CHAPTER XI. THE LAST DROP IN THE CUP OF BITTERNESS.
We wanted Janet with us; but Bessie clung to her, and we did not insist on our wish, being loath to rob our neighbor of the comfort which Janet's company afforded her.
In less than half a twelvemonth after Steenie's death a son was born to perpetuate his name. Great was the mother's joy, and great was the joy of us all, though we rejoiced in trembling because of our persecutors. The bairn was christened Stephen, as may be supposed. He was a fair, fine child. Soon he laughed and crowed, quite unconscious that he had come into a world of trouble.
Sometimes, in my visits to Janet and the bairn, I saw Robert; and sometimes we were left alone together. His manner towards me was always gentle and considerate; and I felt drawn towards him, whether because of Steenie's dying injunction, or from some other cause, I cannot rightly tell. One evening as he accompanied me home, he said as we parted, "Effie, I wish we had lived in other times, or that we may outlive this evil time, that I may make known to you the dearest wish of my heart."
He said no more; but he pressed my hand, and I heard a sigh as he turned away. I had for a long time known that he loved me, but I never appreciated till then the affection of his warm, honest heart. I have no doubt that if he had known the change in my feelings towards him he would have been encouraged to say more. But that was a long way back in the past, very long, it seems to me.
But time wore on. I kept myself always busy, for that is the best way to get through trouble. Besides there was need that I should be employed. I had an eye over Jamie's bairns, for their mother was thronged with labors and cares. Her stout heart and ready hand had enough to do to keep above want. Many a garment did I make for them from those of the dead, who were now clad in purer robes. I had our own home to keep also, for mother was feeble; and, with all our other troubles, I had constantly to bear up under the pressure of poverty.
We were in this situation when Richie, whose health had gradually failed since his terrible captivity, took to his bed, never to rise again. This was in the spring of 1684, and before the heather bloomed he was laid to rest.
Death is always sad; but we who had witnessed so many deaths by the hand of man could not but feel that in Richie's case the sting had been less sharp. He had breathed his last peacefully in his bed; yet we knew that his end was brought on by the exposure in Edinburgh.
Ellen came to us. She was now alone, her two children having died of fever a few months before their father's death. We welcomed her, for we had need to gather about us the few friends that were left us. Yet we could ill afford to feed another out of our scanty means. If Ellen had been like Margaret, she would have found a way to earn an honest penny herself. But there have always been differences in folk, and there always will be. "The ane can do, and the ither maun be done for; and we will not be hard on Ellen," said my mother. We had few of our kin left. She was company for us. At best, the days passed wearily, the evenings were dull and sad, and the nights often brought no sleep. We still lived in fear and dread, although we felt that our best had already been taken from us, and whatever could come to us now must be less than that which we had already suffered.
Our champions had become fewer, but they made up in bravery what they lacked in numbers. Doubtless they thought they would sell their lives as dearly as possible. Bessie McDougal often trembled for her son, and I will not deny that another did the same. Alas! I have to record that our worst fears were realized. He likewise was pierced by the enemy's bullet. I was now more than ever drawn towards his aged mother, for I felt that we had a common sorrow. I was near her as she stood over the cold clay of her son, and I slipped my hand in hers. She tightened her grasp, and turned and looked at me. "Puir Effie," said she, "your ain heart is sair, I mak nae doot."
I answered with tears that I could no longer keep back.
Afterwards she told me all that Robert had said. "I will always love you because he loved you," she said, pressing me to her heart.
This is the last death of our friends that I have to record. The dreadful "killing time," as the last few and most bloody years of persecution were called, came at last to an end, and a brighter and better day dawned upon long-oppressed Scotland, thanks to the good Lord.
CHAPTER XII. PEACE.
The persecution of our kirk lasted through the reigns of Charles II. and James II., a period of twenty-eight years. But the Lord gave us deliverance at last. James was driven from the throne in November, 1688, and liberty of conscience was proclaimed by his successor, King William.
It now remains for me to trace our way back to quiet industrial pursuits. This was no easy matter for us; for, setting aside the fact that sorrow had taken nearly all the heart out of us, it will be remembered that, while many of our neighbors had lost a son, a brother, or a father, we had lost nearly every male member of our family. And as for my nephew Jamie, his hands were full at home. How should we win our bread? It was a serious question; and for this cause we were glad to learn that Janet and her bairn were to be the sole heirs of Bessie McDougal. She had laid by a heavy purse of gold, the reward of long years of labor performed by herself and her husband. They had never a child but Robert, so they could well lay by; and by canny management she had contrived to save something from taxation and the troopers. Nor was she likely to use her savings in her old age, for no sooner was peace restored to the country than she again filled up her poultry-yard and bought cows, so that her butter, eggs, and fowls were sent to market as in the years before the troubles began.
But with us it was very different. My father had accumulated very little, having had five bairns to clothe, feed, and educate. During the troubles we had labored constantly and practised every species of economy, but our purse was now empty. I could spin and weave, and that I did both early and late. But I do not think I could have kept even with the world if Ellen had not realized how matters stood with us and gone to her own kinsfolk. This was no small relief to us, for it not only made one less to provide for, but also made it possible for us to rent a room to a worthy woman who, like ourselves, had lost all her supporters in the evil times.
It was also Bessie's pleasure to send us many things, among which I well remember a fine brood of chickens. I was glad of these for mother's sake. She attended to them very gladly. She loved to watch the bonnie wee things and see them grow. The care of them kept her from always thinking of the past, so that they were a benefit to us in more ways than one.
But mother's usual place was by the ingle. There she sat and knitted most of the day, and sometimes far into the night. There stood the stand upon which was her Bible, which she read frequently. Our life was free from disturbance; we gradually became accustomed to our lot, and even began to feel some small degree of comfort. There was, as it were, a faint misty light breaking over us. We began to notice the changes in nature. Morning and evening were not now as one to us. We greeted the coming of day with something of the old feeling; we were solemnized at nightfall, but no longer terrified. The Sabbath was now indeed a day of rest. We were no longer wandering over moor and glen, through summer's heat and winter's cold, to win our way to some remote place in order to hear the preached Word, or, when there was no preacher, to exhort and comfort one another; but we were gathered again in our own kirk, where we had all worshipped in our youth. On those peaceful Sabbaths I could forget the present and think gladly of our holy dead who had entered upon the never-ending Sabbath above.
Little by little much of the old glad life crept into the homes of our neighbors; but for myself I have known comparatively little of what the world calls happiness. I had scarcely passed childhood when my life was beclouded by the evil that pursued us until I reached middle age, at which time I was already longingly looking forward to death as a relief from life's sorrows and anxieties. Yet for my mother's sake, and for the dear ones that called me "Aunt Effie," I have aye prayed for strength to endure.
There is one sorrow that I have not told in earthly ears. I never speak of Robert. I visit his grave alone. Sometimes I find the birds singing joyously above it; and though their glad song jars a little on my ear, I ever bid them sing on, for their music makes his resting-place more cheerful. I planted seeds and roots of flowering-plants on the grave so as to make the place bonnier, and also that I might pluck the blossoms that grew above him and wear them near my heart; for though this regard for him came to me late in life, it was none the less real and tender.
At Steenie's grave it was different. Mother, Janet, and I often sat around it. Janet needed not to hide her sorrow. She could mourn her dead in the presence of his mother and sister without reserve.
I scarcely knew how I passed my time some days. My fingers drew out the threads and my foot turned the wheel, but my mind was often far away, recalling the words and deeds of our happy dead. I remembered the look and tone of each. I was again a child standing beside my sister, who patiently combed and plaited my hair; I was at father's knee with my book; I was being borne in the arms of Jamie or Richie; I was playing with Steenie at the burn, or I was thinking of what happened long afterwards—thoughts that I cannot write. From these memories I would be roused by my mother's gentle call, "Effie, the fire is low and it is nearly time for the evening meal."
Five years we two bided alone. Often, too often, we recounted our sorrows; but we aye took them to the Fountain-head of love and strength, and oftentimes we received "the oil of joy for mourning and the garment of praise for heaviness." At the end of this time came a change.
Our dear old friend Bessie McDougal sickened. We often went to her, but we always found her wishes anticipated by the affectionate thoughtfulness and skilful hands of Janet. Indeed, she almost refused to share the care of the sick with any one. Not even after her own cheek grew pale with nightly watchings would she willingly give place to me. Bessie would sometimes tell her to rest herself; but as soon as Janet left the room the sick woman would weary for her.
At length the end drew near. Mother was summoned in haste to her death-bed. The dying woman commended Janet to our care with as much concern and tenderness as if she were delivering an only daughter to a stranger. She forgot in her earnestness that Janet and her child already belonged to us.
"She has been like a daughter to me," she said. "She was the light of my puir hame; she comforted me in my last sad bereavement, although her ain great sorrow was heavy upon her. Her wee slender hands have ministered to my comfort in mony ways; she has been eyes and feet to me; her faith has strengthened my faith; she is in very truth the handmaid of the Lord. My deein' pillow wouldna be easy if I thought she wouldna hae freends when I am awa."
"Bessie dear, good neighbor Bessie," said my mother, "do you no remember that Janet is as dear to us as to you? Do you forget that she was wife to my ain Steenie, and that I have loved her long and well?"
"Oh, ay; it is enough; and do thou forgie what my anxious heart garred me say. Noo I dee content. I shall soon be wi' David. I hae ne'er forgotten his message to me, that we s'ould meet, though we s'ould gang hame by different rauds. He meant we s'ould leave this warld in different ways. He didna mean that we s'ouldna a' walk in the straight and narrow way by faith in the Son of God: na, na, David didna mean that, for there is nae ither way. If we seek to climb up some ither way, we shallna enter in. Thank God, we are a' in the richt way but the bairn; and surely the God o' his faithers willna forsake the little ane left to his care."
When she felt that her last moments had come, she turned her eyes on Janet, saying feebly and brokenly, "Fare ye weel, my puir twice-smitten lamb. Dinna sorrow for me. Ye hae been a comfort to me; let that thought now comfort yoursel. Let the wee lad gie me a kiss."
Gradually her eyelids closed, and her lifeless form lay before us as if she had fallen into a peaceful slumber.
Janet and the bairn grieved for the good woman as it was meet they should, for she had been a good friend to them. I felt sad too; for since I had stood with her over the dead body of one who was dear to us both I had felt that she was more than a neighbor to me.
Janet no longer rented the place so long held by the McDougals. She came to us; and more of joy came with her and wee Steenie than I had ever thought would be our portion. The lad was growing up very like his father. I doubt not but mother and I would have spoiled him if Janet had not been as wise as she was good.
CHAPTER XIII. CONCLUSION.
I have written nothing of late about Margaret's children. You will remember that Jamie had a wish to preach the gospel. He did not change his purpose. The providence of God helped him wonderfully. Through the divine blessing on his own perseverance, and the kindness of his friends, a way was opened for the fulfilment of his wishes. And who, think you, bides now at the manse? Who, indeed, but the selfsame Jamie, now Rev. James Patterson! But I never cross the doorstone without thinking of our own gentle Mary, whose home it once was. Surely time has brought to us many changes. I am glad that mother lived to hear Jamie preach in our own kirk; no doubt it was like balm to her poor wounded heart.
Margaret's youngest bairn, John, is the schoolmaster; for we aye have a schoolmaster in our family. When he made it known that he wanted his grandfather's place, many voices cried, "Let him have it. Let us have a scion o' the warthy John Patterson, for we havena had his like since the good man's wark was stopped."
The four lassies, as they grew to womanhood, were settled in homes of their own. The oldest one, Christie, married a worthy farmer's son, one John McHardie. She lives in the house so long occupied by Bessie McDougal. It seems natural to me to go there, and I am glad it is Christie's home. Christie is just like my mother, for whom she was named. She puts every pennyworth to its best use; and she and her husband bid fair to do as well on the place as David McDougal and his wife did.
The youngest lass, Maggie, married a good man with plenty of this world's gear, yet I doubt if Margaret was better pleased than she was with Christie's choice. John, Maggie's brother, often told her that her bonnie face would get her a fortune some day. A bonnie face she had, and still has, and a good heart too, which is far better. She has never been puffed up on account of her beauty or her husband's riches; for she was well taught that true beauty is beauty of soul, and true riches the treasure laid up in heaven. It is with Maggie that Margaret now lives, though the other bairns are ever wanting their mother to bide a while with them; and so she often goes from one to another, loved and honored by all.
In Margaret's family we cannot fail to see that God has fulfilled his promise to the widow and the fatherless. True, they were not without their full share of hardships; but by God's grace they bore them submissively and bravely, and God exalted them in his own good time.
I have to record but one other event—the death of my mother. It is just eleven years to-day since she passed away. It was like the falling to sleep of a wee bairn. She went with a smile on her face. I could not but wonder what made her smile. Was it joy that her long pilgrimage of more than ninety years was accomplished at last? Did she see some one on the other shore beckoning to her? We cannot know that she did; but we believe that the Christian, when he goes hence, is often cheered by some vision of God's own granting.
Mother's place by the ingle is left to me. Here I sit. I read the same Bible, and I am waiting for the same call. God grant it may be as gentle. I do not weary to go; for I am an honored inmate of the old home. My nephew is fond of his aunt Effie, and Janet is a sister indeed. Much good has come to me to make me forget the past, could it ever be forgotten. But I look for my purest and highest enjoyment in that world where I shall rejoin those who have passed on before.
It is not meet, it would not be wise, for me to trace all the events connected with our family in the last few years. It might not be amiss to say that Wilson, the man that put the match to Jamie's fingers, when he lay on his death-bed sent for the same Jamie to pray for the salvation of his soul. Truly, God's ways are wonderful.
And now I have done with my story. It has given me a melancholy pleasure to write it. I think I shall not hope too much if I hope that all who read it may learn from it that when God suffers his children to be afflicted, he aye upholds them and gives them grace sufficient for their needs.
Sequel: by Christie Somerville
CHAPTER XIV. THE PEN IN ANOTHER HAND.
Having come in possession of Effie Patterson's manuscript, which the reader has just been perusing in print, I, Christie Somerville, her grand-niece, deem that it would not be amiss to add something thereunto.
It is with profound respect that I call to remembrance my most worthy relative, who was a member of my father's family from my earliest recollections, and who died at an advanced age while I was still young. But I recollect her perfectly well, and I remember many things that she told me; for, like all aged persons, she loved to rehearse the events of her earlier years. Listening to her, I learned much of the history of that sad time when the spirit of persecution desolated Scotland and bereft us of so many of our kindred. I have also gathered from the conversation of my parents much of the story of her life, so that the contents of her manuscript are not entirely new to me; but they are none the less dear because of their familiarity. She lost the spirit of sadness apparent in her manuscript, and during the last years of her life she was cheerful, and always ready to encourage the desponding and assure them from her own experience that the Lord would bring them out of all their troubles, according to his promise. My parents held her in great veneration; and, remembering all she had suffered—her bereavements, her toils, her loneliness, and her noble endurance—they did all that they could to make her last days pleasant to her. She beguiled the years of old age with reading, and she took a lively interest in the current events of her time. I well remember her remark when we heard that King George I. had died in his carriage while travelling in Germany. "I have outlived seven sovereigns," said she. "It can scarcely be God's will that I should outlive another." And she did not. Death approached her very softly, and she passed away as gently and as peacefully as she had desired.
She has told her story, and I thought it might be well to take it up where she left it, and trace the dealings of God's providence with us, her kinsfolk of later generations.
My father's name was Stephen Patterson. He was son of Janet McAdam, wife of Stephen Patterson, the martyr, as my aunt has recorded. To my parents were born two sons, Kenneth and Walter; but I was the only daughter. My brothers were older than I.
Living as we did but two generations after our suffering kindred, it will not be accounted a strange thing that we were early filled with admiration for those who so stoutly resisted oppression. I well remember with what eagerness we gathered around Aunt Effie to hear from her lips stories of their seal and courage. She loved to see us manifest this interest, which assured her that we too would stand up in defence of our rights and privileges, should they ever be assailed.
It is not my design, however, to dwell on anything she has written, or the time of which she wrote, but to speak of those who came after her, and endeavor to show that religion with our people was not a fitful, feeble flame, fanned and kindled only by persecution, but a steady fire, that has since lighted the rugged path of poverty and toil, as it illuminated the dungeons where our forefathers were incarcerated.
In my father's family we knew little of real poverty, for industry had brought back a degree of prosperity; but we all had to labor continually in order to keep the little property that was left to our grandmother by Bessie McDougal, as you will remember. But poverty was around us, even in families whose ancestors had been wealthy and titled. We were early taught to think of those poorer than ourselves; nor were we taught by precept alone, but by example as well. I remember that, at the time when the husbandmen were to cast in the seed, many a measure of grain was given from our own store; for grandmother thought that if folk could not get wherewith to sow, they surely could not reap. It was her delight to give, and she frequently stood by and added another handful after father had given all he thought he could spare. What a grandmother she was! I cannot adequately describe her. One must have known her personally to be able to form a correct idea of her. She was remarkable for sweetness of disposition, kindness, and dignity of manner, and her earnest piety was known of all. The Bible was her constant study. She believed it with the heart as well as with the head, and trusted its promises with simple childlike faith. In all her trials she relied on a present Saviour, and she brought this Saviour so near to us that we almost felt his presence. She had proved him in darker hours than we had ever known, and her faith was immovable. She endeavored to inspire us with her own faith and trust.
"You must know, my dear bairns," she said to us one Sabbath afternoon, "that the Lord Jesus has said, 'I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.' Remember that, 'never leave thee nor forsake thee;' no, not for one wee moment. He leads us with his hand; he guides us with his eye; he calls us by name, and gives us gifts. The best gift, forbye the gift of eternal life, is that of peace. We are not promised rest in this world; but we are promised peace, and that brings us all the rest we need. We shall have rest after a while, when our work in this world is all done. The Lord could give us wealth and free us from toil if it would be good for us; but he kens better. He said, 'Not as the world giveth give I unto you.' He kens that hardships and trials are good for us; and as a wise father chastises his children, so we are chastised by our Heavenly Father, and we must aye trust that it is for our good."
Poor Kenneth! he found it hard, even in her day, to believe that all was ordered for his good. Only a few days after she had thus talked with us Kenneth was seeking a stray lamb, and, leaping a wall in his haste, he did not quite clear it, but fell, and a heavy stone fell with him and broke his leg. He rolled away the stone, but he could not win his way home. He had to lie there on the grass and wait for some one to come seeking him; and there father found him two hours later. A surgeon was immediately sent for, but he was long in coming; and whether he did not rightly understand his business, or what was the cause, I cannot say, but the limb did not mend well, and the poor lad halted ever after. He took this sorely to heart, and no one could still his sad complainings but grandmother. As I think of it now I do not wonder at his murmurings—so young and full of life, to be maimed before he had reached the stature of manhood. Only the grace of God can enable us to say under such trials, "Thy holy will be done." If this trouble, sore as it was, had been all that was meted out to us, we still would have been able to favor the lad, and so try to make his burden lighter. But in the midst of harvest the same year father was stricken with palsy, and we thought his hour had come. He lingered helpless, and at last began slowly to recover; but he never was strong on his feet again, and never had the full use of his right arm. With these two afflictions our worldly prospects seemed sadly blighted.
Mother was, up to this time, but a gentle, clinging woman; but troubles brought into action her hidden power and courage, and from being consoled under light trials and difficulties she became consoler to us all. Of this we had great need; for grandmother, who always sought to interpret the dark, mysterious providences of God as real blessings, was taken from us by death. Father grieved sorely for grandmother, and so did we all. Her strength was hardly abated, and her heart was still young. She had a kindly and a comforting word for every one who needed it, and she was sadly missed by many besides ourselves. But the change in mother helped us all, and father often said, "Agnes, what should we do in all our difficulties without your strength and courage? The more we are cast down, the more you lift us up and the stronger you seem."
Walter, wee man, buckled to the work right earnestly. But his strength was small, and mother and I wrought in the field many a day during haying and harvest. Many kinds of work were too heavy for us, and as the years went by we were obliged to pay out many pounds for help, and this expense ate sorely into the profits of the harvest. But we had butter and cheese to sell, and our sheep furnished us much of our clothing, so that our expenses were small, and, with the blessing of God, we were kept from want. Kenneth did what he could, and was never idle; but we kept him in school as much as we could, that he might be able to earn his bread with his head and his fingers and not with his bodily strength. Father oftentimes essayed to put in the sickle, but was as often forced to yield. But, thanks to God, naught happened to Walter, and after a few years he was able to stand master of the work himself; and father and Kenneth learned the lesson, often so hard to learn, that they must trust their Leader, though they cannot see the way in which they are led.
CHAPTER XV. A VISIT TO AUNT MARGARET.
Before I tell you more about my father's family I will tell you about some other persons of whom Aunt Effie wrote. It seems to me that you will wish to know if Margaret, my great-aunt, had as peaceful and as happy an old age as was predicted for her. She was, as you will remember, wife to James Patterson, who fell at Bothwell Bridge. I shall be right glad to tell you about her, for I remember her well. She lived to be very old, and was hale and hearty up to the time of her last sickness. Her look was always so cheerful that I might almost say she wore a perpetual smile. She was plump and rosy too, and was as nice and comfortable a body as you would wish to look at. A visit to Aunt Margaret was a source of pleasure to us all.
One afternoon when father was feeling poorly and discouraged, for it seemed that all was going wrong with us, he said to mother, "Well, Agnes, I think I'll away to Aunt Margaret's; it may do me good."
"That it will," replied my mother. "But you maun take Christie with you, as you are no well."
I was right glad to hear that, and I hastened to make myself ready. It was in the spring-time; the hillocks were fresh and green, and even the crags were flecked with spots of vegetation. Sheep were cropping the tender grass on the uplands, and cattle were browsing in the underwood. Birds were flitting about and singing for joy as they busied themselves with providing for their tender young. The day and the season were so delightful that we thought nothing of the distance, and were surprised to find ourselves so soon at Aunt Margaret's cottage. The walk did father good, and he scarcely felt fatigue. Aunt Margaret was right glad to see us. She had always felt a tenderness for my father, and since his affliction came upon him she had done all she could to cheer him and make his burden less heavy.
"Something told me you would come to-day, Steenie," said she. "I said to Rachel this morning, 'The day is so fine I think Steenie will be here.' You did well to bring Christie. I wish Agnes had come too." And so she continued with her pleasant welcome and her cheerful chat, and father soon forgot his troubles.
Aunt Margaret's son John, the schoolmaster, always lived with his mother. His wife, Rachel, was a quiet body. She had no children, so that there were no playmates for me; but still I liked to go there, though to this day I can scarcely tell why. I think it was chiefly on account of the beautiful charm that invests most children, and makes them think their kinsfolk the best and loveliest people in the world. It must also have been partly on Cousin John's account. He always exerted himself to amuse children; perhaps because he had none of his own he took more notice of other people's; at any rate, he was very agreeable, and could be very amusing when he felt like it.
John made father laugh many times that afternoon. I suppose he was purposely funny in order to cheer my father and hearten him up a bit. His efforts had the desired effect, for father told John that an hour in his company was better than a dose of medicine. But this same cousin was grave too at times; and none took the good Book in a more reverential manner than did he, and few in prayer seemed to approach so near the throne of Divine Grace.
We stayed to break bread with our aunt that day. Many a daintier supper may have been gotten on the board, but I trow none better or more wholesome.
Aunt Margaret's cordial welcome and kind words did father good, and he left the house with a lighter heart than he had brought to it.
The dear old lady accompanied us to the gate and took leave of us there.
"Good night to you, Steenie; and good night to you, hinny; and come again soon," said she, as we left.
I looked back and saw her going to the poultry-yard to see that all was right there.
"Old age is not to be dreaded when one can be so blessed, so cheerful, and so helpful," remarked my father. "Christie, you maun make a woman like Aunt Margaret, and like your grandmother, whose blessed memory rests in the hearts of many people."
He pressed my hand as he said this, and I remember well I thought within myself, "I will try to be like them."
"Well, Stephen, you look quite cheered up again," said my mother, as we reached home.
"Aunt Margaret aye cheers a body," he replied, and he continued to talk more cheerfully than he had done for a long time. Mother had to remind him that he was weary with his walk and that it was time to seek rest in sleep. She bid Walter bring the Book to Kenneth, that he might read instead of his father.
"Read the hundred and forty-fifth Psalm," said my father.
Kenneth was a good reader, and the words seemed good and gracious even to me. When we had all been commended to God and pardon had been asked for all our transgressions, we sought our pillows, all of us feeling, no doubt, as did God's servant of old when he said, "I will both lay me down in peace and sleep, for thou, Lord, only, makest me to dwell in safety."
CHAPTER XVI. A MORNING AT THE MANSE.
I have a mind to take my reader next to the manse, where my Cousin James lives in peace, and, I might add, plenty; for although his fifty pounds a year would be considered by some folk a mere trifle, it suffices for his wants and leaves something forbye to give to the poor. No suppliant for charity goes from his door without a few pence to gladden his heart; and if the need be great, the pence are sometimes held back and shillings take their place. To be sure, there are many in the parish who bring him gifts several times a year. We ourselves often carry our cousin James such things as we can spare.
I remember in particular one lovely summer morning, when Walter and I were small, my mother sent us to the manse with a little gift. Walter carried a leg of mutton and I a bit of cheese and a bottle of cream. We made a merry time of it, for neither of us minded our burdens, and we laughed and chatted all the way. I doubt if the plover that was wading in the stream was happier or more care-free than were we. Walter had a bonnie face, though it was a bit sun-browned; but his dark hair set it off finely. I remember he said to me, when we had almost reached the manse, "You must quiet down now, Christie, for you have kept your mouth stretched frae ear to ear the hail morn."
"I could say as much for yourself," I replied. Whereupon he laughed again, showing two rows of fine teeth.
"Well," said he, "let us laugh while we may. We will have to sober down soon enough; leastways that seems to be the way it goes with poor folk. It is work, work, frae year's end to year's end."
"What is that you are saying, my lad?" asked the minister, coming from behind the hedgerow and starting up the path with us.
"I was but saying that poor folk maun work and aye keep at it," replied Walter, the color rising to his cheeks.
"And do you not like work, my wee man?" asked he, smiling.
"Ay, I like it well enough; but sometimes it seems a bit hard to have all work and no play. I suppose it maun be right or it wouldna be so ordered," said Walter, for he had been well taught that all the arrangements of Providence are wise and good.
"Yes, Walter, it must be right; and you must not be discouraged because you have been put into the harness younger than most lads. You have the satisfaction of knowing that you are helpful, and there is a comfort in that. It is noble to labor; it is ignoble to be idle."
He had now reached his own door, and we followed him in.
"Here is a bit of meat mother sent," said Walter. "And here is a small cheese and some cream," said I.
"Thank you, my dears. Your mother is very kind. I am fond of Cousin Agnes' cheese."
Stepping to the door of the pleasant sitting-room, he spoke to his wife: "Ellen, here is company for you."
She came to greet us, and asked us to go with her. But when we were within the room that to us seemed so grand we felt a little embarrassed.
"If I had kenned they would bring us into this bonnie room," said Walter in an undertone, "I would have put on my Sunday clothes."
"And I too," I said, "would have put on my print gown and a ribbon on my braids."
As we finished speaking the minister and his wife returned with Jeannie, their little lame daughter. Jeannie was almost as old as I was, being ten, while I was eleven; but she was pale and sickly-looking. Her arms and hands were very thin. I looked at my own plump, brown hands; the contrast was great. I believe Jeannie's mother observed the contrast too, for she looked from Jeannie to me, and I heard her sigh. I went to Jeannie and talked to her. The mother's eyes rested on us all the time, as if her little daughter was too frail and too precious to be lost from view a single moment. Cousin Ellen was a lovely lady, just in the prime of life; but her husband was well on in years. She was his second wife and the mother of two children. Alec, her son, then fifteen years old, was a pleasant lad, and my brothers were very fond of him. Walter went into the garden to find him, and both soon came in. Alec brought a basket of fine cherries. I ate too many of them to be genteel, I fear; but we had none at home, and it was not easy to restrain my childish appetite.
The minister took us into his study. I was astonished to see so many books. I did not know at that time that one person ever possessed so many. I looked at them a long time, for even then I liked books. I remember that I thought there could be no better man than our minister, and no place bonnier than the manse.
Walter and I were thinking of going home when Alan, the son of the first wife, drove up to the door with his wife and child.
"We maun go home now," said Walter; but I had caught sight of the wee one, and he could not persuade me to go.
I soon managed to get the bairn in my arms, and, forgetting myself, I was talking to it as I had heard others talking to infants. When I looked up Alan was laughing at me.
"What an old-fashioned child you are, Christie," said he.
"Everybody tells me so," said I, slightly displeased.
"I like you all the better for your quaint ways," said he, still smiling.
Walter was becoming very uneasy, I could see that; so I carried the bairn to Alan, for I did not feel acquainted with his wife, and we started for home.
"Now, my lass," said Walter, when we had but gotten out of hearing of the manse, "I should not wonder if the taws would be taken down. The hail morn is gone, and not a weed pulled frae the garden, nor anything else done."
I was a little uneasy, and was pondering in my mind what I should say in self-defence and still adhere to the truth, for I knew well it was my fault that we had stayed away the last hour or more. We returned less merry than we went, I can assure you. Finally I remembered that the minister had said many good things to us, and asked us questions from the Bible, and that we had answered very well, the minister had said so. "Children, I am glad to know that you have been so well taught," he said. "Although your parents have so many things to divide their attention and distract their thoughts, they have not failed to instruct you out of the Book that maketh wise unto salvation."
I thought if mother was too hard on me I would turn this to good account, for she aye liked to have us get religious instruction. When we had nearly reached home I began to lag behind, feeling in no hurry to hear what would be said to me. Walter hastened to the garden, took up the hoe, and began to work very fast. Just then mother came to the door.
"So, you are come at last! What has kept you the hail morn?"
"Nothing in particular," I replied, quickening my steps, "only the minister's folk were so kind, and it was such a bonnie place that I liked well to stay."
I looked into her face as I spoke the whole truth, but I feared so poor an excuse might cause me to be punished. To my surprise she answered without sternness, and with a perceptible touch of tenderness,
"I am glad ye have had a pleasant morning, puir wee lass. I was vexed with you for staying away, for I was pressed with work; but I will no chide you; it is little enough pleasure that you have."
"Is anything amiss?" I asked, touched by her unusual manner.
"Nae, I was but thinking how muckle better chance some children have than others. It is wrong, I make nae doubt, to feel so, but whiles I canna help it. It grieves me sairly that I canna let ye gang to your cousin John's school, as ye should; but I canna spare ye."
"I can read very well now, mother," said I, "and I can repeat a score of the Psalms and answer many of the Bible questions. Walter and I did it the morn. The minister took us into his study and talked with us seriously. He asked us many questions, and we answered right well, for he said so. But Walter said it was Samson who slew Goliath. I shook my head. 'Who was it, Christie?' asked the minister. 'David,' I replied. 'You are right,' said he. 'It is no wonder that Walter thought Samson maun hae killed the great giant,' said I, feeling sorry for Walter. The minister smiled and went on with his questions. Alas! I have to tell that my own time came next; for when he asked me who was taken up in a chariot of fire, I answered, 'Ezekiel.' Walter was even with me then, for he quickly answered, 'Elijah.' I felt ashamed. But mother," said I, "did not the minister read Sunday morning about Ezekiel and wheels and fire?"
"Yes, Christie," said she; "you will find that in the tenth chapter of Ezekiel; but it doesna say he went up in a chariot of fire. I hope you made no more mistakes."
"No more after that, and many questions he asked us," I replied.
"Ye hae done very well," said she, heaving a sigh of relief; "some other day ye may go again."
As soon as I had done my work in the house I hurried out to weed the garden. I told Walter that the taws was likely to hang idle on the peg, and that mother was o'er good. I did not know why she seemed to pity us, for she had always told us that work was good for every one; but I now know that she was sorry there was not a little more pleasure and innocent childish enjoyment in our young lives, for she well knew that the years would bring still more care and burdens still more heavy.
CHAPTER XVII. AT COUSIN CHRISTIE'S.
Aunt Effie wrote, as you will remember, that Aunt Margaret's daughter, Christie, and her husband made their home where David and Bessie McDougal had so long lived; and she said, too, that they would be like to prosper. If they have not prospered I am no judge. John McHardie has a way of getting pennies together that few have; and he is a God-fearing and God-serving man too, and he gives liberally to the kirk. As for Christie, you would not find her like for strong sense and goodness among a score of women. They have raised a large family—four lads and five lassies; and, although they were all brought up to work hard, they were the most mirthful of all the cousins. The lads whistled merrily as they drove the team to the field, and the lassies sang at the wheel. In the evening they found something to do with their hands, while they cracked innocent jokes or slyly speired at each other about the neighboring lads and lassies. They were so good-natured with it all that there was much laughing, but no ill-temper.
I went there to spend the day one Saturday when I was about thirteen years of age. It was unusual for me to have a day to myself; but I worked well all the morning that I might leave as little as possible for mother to do. I then made myself tidy, and took the path along the western brae, for it was more pleasant than the dusty road, and I liked to see the bonnie things that grew in the shade of the coppice.
It was almost dinner-time when I arrived, and preparations were going on for that meal. Over the fire hung a large kettle of barley soup; in a corner of the fireplace sat the bake-kettle, on the cover of which Christie was heaping glowing embers as I entered; before the fire were oaten cakes set up to bake, for Sunday must be provided for, and the family were blessed with good appetites.
Christie gave me hearty greeting and inquired after father and mother. Just then Ellen, her daughter, came in with a basket of eggs. "The black hen has a notion to set," she was saying, when she saw me, and her face broke into smiles. She was a bonnie lass, just turned fourteen. She and two lads were all that were left at home, the rest having married or gone out into the world to seek their fortune.
In the middle of the afternoon it began to rain, and darkness came early, so that I was obliged to spend the night with them. A fire made the little room cheerful, and we were all as merry as we could wish. Christie sat by the candle finishing the week's sewing, and her husband sat by the fire, falling asleep now and then, for he had been chilled by the rain.
The evening was half spent when the door opened and Sandy McHardie, the eldest son, came in.
"Weel, Sandy, what brings ye out on sic a night?" said his mother.
"Ye may well say 'sic a night,' for if I hadna taen my plaid I would hae been wet to the skin."
"Wha is here?" asked his father, rousing from sleep.
"Naebody but Sandy, father. I am come to hae a talk wi' you. And I maun tell you before I forget it—for I hae anither trouble on my mind—that the brown mare has a swelling on her knee, and I want you to come the morrow morn, if it is Sunday, and look at it, for it would be a wark o' mercy to help the puir faithful beast."
"There'll be nae need o' that, Sandy. I think it maun be the same as ailed the black horse. I'll gie you a bottle o' the wash that cured him; I am never without it sin' that time."
"I'll try it; but if it graws waur instead o' better I'll send you word, for I dinna want onything to happen to that beast. Now for something mair. My sheep got into Jock Wilson's field, and it's nae wonder, for he hasna a wa' that would keep out the maist orderly sheep in a' Scotland. Weel, what did he do but set that savage beast o' his on them, and ane o' the ewes was sae badly torn wi' his ugly teeth that I had to kill her at ance, and anither broke her leg. Now I ca' that vera unneeborly, to say the least o' it; and I am that angry I could a'maist set sic a beast on himsel, the scoundrel! There isna an honest hair on his heid, nor on his father's before him, nor yet on his grandfather's, the auld traitor, wha for filthy lucre turned foe to his countrymen, and pit thae accursed instruments o' torture to his ain neebors!"
Here he paused to take breath.
"Mother," said Ellen softly, "was he no the ane wha put the match to Uncle Jamie's fingers?"
Her mother nodded in the affirmative.
"There isna need to be sae muckle heated aboot it, Sandy," said his father. "It is nae wonder ye are vexed, but ye ken that will do nae gude. How is your ain part o' the wa'?"
"It couldna be better. That is the vexing part o' the matter. He kens weel I hae nae ither place to keep my sheep. Now what is to be dune aboot it?"
"Just speak to the laird aboot it. Jock is afeared o' him if he isna o' you; and if he doesna gang right he'll soon be shifted frae his bonnie cot and set doon by the wayside, for a' Laird Graham will care."
"Sure enough. I was that angry I couldna think sae far."
"Now let me say a word, Sandy," said his mother. "If ye had minded the gude Ward ye wouldna hae let the sun go down on your wrath; ye would hae thought yoursel about laying the matter before your uncle. Ye maun be slow to wrath, as the apostle James has written."
"Weel, mother, I hae been slow to speak; leastways I didna gang to him as I had a mind to do. So ye see I hae heeded part o' the injunction, at ony rate."
"Ye hae dune weel in that, Sandy. Thae Wilsons are as they are, and the less ye hae to do wi' them, the better."
"Ye are right there, mother. I wish the hail boodle o' them could be set across the North Sea into another land than Scotland!"
"O Sandy, we can bring nae gude feeling into our hearts by cherishing ill-will towards ony human creature. We maun a' hae mair patience. Alas! I fear nane o' us are like the meek and gentle Maister. Compose yoursel noo, Sandy, and get your mind better prepared for the service o' the Lord's house on the morrow."
"I suppose ye killed baith the ewes," said the father.
"That I did. I could do nae less."
"I'll tak ane o' them; the ither ye can mak use o'. On Monday I'll ride over and see the laird, and I think ye'll hae nae mair trouble wi' your neebor on that score, and there'll be nae real loss after a'."
"I canna quite say that," replied Sandy. "They were fine ewes, o' a choice breed. I wouldna set the value o' twa ither sheep anent them as a fitting recompense."
"Weel, it is bad enough, Sandy; but say nae mair aboot it. I'll gie ye twa bonnie lambs in their place. Peace is muckle better than discord among neebors."
Sandy rose to go.
"Tak your faither's plaid," said his mother; "your ain is no dry yet."
Sandy opened the door. "The rain has abated," said he. "I need nae plaid at all. Gude night to ye all." Then recollecting himself, he paused to say, "Tell Stephen's lass to come over wi' her parents and visit us. I want Stephen and Agnes to see how we are making out on the wee place."
It was late bedtime when Sandy left. John McHardie took the Book of all books, and with solemn voice read the thirty-fourth Psalm. Then he made a lengthy prayer, in which he thanked God for the blessings of the week just past, and asked that an especial blessing might attend the labors of God's servants on the morrow. After worship all retired. I was both sleepy and weary, and was soon lost in slumber. That was my first night from home.
When I awoke in the morning I could not for a moment remember where I was. Then all came back to me. Ellen had already risen. I rose and looked out of the window. It was a bright, bonnie morn. I looked up at the blue sky, then down at the green earth; everything looked fresh, and the air was sweet. All was so still and peaceful that I thought the Sabbath had a calmness of its own, and to this day I fancy that it has.
I went with my cousins to the kirk, and from there I went home. I had been gone but a short time, but I was glad to be again under the home-roof.
CHAPTER XVIII. GRAHAM PLACE.
The following week Laird Graham came to see about Sandy's difficulty with his neighbor, and he brought his wife to our house. It was two or three years since they had been to see us.
The laird took a great liking to Kenneth, who was at that time eighteen years of age, and a fine lad he was; saving his lameness, no bonnier young man was in the whole country-side. The lad's conversation showed so much good sense that our kinsman wanted him to go and live with him, and he spoke to us about it.
"I have need of some one like Kenneth," said he. "I was thinking of one of Christie's lads; but they are strong and can labor in the field, while Kenneth should have some easier way to earn his bread. Davie is but poorly, and he is worse since Katie married and went away. I think his loneliness wears on him. Kenneth would be a companion for him; and as he is good at figures, he could keep my accounts and look after things when I am away. I will do well by the lad, and he will have no hard work."
"Thank you for your kind offer," said my father. "If the lad wants to go I cannot stand in his way."
Kenneth was glad of so good a chance to begin his way in the world, and at once accepted the opportunity. The separation caused sadness; but we consoled ourselves with the thought that he would not be far from us.
Thus Kenneth was provided with a good home among his own kin, and a chance to see more of the world and do better than he could in our humbler home and sphere. He could also help us more with his wages than he could with his work. We had need of his help, for father's strength failed every year, and at that time his limbs were so palsied that he could scarcely walk. He was feeble, and at times greatly suffered. We spent a great deal with doctors; but he became worse instead of better.
Three years after Kenneth went away came a summer long to be remembered by us all. Mother sickened, and for many weeks the angel of death seemed hovering over us. Then we were indeed troubled. Father's anxiety increased his weakness, and we thought we should lose both father and mother. I was just turned sixteen, and I did my best that mother should have no cause to worry about the work. Walter and I watched anxiously for signs of returning health, but they were long in coming. Everything was changing without. The summer sun was fast maturing grain and fruit; but still she, who had been wont to admire the one and pluck the other, lay on her bed of languishing. Wearisome days were these to us all. I was determined not to yield to fatigue; but tired nature could not be wholly overruled by force of will. Many times when, at a late hour, I sought my bed, my limbs almost refused to carry me to it. But the darkest night must be followed by the dawn; and so, too, the morn of hope dawned for us—mother recovered. Then it was first noticed that I was worn and needed rest. "Poor lass!" said my mother, "as soon as I get my strength you must have a play-spell."
Kenneth had driven over many times to see his mother; twice Cousin Margaret came with him. The last time she came she found mother better; and noticing that I was pale and worn, she proposed that I should go to her house and rest a week or two. "As soon as you are strong I will send Kenneth for her, and you maunna refuse me, Cousin Agnes," she said.
I scarcely knew whether I was glad or sorry to go. I was to have a new gown, and a bonnie one too; mother said it was but right. I remember that all the silver we could gather on a market was spent to make me ready. When at last the day came and I rode away with Kenneth, I anticipated scarcely more pleasure than homesickness. I think I should have been frightened out of the visit altogether if I had known I was to meet there one who was destined to be my companion through life. But so it was, for there I first saw James Somerville, whose name I now bear.
He was a nephew of the laird, and was spending a few weeks there before he should recommence his studies—for he was studying for the ministry. He was a tall, handsome youth, with fine brown eyes. We became acquainted, of course; and I wondered that he was so well pleased with me, for I was but a bashful girl, and among so many strange people I was more shy than ever. But he had a way of talking to me that put me at my ease, and I quite forgot that he was so recently unknown to me. I met many strangers, and there were many diversions; but in them all I often found myself thinking of the fine brown eyes—far oftener than I thought of Kenneth or the dear ones I had left at home.
Ten days passed rapidly. There was riding and driving, coming and going, and more stir than I had ever seen in all my life. My visit, that I thought might be tedious, ended too soon. Two hours' ride with Kenneth brought me again to our cottage. I am ashamed to write that to me it looked plain and small, and that I felt jealous of Kenneth, who enjoyed all the privileges of the laird's own family. But I soon put such thoughts away, and hurried within to greet my good, kind mother who had spared me so many days. Father and Walter seemed dearer for my short absence. But the quiet of my life had been disturbed. It was as when one casts a rock into the calm bosom of a little lake; it sinks, but that is not all. It sets wee waves in motion, and they widen and widen in ever-increasing circles, and stop not till they reach the shore. So it is with many of the seeming unimportant events of life.
CHAPTER XIX. THE OLD HOME AND THE NEW.
My readers will be ready to believe me when I tell them that after this I often found myself dreaming of the future, and wondering what it had in store for me. I had plenty to do, so that my hands were not idle while my fancy roamed at times unchecked. I did not feel as care-free as I had done; but life possessed a charm which I had never known before. I was no longer a child, and I put away childish things and thoughts. I determined to make the most of the few advantages which our limited circumstances would allow. I worked early and late that I might attend the school. I paid more attention to my appearance than I had been wont to do. My hair, which was heavy and often neglected, received as much care on a week-day as on Sunday. It became darker and more glossy. Walter often complimented me on my improvement; but I am free to say it was not for Walter's sake that I was thus mindful of my looks.
Nor was this all. Whatever I did I strove to do in the best manner. My parents seemed never to weary of commending me. Life was very pleasant to me at that time. We were a little above want, and I sometimes had a few shillings to spend for some article of dress not exactly necessary, but pleasing to a young maid's fancy. My father's feebleness was the only drawback to our enjoyment—and that we had accepted as one of the allotments of Providence.
Alas, this world is a changeful place! One tastes of joy, and then the cup of sorrow is put to his lips. When I was eighteen my father left us for the better world. That he exchanged earthly pain for eternal happiness we never doubted. His dear life, especially in his last years, was a continual demonstration of the power of divine grace. Oh, it is a bonnie thing and a blessed thing, this walking with God! We may well say "the beauty of holiness," for it has a beauty all its own. The world may turn its frown upon the child of God, but he is undaunted; adversity may scatter its hoar-frosts upon him, but he still stands forth in all the freshness of perennial life; sickness may enervate the body, but the spiritual nature grows stronger as it nears the heavenly haven; friends may forsake and foes may hate, but if he is firmly planted in the kingdom of grace he remains unmoved by either. "Nothing can separate us from the love of God." It is this love that strengthens and beautifies the soul which is the real life of the Christian.
Two years passed by and brought no marked changes. At the end of that time the aged James Patterson resigned his ministry. With advancing years his locks have grown whiter, his step slower, and his strength has visibly failed. He has passed the bounds of man's allotted days upon the earth, and now, tenderly cared for by his son Alan, under whose roof he and his wife find a hearty welcome, he calmly awaits the call to come up higher.
When our aged relative and beloved pastor laid aside his robe of office and no longer served in the Lord's house, James Somerville, my own betrothed, was called to fill the vacant place. In my heart there was joy, for I should not now be separated from my mother and the dear friends and scenes of my youth. One month after he was called among us I became his wife; and now for three happy years the visit to Graham Place has never been regretted by the mistress of the manse.