Adam Hepburn's Vow: A Tale of Kirk and Covenant

by Annie S. Swan

AT HAUGHHEAD.

In the grey twilight of a sweet spring evening, a figure, wearing the garb of a minister, entered the policies surrounding Haughhead, and keeping well within the shadow of the trees, stole across the park to the mansion house. The face of the wanderer was not that of an old man, and yet his hair was as white as snow. He looked worn and delicate, and walked slowly and with a somewhat lingering step, as if he had travelled far, and was very weary.

The house of Haughhead was a building of considerable pretension, and was beautifully situated on a richly wooded slope, directly facing the picturesque village of Broomhill. The grounds were ample and well kept, and looked their best that spring evening, for the trees were bursting into leaf, and the early spring flowers were blooming in the trim borders and among the smooth-grown turf. The wanderer looked about him with a sad and tender interest, for his surroundings were peculiarly familiar, and recalled to his mind many memories of the past. To this place, in the early days of his settlement in Broomhill, he had often come, lured by the sunny gleam in the blue eyes of Lilian Burnet. Through these very green and bosky glades he had wandered, with her light hand clinging to his arm, in the happy, careless days of their courtship; across that very threshold he had led his fair bride, accounting himself that day the happiest man in broad Scotland. Recalling these happy days, and contrasting them with the desolation which was his to-day, he could have fancied them but the vagaries of his own imagination. Although it was not yet dark outside, lights gleamed in the lower windows of the house, and all the shutters were closed, telling that the inmates had settled themselves within for the night. The minister hesitated for a moment at the base of the broad flight of steps which led up to the door, wavering in his purpose to seek admittance. Finally he stepped aside to one of the lower windows, at which the shutters had not been carefully closed, there being a broad chink left, through which a very good view of the interior of the room might be had. It was a large, pleasant, well-lighted chamber, with a log fire burning cheerfully on the hearth, and giving one the idea of comfort and homeliness. There were several persons in the room. Sitting in her high-backed chair was the prim-looking mistress of Haughhead, busy upon some embroidery. Opposite her, on the hearth, sat Burnet of Haughhead himself, with a small table drawn up before him, and a ponderous volume lying thereon, in whose pages he seemed engrossed. It was not upon these two, however, that the yearning eyes of the minister dwelt On the hearthrug two little children were busy at their play: two lovely children, a boy and girl, the former, having been very delicate in infancy, only able to toddle on his little legs, and his baby tongue only yet learning the mysterious language of words. A little apart, also busy with her sewing, sat their mother, a lovely creature, to all appearance scarcely yet out of her girlhood, with a round sweet innocent face, as delicate in hue as the tint of the lily and the rose combined, and clear liquid blue eyes, which had evidently never yet been dimmed by bitter tears. She was a picture of serene and happy repose, not a shadow crossed her fair face, and her low humming of a familiar melody seemed to indicate a heart at rest.

Familiar though he was with the shallowness of his wife's nature, David Gray, looking on her face, was amazed. He had expected to see her a little changed; he thought that a small measure of anxiety, a shadow of regret concerning him, might have left its impress on her face. But no, she looked younger, fairer, more free from care than he had ever seen her before. If there had been any lingering hope in his mind that the wife whom he still loved, thought of, or longed for him in her separation, it was dispelled at once and for ever. But for the two little ones playing at her feet, the years of her wifehood might have seemed only the shadow of a dream, so unchanged was she from the light and giddy girl who had ruled the house of Haughhead since her babyhood. Pleasant and suggestive as was the picture in that family room, it caused a deep, deep shadow to come upon the sad face of the minister of Broomhill. He felt himself utterly forgotten by those bound to him by the nearest and dearest of ties. They had put him away out of their hearts and lives as one undeserving of their love. Presently his painful thoughts were interrupted by the gruff voice of Gilbert Burnet, and every word was distinctly audible.

"Give your song words, Lily," he said; "this is just the time of night for music. Is the harp there?"

"Yes, father," the sweet, careless tones made answer, blithely, and David Gray saw her throw aside her work, and approach the corner of the room where the harp stood. Then she sat down, ran her white fingers lightly over the strings, tossed back her sunny ringlets in the coquettish fashion he remembered so well, and then began the sweet, stirring strains of an old ballad, which had ever been a favourite in days gone by. Listening to these sweet strains, the minister of Broomhill seemed to forget himself and his surroundings, until the abrupt cessation of the music, and a loud clapping of hands, caused him to start, and cast another look into the room. The children had now risen from their play, and were clapping their baby hands in glee over the music.

Looking upon their winsome faces, the faces of his own children, given to him by God, taken from him by man, a great wave of anguish, of unutterable yearning, swept over his soul. But he crushed it down, and turning about, stole away from the house by the way he had come. They had forgotten him, they had no need of him; henceforth he was without wife, or children, or home, a wanderer on the face of the earth. They were safe and sheltered under that roof-tree, because its heads had not identified themselves with rebellion and treason, while he was hunted, pursued, and tracked to the dens and caves of the earth, with a price set upon his head. And yet what of that? what though perils by sea and land, perils by persecution, encompassed him, when he possessed the sweet approval of his own conscience, and the ever-present consciousness of the presence and blessing of the Most High? To be accounted worthy had been his earnest cry ere these desolations had fallen upon him, and now was he one to shrink and stand back from the bearing of his cross, however heavy it might be? Nay, but a sweet peace stole into his heart, as these precious words of promise were whispered to him: "And every one that hath forsaken houses, or brethren, or sister, or father, or mother, or wife, or children, or lands, for My name's sake, shall receive an hundredfold, and shall inherit everlasting life."

Henceforth God and the Covenant were all he had to live and suffer for, all he could call his own indeed upon the earth. Therefore he would go forth gladly with his brethren on the morrow to join the Covenanting army assembling in the south.

Not many days after that, the women folk at Hartrigge were busy about their usual tasks, when a horse and rider came up to the front door, the latter loudly demanding admittance. Jane Gray went out at once, and great was her astonishment to behold Gilbert Burnet, the laird of Haughhead.

"Well, Jane Gray, 'tis a long time since we met," he said, grimly.