Chapter Two - Harribee Home

by Amelia A. Barr
Edited by Amber Moeller

"Their free-bred soul
Went not with priests to school,
To trim the tippet and the stole
And pray by printed rule.
But they would cast the eager word
From their heart's fiery core,
Smoking and red, as God had stirred
The Hebrew men of Yore."
~ Prof. Blackie

"The world which seems
To lie before us like a lands of dreams
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
No certitude, nor pace, nor help for pain;
And here we are, as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight."

Harribee Home was about three miles from Castle Graeme; a long gray house of rough granite, with a high roof of red tiles, green and yellow with lichens. In front of it, there was an old-fashioned terraced garden, shaded by sombre yew trees and divided through the center by wide grass-grown steps. A strip of rich land lay between the garden and Esk water, and on this spring evening it was all the mist of green with growing corn. But behind the house, and "up the waters" was the vast and desolate places of the shepherds; a great silent table--land of heather and turf, seamed here and there with a green valley, or broken by the catrail-–that mysterious wall and boundary of an unknown race–-while on the horizon, blue and afar off, were the distant mountains that ringed around this "land of the leal."

The house itself was only remarkable for the rude strength of the age in which it was built. Its rooms were all composed of massive stone, and heavy beams and boards of oak, and with closed doors and windows it was capable of being long defended. For before the days of Richard Cameron the Harribees had been noted riders, and their blue bonnets over the English border had meant for the Cumberland or Westmoreland shepherds inevitable scaith and loss. But with the persecuted preachers a new spirit entered the house, and the grim gray keep, that had been so long the gathering-place of wild and lawless men, became a safe rendezvous and resting-place for the hunted saints. For the Harribees were men of whole minds; whatever case they espoused it was theirs, for hands or purse, for life or death.

They had never been counted of noble birth, though as moss-troppers they had held that pre-eminence which among fighting men is ever awarded to personal strength and bravery.

"On the borders were the Harribees, able men, Very, unruly, and very ill to tame,"

had been truly enough said of them until the word of the preachers found them out. Then they had exchanged raiding and riding for a leadership in the ranks of those iron apostles whom God sends in iron times to prepare His way.

On all the slopes around Harribee Home they had stood with the Covenanting men, joining heartily both their solemn chant and their startling war-cry. They had left men at Airs Moss, at Drumclog, and Bothwell Brig. Dunnottair's dungeon solitude had heard their prayers, and the Bass Rock attested their long suffering. Nor was their struggle only a brightly barren one. A single death for truth and freedom makes millions the heritors of truth and freedom, and the men who achieved through martyrdom an independent creed gave to the pastoral Pentland falls, the Lothian plains, and the dales of the border, the noblest of all claims to renown:

"God's saints died here and gained the martyr's crown."

But in worldly matters also the Harribees were not unprosperous. They possessed within the butts and bounds of their estate a thousand acres of land without a due upon it; mostly under cattle and sheep, but growing in the lower and more sheltered valleys sufficient grain and grass for the wants of the farm.

Early in the present century Matthew Harribee came in to his heritage. He was the son of David Harribee who had followed Cumberland's troopers to Culloden. Not without a pang had he drawn his sword against his native prince, and the Stuarts were the enemies of his faith, and "Jerusalem which is above," was the native land of his soul. Between religious conviction and national prejudice, David Harribee could not have a moment's hesitation. Still he thanked God that his son Matthew's life had fallen in pleasanter and more peaceful times; for when he gave up the farm to him persecution was over, liberty of conscience assured, the Stuart dynasty--source of so much woe--nothing but a passionate remembrance.

However, Matthew was heir to the nature and traditions of his family, as well as to their house and land. He was a stern man, living under circumstances when sternness was not the quality most desirable. Every one was respected, though few loved him; but Matthew Harribee was not a man whose happiness depended upon popular estimation. To do his duty and be at peace with his own conscience were more to him than the doffing of bonnets on the roadside or the "cracking" of friends at his ingle.

He did not marry until his father's death made him master of Harribee, and he was then nearly forty years of age; so that people wondered greatly when Maggie Renwick, a timid gentle woman, frail and lovely as a Cheviot blue-bell, chose him from among handsomer and richer suitors. But Maggie made no mistake. Her heart divined that Matthew, though but a silent wooer, loved her with an intensity and depth for which earth had no language and time no measure.

They had many children, but the majority inherited their mother's delicate frame and died early. Two daughters only had reached womanhood, and it was upon the eldest, the fair and stately Faith Harribee, that Lord Tilbert Graeme had set his heart. Agnes, her sister, was but a lassie of seventeen, a bonnie lassie, every one called her, unable to find any other term to express their sense of a beauty more easily felt than described.

Between Agnes and the babe, yet in his mother's arms, there was a wide interval, bridged only by the small green graves in the kirkyard. But this babe was the darling of the house. He had come as the recompense for so many. He was the only living son, the heir to the house, and land, and name. Matthew Harribee's fondest hopes were in him, and for him. A boy-child had always been greatly valued in the dales, and this was a sturdy little fellow, calm and wide-eyed, with the peculiar square, strong countenance, which Matthew in his heart, proudly recognized as the Harribee face.

On that spring night on which Miss Terres Graeme sat lonely in Graeme Castle, haunted by memories she would gladly have put far from her, Agnes Harribee was rocking this babe to sleep. He lay in his wooden cradle and Agnes knelt by his side, gently swaying it, to the song she sang–a simple, rather plaintive little ballad–-but the child seemed to like it. He gazed at her with round, wondering eyes, and made a low, chirming, continuous sound that blended very sweetly with the rustic words and melody:

"Braw, braw, lad on Yarrow braes,
Ye wander thro' the blooming heather,
But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws
Can match the lads of Galla Water.

"But there is ane, a secret ane;
Aboon them a' that I love better,
And I'll be his, and he'll be mine,
The bonnie lad o' Galla Water."

"Whist!" Agnes, dearie. Your fayther doesna lie thae sangs. I wonder whar you learnt them at a'? I wonder at your singing them!"

"I wonder mysel', mither, sometimes. They're down i' my heart someway, and afore I ken they are at my lips, and out of them."

"Is the bairn asleep?"

Ay, he's o'er the border line, God bless him!"

"Then lay the supper cloth, and tell Kirsty to bring in a basket o' peat and a bit o' bright wood for the fire. Your fayther will be cold and hungry when he gets down the fells."

"He is late the night."

"Ay, he is late. There are good many ewes and lambs to fold, and he doesna trust the hired shepherd."

"I'll soon hae a' ready, mither. Sit down and rest yoursel' a wee. You are aye working."

"Weel, that is right, Agnes. Folks must work today, for there's nane can tell hoo far they may be hindered tomorrow. Quick, my lassie! I hear your fayther's voice in the barnyard."

In a few minutes Matthew Harribee entered the house-place. There was a flicker of light on his grave face as he came within the pleasant influence of the cheerful ingle, and the calm eyes lifted with a silent welcome to meet him. But he did not speak at once, and no one dreamed of interfering with his thoughts.

Presently his eyes rested on the sleeping boy and his face softened. The sweet sense of human love gave him the desire for human sympathy, and he said:

"It was vera raw and damp on the fells, and I am gay tired tramping after the ewes. They're wilfu', silly creatures–-the prophet kent us weel when he said, we a' went astray like sheep, ilka ane turning his ain way. It is a true observe. Isaiah would hae been amang the sheep faulds himsel', nae doubt, nae doubt."

"You are a gude shepherd, Matthew, and you are a kind man to the beasts. I heard ye in the stable and the barnyard."

"Ay, I like to see they hae their supper. Evening oats are good morning fodder; and the servant's hand may do, if the master's eye is on it. Noo, I'll hae my ain bite and sup, for I hae a word or twa to say after it. Ca' the lasses in, Maggie. Hae you seen Faith within the hour?"

"Faith is in the dairy. The wark is late tonight, for she went o'er the Kirtle Farm to get a few cuts o' fine yarn for me. She didna get back as soon as she should hae done, and there's a sight of milk now, gudeman. So she is a bit behind-hand tonight."

"Ay, I thocht that."

"But I hear her footfalls--" and with these words Faith Harribee entered. She had on her dairy dress, a striped linsey petticoat, and a calico josey, with the sleeves fastened above the elbows. But no one who looked at Faith thought of her dress. Whatever she wore seemed to be precisely the fitting garment for her, for her figure was so fine, her countenance so brave and bright, her manner so calm, that she inspired at once a sense of strength, and pleasure, and sweet fitness for the occasion.

Yet her mother, who knew every light and shadow of her daughter's face, perceived, or perhaps felt, that something unsual was on Faith's mind. Still she did not connect it with the "word and twa" Matthew Harribe had forespoken, until he said,

"If the day's work is o'er, sit down, lasses. Faith, I hae a question to ask you. How lang hae ye been keeping tryste wi' yonder black lord o' Graeme?"

"Never ance hae I kept tryste with him, father. He met me tonight on Kirtle brow, and he lighted from his horse, and spake some words to me I didna want to hear."

"I thocht that. I was on the Preacher's Stane aboon you, and though I couldna hear his words, I kent weel the meaning o' Graeme's doffing his beaver, and bending his proud head to a bonnie lassie's face. I kent weel what lying flatteries and beguiling words he was saying; and his outstretched hand, ringed wi' diamonds, and gloved wi' kid-skin, I kent weel what way it would lead a silly lass that heeded him."

"I heeded no word he said. And you should think better of Faith Harribee than to mis-doubt her. Graeme asked me to marry him, plump and plain, he asked me to marry him, and I said that was a thing that never could be."

"It was a great honor to you, Faith," said the mother timidly, and a little flash of pleasure stole into her white cheeks.

"You ken naething o' what ye are saying, gude wife;" and Matthew turned almost fiercely on the offending speaker. "If Beelzebub sought you for a mither-in-law, would you mince and mou, and say it was a great honor? Yet diels and bad men are kith and kin, and they think the same thochts, and do the same warks. Wha ever kent a gude Graeme? The sins o' a' their generations are on them. They are fause to baith Scots and English, Stuart and German, and they keepit their heads and their lands by lying and bribery. They were with the brutal Dalzell and Claverhouse against the saints, and their blood is on the doorstep o' Castle Graeme, and on the hand o' its lords; for the present lord has justified his fathers in my ain hearing, and said he would hae done sae, and mair too, had he lived in their day. I dinna doot it, not a minute's space. Sae speak nae mair to him, this nor that, and gie him neither your hand nor your good-day."

"You hae been ceevil to him yoursel', Matthew, and you hae bought and sold with him."

There's a difference, a vera great difference, atween selling a few ewes or a bull-calf to a man, and gieing him your ain daughter, the bairn you pledged to God in baptism, and that was saved by the blood o' the Holy One. Faith Harribee is the seed o' the saints and the martyrs. It would be even down sin to give her to a Graeme!"

"I wouldna gie mysel' to him, fayther; though maybe I dinna think sae badly o' him as you do."

She spoke with a grace and quiet decision, and Matthew felt a little shame over his unusual and uncalled-for excitement. His voice fell into its ordinary tones, and he answered, "I believe you, Faith; so there is nae mair to be said on that head, and we'll settle our hearts wi' a thocht or twa frae God's Book. Gie it to me, and ca' ben the lads an' lasses." They came sleepily in, tired with their hard outdoor labor, and feeling "the exercise" to be just a little trial. But as soon as Matthew opened the volume and said, "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want," the familiar illustration went straight to each comprehension; and with patient bovine faces, on which there was a glimmer of expectation, they looked straight at the master. "My shepherd!" he said, "like as if the Lord had only one sheep and that sheep was you, or you, or me." Then he read the whole psalm through, and added, "Sandy, you and I and Baldy ken weel what silly things sheep are, and what a hard time we shepherds do have wi' them. They're always in trouble, the heat parches them, and the cold freezes them, and the snow smoors them, and the dogs worry them, and the flies are death to them. And just such a worrisome flock the Lord has here in Harribee Home, but He is a shepherd. He says we shall not want. He are to lie down in green pastures by the still waters. You ken vera weel that sheep dinna lie down if they are hungry, or if the torrents are roaring down the fells; sae you can understan' that you are promised baith plenty and safety. Sae gang to your beds and sleep in peace, for there's naething to fear you, wi' such a shepherd--and it willna do you any harm, my lads, if you'll keep mind hoo the Lord tak's tent o' his sheep, and ever try to do your ain sma' duties a bit better the morn. Gude-night, and the Lord be wi' you all." But though thus pleasantly dismissed to sleep, Faith and Agnes did not readily feel able to accept the blessing. Faith perceived that something unpleasant was influencing her sister. She sat, almost sullenly combing her long yellow hair, and there was undoubtedly a rebellious expression upon her usually happy face. And as Agnes was ever ready to talk upon passing events, Faith was astonished at her silence regarding the Graeme's proposal. She did not care to open the subject herself, but she was quite ready to give her confidence to her sister, if Agnes desired it. And she could not help glancing with a curiosity in which there was a slight feeling of offense, at the companion who affected so little interest in a circumstance singular and unexpected.

But though Faith lingered somewhat about her preparations for the night, Agnes sat in the same dour attitude, mechanically passing the comb through her loosened hair, but evidentally unmindful of what her hands were about, and indifferent to every thing but the gloomy and resentful thoughts she was indulging.

At last Faith said, "I'm no caring to wait all night for you, Agnes. Why dinna you come awa' to your bed?"

Agnes answered in a low passionate burst of weeping. She laid her arms upon the small dressing table, buried her face in them, and sobbed with a provoking unreason.

I'll hae to go for mother, Agnes, if you willna tell me what is troubling you. You shouldna be keeping folks waking with a fear you can lighten by a word. Wha is there that loves you as I do? And wha would do mair to pleasure you in a' lawfu' ways? What ails you at a', Agnes?"

She came to her side, and she stooped to the weeping girl whispering her name softly with those light soothing intonations the strong involuntarily use toward the weak.

"I am meeserable, Faith. Fayther's words against the Graeme have maist broken my heart."

Faith's face flushed crimson as she asked, "has he been saying foolish things to you, also, Agnes? Never mind him, dearie, we baith ken, that he is naught at a' but a bad man."

"Oh! You are aye thinking o' yoursel', Faith! What do I care for the Graeme? I hate the vera sight o' him. A hard, cauld uncle is he to poor Roland!"

"Roland! Poor Roland! Agnes, Agnes, I hope you are na heeding Roland Graeme! That would be worse than a'."

"Why would it be worse than a'? Roland has been coming to Harribee ever since he was ten years auld."

"Tak' care o' yourself, Agnes, and dinna say too much. When the lad first came to the castle, a poor motherless, fatherless, friendless bairn, and not a welcome nor a bit o' love for him anywhere, our mother's heart was sorry for him. You ken it was just a mother's pity made her often gie him a full meal, and mend his claithes, and listen to his bairnhood's sorrows. And our fayther had a kind heart, he didna choose to see what he didna care to hinder; but noo Roland is a gay young man, and there's no very good say-so's anent him coming frae London."

"Whose say-so's? Only the black-hearted Graeme's. Roland and I played together many a long summer-day; and I ken what Roland is. He has loved me ever since I was six years auld, and I hae loved him likewise; and he is coming this vera summer to ask fayther to let me marry me. And then to hear the way fayther went on at the Graemes. I dinna think it's Christian to be sae bitter to dead folk. Roland says, if fayther had been born a Graeme he would hae done as the Graemes did."

"You are a wicked lassie to listen to Roland Graeme putting your ain fayther amang the warst men that Scotland e'er saw,-–and there's nae sense either in such reasoning; Nane at a'! It would be as wise like to say if the angel Gabriel had been the deil he would hae done as the deil did. And as for loving a man like Roland Graeme its no to be thought of."

"What for no? Mother wasna sae much opposed to you wedding wi' Roland's uncle. She said it was a great honor. You heard her, Faith?"

"It was a moment's thought o' the castle and the title. It was mother-like to be wishing her child a fine lady, but mother isna ane to give way to a temptation for mair than a moment:-–forbye there would be no honor o' any kind in being the wife o' Roland Graeme. You couldna offer a greater insult to your ain family, and to your forbears."

"I'm no caring for my forbears. Why should I? They dinna care for me."

"You are maybe mista'en, Agnes, anent that; but surely you are caring for your fayther and mother, and yoursel' and wee Davie. Fayther would count your marriage with Roland a disgrace no to be wiped out. It would hurt him through every generation of the Harribees. You must hae heard tell o' the shadow on Roland's birth."

"The puir lad isna to be blamed, nor shamed for his mother, Faith."

"Perhaps no, but it is a sad thing when a man does na like to speak of his ain mother. She was a Roman woman, born under the temporal and spiritual power, baith, o' the Pope; and she was ane o' them women that act in the-a-tres; and fayther wha thinks bad enough o' the Graeme stock, thinks o' Roland as the vera worst o' what was evil to start with. Agnes, dearie, you'll no dream of such a marriage. Naething but shame, and sorrow, and maybe death can follow it. For a blow like that would kill mother; you ken she hasna had a weel day since Davie was born, and her life is her bairns. I cannot think you'd lift your hand against mother."

"I think fayther is the most unreasonable ' mortals. There may be good Graemes, as well as good Harribees."

"You'll no gather any sweet apples off a crab tree; I'm thinking, Agnes."

"I dinna care. I hae promised Roland. And I'll not break faith with him."

She stood bravely to this position for a little while, then under pressure of Faith's entreaties, wavered; and finally amid many tears promised not to see Roland again. When he came to the castle, Faith was to explain every thing to him, and Faith really thought that the tie was but a youthful fancy, and would be easily broken.

To be continued...

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