prospect that prayer unveiled before him. For his uncle had become very dear to him, “both in the flesh and in the Lord.” And still,
“Howe’er assured be faith,
To say farewell is fraught with gloom;”
and “death and corporal pain” are fearful realities to contemplate. Far more fearful for those we love than for ourselves! For who does not know how hard it sometimes is to acquiesce in God’s dealings with our beloved ones, and by what agonizing lessons the heart is taught that for them “it was good to suffer here, that they might reign hereafter; to bear the cross below, that they might wear the crown above;” and that it was that they might be made like unto Him, that “He had placed them in the furnace, sitting by as a refiner of silver, until they should reflect his image.”