“These are the words of delirium,” said Katharine, “and I will not set them down as spoke by you. Pray the Almighty that they may never be written in his book of remembrance against you; for the veriest downfallen fiend can do no more than distrust the mercy of God in a Redeemer. I tell you, woman, that whatever you may fancy you have seen or heard in the darkness of night, when imagination forms fantasies of its own, of all those who have stood for our civil and religious liberties, who, for the sake of a good conscience, have yielded up all, and sealed their testimony with their blood, not one hair of their heads shall fall to the ground, for their names are written in the book of life, and they shall shine as stars in the kingdom of their Father. You have yourself suffered much, and have rejoiced in your sufferings—So far you did well—Do not then mar so fair an eternal harvest—so blest a prospect of a happy and everlasting community, by the sin of despair, that can never be forgiven. Can you, for a moment, while in possession of your right senses, doubt of the tender mercies of your Maker and Preserver? Can you for a moment believe that he has hid his face from the tears and the blood that have been shed for his cause in Scotland? As well may you doubt that the earth bears or the sun warms you, or that he never made a revelation of his will to man.”
All the while that Katharine spoke thus, Nanny’s eyes were fixed on her, as if drinking every word she uttered into a soul that thirsted for it. A wild and unstable light beamed on her countenance, but it was still only like a sun–beam breaking through the storm, which is ready to be swallowed up by the rolling darkness within. Her head shook as with a slight paralytic affection, and she again clasped the hand which she had never quitted.
“Are ye an angel o’ light,” said she, in a soft tremulous voice, “that ye gar my heart prinkle sae wi’ a joy that it never thought again to taste? It isna then a strae nor a stibble that I hae grippit at for my last hope, but the tap of a good tow–widdy saugh; an’ a young sapling though it be, it is steevely rootit in a good soil, an’ will maybe help the poor drowning wretch to the shore!—An’ hae I thought sae muckle ill o’ you? Could I deem that mild heavenly face, that’s but the reflection o’ the soul within, the image o’ sin and o’ Satan, an’ a veil o’ deceit thrawn ower a mind prone to wickedness? Forgie me, dear, dear saint, forgie me! It surely canna be condemned spirits that ye are connectit wi? Ah, ye’re dumb there!—ye darna answer me to that! Na, na! the spirits o’ the just made perfect wad never leave their abodes o’ felicity to gabble amang derksome fiends at the dead hour o’ the night, in sic a world o’ sin and sorrow as this. But I saw him, an’ heard him speak, as sure as I see your face an’ hear the tones o’ my ain voice; an’, if I lookit nae wrang, there were mae risen frae the dead than ane. It is an awfu’ dispensation to think o’! But there was a spirit o’ retaliation in him that often made me quake, though never sae as now. O wad ye but tell me what kind o’ spirits ye are in conjunction wi’?”
“None but the blest and the happy—None but they who have come out of great tribulation, and washed their robes white in the blood of the Lamb—None that would harbour such a thought, or utter such a doubt, as you have done to–night, for the empire of the universe—More I may not tell you at present; but stay you here with me, and I will cherish you, and introduce you to these spirits, and you shall be happier with them than ever you have been.”
“Will I sae?—Say nae mair!—I wad pit hand to my ain life the night, an’ risk the warst or I again met wi’ them face to face in the same guise as I saw them at midnight last week. Ye’re a wonderfu’ creature! But ye’re ayont my depth; therefore I’ll love ye, an’ fear ye, an’ keep my distance.”
Thus they parted: Katharine into her long vacant house, and Nanny over to Riskinhope. The farmer of Riskinhope (David Bryden of Eldin–hope), was ruined by the sequestration of his stock by Clavers, but the shepherds and other servants still lingered about the house for better or for worse. There was not a sheep on that large farm, save about five scores of good ewes, that Davie Tait, the herd of Whithope, had turned slyly over into the hags of the Yokeburn–head, that day the drivers took away the stock. When Clavers made his last raid up by Chapelhope, all the family of Riskinhope fled to the hills, and betook them to cover, every one by himself; and there, with beating hearts, peeped through the heath and the rash–bush, to watch the motions of that bloody persecutor. Perilous was their case that day, for had any of them been found in that situation, it would have been enough; but Davie well knew it was good for him to keep out of the way, for Mr Renwick, and Mr Shields, as well as other wanderers, had been sheltered in his house many a night, and the latter wrote his Hind let Loose in a small house at the side of Winterhopeburn. Yet Davie was not a Cameronian, properly speaking, nor a very religious man neither; but the religious enthusiasm of his guests had broke him a little into their manner, and way of thinking. He had learned to make family exercise, not however to very great purpose, for the only thing very remarkable in it was the strong nasal Cameronian whine of his prayer, and its pastoral allusions; but he was grown fond of exhibiting in that line, having learned the Martyr’s tune, and the second part of the Dundee, which formed the whole range of his psalmody! Yet Davie liked a joke as well as ever he did, and perhaps as well as any part of divine worship. When one remarked to him that his family music was loud enough, but very discordant,—“Ay,” quoth Davie, “but it’s a lang gate atween here an’ Heaven; a’ music’s good i’ the distance; I hae strong faith in that. I hae some hope i’ Dan’s bass too; it has great effect. I was wantin him to tak some salts an’ sinny leaf to help it a wee.”
That night after Nanny came over, Davie had prayed as usual, and among other things, had not forgot the Brownie of Bodsbeck, that “he might be skelpit wi’ the taws o’ divine wrath, an’ sent back to hell wi’ the sperks on his hips; and that the angel of presence might keep watch over their couches that night, to scare the howlaty face o’ him away, an’ learn him to keep his ain side o’ the water.”
After prayers the family were crowded round the fading ingle, and cracking of the Brownie and of Davie’s prayer. Davie had opened his waistcoat, and thrown off his hose to warm his feet, and, flattered with their remarks on his abilities, began to be somewhat scurrilous on Brownie. “I think I hae cowed him the night,” said he; “he’ll fash nane o’ us—he may stay wi’ his Keatie Laidlaw yonder, an’ rin at her biddin. He has a sonsy weel–faur’d lass to bide wi’—he’s better aff than some o’ his neighbours, Maysey;” and, saying so, he cast a look to his wife that spoke unutterable things; but finding that his joke did not take, after so serious a prayer, he turned again on Brownie, and, as his own wife said, “didna leave him the likeness of a dog.” He said he had eaten sax bowes o’ good meal to the goodman, an’ a’ that he had done for’t, that ony body kend o’, was mending up an auld fail–dike round the corn ae night. In short, he said he was an unprofitable guest—a dirty droich, an’ a menseless glutton—an’ it was weak an’ silly in ony true Christian to be eiry for him. He had not said out the last words, when they heard a whispering at the door, and shortly after these words distinctly uttered:
“There’s neither blood nor rown–tree pin,
At open doors the dogs go in.”
The size of every eye’s orbit was doubled in a moment, as it turned towards the door. The light of the fire was shining bright along the short entry between the beds, and they saw the appearance of a man, clothed in black, come slowly and deliberately in, walk across the entry, and go into the apartment in the other end of the house. The family were all above one another in beyond the fire in an instant, and struggling who to be undermost, and next the wall. Nanny, who was sitting on the form beyond the fire, pondering on other matters, leaning her brow on both hands, and all unconscious of what had entered, was overborne in the crush, and laid flat undermost of all.