Tales of the Covenanters

by Ellen Emma Guthrie

As Mr. Wellwood gazed on the countenance of the noble youth, which glowed with a beauty almost unearthly in its brightness, and marked as it was by an expression of melancholy sometimes seen on the faces of those who are not destined to remain long in this world, the mysterious veil which conceals the future from our sight was for one moment drawn aside. His dying eyes beheld what was soon to be accomplished, and he exclaimed, "You will shortly be quit of him; he will get a sudden and sharp off-going, and you will be the first to take the news of his death to heaven."

Inchdarnie reverently bowed his head in token of submission to the decrees of the Almighty. So pleased was he with the gentle bearing and pious exhortations of Mr. Well wood, that he remained with him until pretty near his decease, which occurred not long afterwards, when he was obliged to return to Inchdarnie, there to comfort with his presence his beloved mother, then labouring under severe indisposition. In danger of being imprisoned should his presence be discovered in the neighbourhood, Andrew Ayton durst not continue long in his father's house; but during the winter months and the ensuing spring he kept himself concealed in one of the cottar's houses, where he ran little risk of being detected.

It was now the fifth of May, 1679, and Andrew Ayton still lurked in the neighbourhood of Inchdarnie. On the morning of the day in question, a letter was placed in his hands; he glanced at the superscription, turned pale as death, and tearing it open, perused its contents with eyes whose wild expression would have terrified the beholder, while the trembling of the paper attested the agitation under which he laboured. The contents were as follows:—

MY DEAREST ANDREW,—I have struggled, and struggled in vain, to banish your image from my heart; wherever I have been, in England or in Italy, still you were present, and the words you last uttered on that fearful night have rung in my ears till they almost maddened me. All this weary time, in spite of my better judgment, I indulged in the fond delusion that you would endeavour to find me out, and that all should be made right again—vain hope. Months rolled on without any proof on your part of continued affection, and at last I was constrained to believe you had indeed forgotten me. In spite of all my assumed composure, despair took possession of my heart. Numberless suitors addressed me in all the glowing language of the sunny south, but I turned a deaf ear to their honied vows, and sighed in secret over the remembrance of one still too dear to me. At length, greatly to my delight, we returned to Scotland; and in the expectation of seeing you, I accompanied my aunt to the dear old priory. You were gone, but I heard from Deborah of your grief in the garden, and my heart melted within me at the recital. Again, I encountered one day during my accustomed walk a dear friend of yours, named Mr. Denoon (here Andrew Ayton's face glowed with delight); he seemed to know me—how I cannot tell—for he stopt and spoke to me of you. O! what sweet words of comfort he breathed to my anguished soul! He did not seek to undermine my faith (and for that I love him), but he told me of your love, your sorrow, and unaltered constancy, and prayed me to relent. Dear old man; he said although he grieved for my sake that I was not a Protestant, yet that should not prove an obstacle to our earthly happiness, for (and this rejoiced me more than anything) although the outward forms of our religion were so wholly at variance with each other, yet if our hearts were right in the sight of God, and we were sincere in our love towards him, they should always be acceptable in his sight. O Inchdarnie! whether it was that I really believed him or wished to do so for your dear sake, I know not, but I wept from joy; and he, dear, kind old man, was almost as much affected as myself. He then told me of your having aided his escape, and I listened with pride to the narration. We parted, soon to meet again. With the knowledge of my friends, I flew to your dear, venerable aunt, the Lady Murdocairnie (in whose house I am now residing), and told her of all that had passed between us, upon which she took me in her arms and blessed me, and advised me to write you, stating my unaltered love and anxiety to behold you. Come then, Inchdarnie; gladden me once more with your presence, and tell me with your own lips whether you will forgive, your loving

MARY CUNNINGHAME.

With a cry of joy Andrew Ayton started to his feet, rushed to the stable, and too impatient to wait for the tardy groom, he saddled his horse, sprang on its back, and darted off as if on the wings of the wind. Away he sped on his errand of love. The birds sung sweet above his head, he felt as blythe as they; he was going to join his Mary—his darling Mary. On, on, on; mountains, streams, and fields seemed to rush madly past him, so rapid was his course. All grief for him was at an end; Mary had forgiven him—Mary still loved him—they should yet be happy—alas!

Andrew Ayton, while lurking in the peaceful shades of Inchdarnie, was not made aware of the late fearful event, news of which at that instant was resounding through the land, convulsing England with horror, and ringing at the gates of heaven. Andrew Ayton knew not that two days previously Archbishop Sharpe had been slain—murdered on the lonely Magus Moor. Wholly ignorant of the affair, and of the pursuit to which it had given rise, young Ayton dashed onwards full of hope and joy, when an abrupt turning of the road revealed to his gaze a party of dragoons riding furiously towards Cupar. Anxious if possible to avoid encountering so numerous a body, Andrew Ayton quitted the high-road and galloped briskly through some fields, hoping thereby to escape notice; when suddenly a horseman detaches himself from the party and darts across the plain in pursuit of him. A flash, followed by a report, and the horse which bears young Ayton rears in the air; another and another, and he himself is mortally wounded. This done, the soldier without question or challenge of any kind, rejoins his comrades, exulting in the success of his exploit. The poor young man thus stricken down at the very moment in which life seemed most desirable, in spite of his dreadful wounds, managed, although with great difficulty, to preserve his seat on horseback until he arrived at the nearest house, where he alighted and begged that he might have a bed, also that his uncle, Sir John Ayton of Ayton, whose house was in the immediate neighbourhood, might be apprized of his condition. Deeply grieved on beholding the fatal injuries he had received. the mistress of the house supported his fainting form, and conducting him to her bust bedroom, made him as comfortable as circumstances would permit, until his uncle should arrive. On receipt of this sad intelligence. Sir John Ayton lost not a moment in hastening to his nephew's bedside; and so shocked was he at the appearance he presented, that he ordered a man-servant whom he had brought with him to start instantly for Cupar, and fetch a surgeon. The man returned with the intelligence that the dragoons had given positive orders to the effect that no medical man was to leave Cupar on any pretext whatever; upon which Sir John Ayton, frantic at the delay, despatched another messenger to appeal to the dragoons in behalf of the dying man. In answer to this, a party of soldiers was sent with instructions to convey him to Cupar. In vain Sir John Ayton protested against the cruelty, not to say impossibility, of removing a man in his condition to Cupar, which was distant three miles; in vain he offered them bail, or to entertain them until surgeons were brought who could advise them what to do. Deaf to all his entreaties, and utterly regardless of the consequences, they placed the unfortunate young man on horseback and hurried him away to Cupar. Four times during the journey Andrew Ayton fainted through loss of blood, but still no emotions of pity were excited in the breasts of his conductor. On arriving at their destination, the magistrates, in consideration of his enfeebled state of health, permitted him to be conveyed to an inn, instead of a prison. Mr. and Mrs. Ayton, who had also been made aware of what had happened, set off instantly for Cupar. On entering the room where her son lay apparently in the agonies of death, Mrs. Ayton's fortitude gave way, and she threw herself on his breast, sobbing as if her heart would break.

"Do not grieve, dearest mother," said Andrew Ayton; "my time on earth has indeed been short, but God has willed it so, and we must not repine."

"My son! my beloved son!" was all the anguished mother could utter, while his father stood the image of mute despair.

"And must I then die without seeing Mary Cunninghame?" continued the dying man, "her whom I was flying to rejoin when the cruel ball penetrated as it were to my very heart? ..... Oh, it seems hard, hard to be thus cut off in early youth, when hope shone the brightest, and happiness seemed within my reach. Mother, mother!" he gasped, "I must see her once more; methinks I could close my eyes in peace could I but gaze for one short moment in her sweet face, and tell her we should meet again."