whose hearts are opened to receive the word immediately and with
gladness. Conviction rather followed conversion than preceded it; and
she grew day by day, as well in the knowledge of her own sin as in that
of her Saviour’s grace.
She was about to leave the room, and Jamie asked her whither she went.
“But to the guidwife wha bides in the top back room. Her wee bairnie’s
vera ill the day.”
“God grant it’s no the sickness.”
“Na, na; but she couldna gang to the preaching, sae I hae promised to
tell her the sermon.”
“Nae harm in that,” said Janet. “But ye maunna bide wi’ her the haill
nicht, to help caring the bairn.”
“Did ye do that, Mary lass?” asked Jamie.
“Ay, did she, twice over,” said Janet.
“Weel, the puir thing was sair troubled and forfoughten. And she has
naebody to fend for her; her guidman’s at the sea.”
When she was gone, Janet remarked to her brother—
“Wad ye think, Jamie, it was the same lass that used to sit at yon wheel
a wee while ago, like a puir dead thing, wi’ neither wish nor care for
hersel or onybody else?”
Jamie shook his head.
“I wonner,” he said, “how ane can keep sic’ a bricht face and happy
heart in the midst of a’ this fear and trouble.”
“It’s naebut she frets hersel whiles, because she’s sorning upon us, as
she says.”
“Hoot awa’!” cried Jamie indignantly. “Ye’re no worth a plack, Janet
woman, gin ye let the lassie think _that_. She has brought us nought but
comfort and blessing.”
“That’s owre true, Jamie; forbye she’s unco quick and handy in fending
for the bairns, and sic’ like. Sin’ the time she cheered up sae
wonnerfu’ hersel, she’s no had a thocht but to save and help us a’ she
could. And it’s clear she maun bide wi’ us, for she couldna find a
service the noo’, let her seek as she may.”
Jamie expressed his entire acquiescence, even more by his looks than by
his words.
“Ony ither time idle folk might hae their clavers, ye ken,” Janet added,
with a little hesitation.
“What care I for that?” said Jamie. “Not ane bodle. Forbye, the hand o’
God is upon us; and the folk wha he has brought thegither, to help and
comfort ane anither in this sair distress, maun just be thankfu’ an’
bide as he pleases. Gin he send us better days—” But here he stopped
abruptly, either because he was a man of few words, and had already said
more than his wont, or because some purpose was stirring in his heart,
to which as yet he did not choose to give words at all.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
V.
=More Fruits of the Message.=
“God took thee in his arms, a lamb untasked, untried;
He fought the fight for thee, He won the victory;—
And thou art sanctified.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
V.
=More Fruits of the Message.=
As day after day passed quietly on, the Duncans began to hope, with
trembling, that they were destined to escape the sufferings which
surrounded them on every side. But they were to enjoy no such happy
immunity; the fiery trial had its work to do for them as for others, and
they must needs pass through it. At first, however, it did not assume
the form they most dreaded, but one to which they were already in some
degree inured.
One morning Jamie returned from his master’s shop at an unusual hour;
coming in with his blue bonnet pulled over his face, and his whole
demeanour showing that something was amiss.
Janet, who was giving Archie and Effie their “morning pieces,” turned
round, and uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“Maister dee’d this morn at the fourth hour,—God’s guid will be done!”
said Jamie, uncovering his head.
“Wae’s me!” cried Janet, dropping her arms by her side. “There’s our
bread gane again.”
Little Effie began to cry; and Archie, who would not of course
condescend to any such demonstration, certainly looked mournful enough.
Both well knew what it was to want for bread.
“We’re no waur than mony ither puir folk,” said Jamie. “And we maun just
thole[6] it as we may, and thank the guid Lord wha hae keepit us frae
the sickness.”
“It’s no true that we’re like the lave,” said Archie. “Ither puir folk
’ill beg for bread and get it,—but the Duncans never beg;” and the boy
held up his head proudly.
Nor did he say more than the truth. The Duncans had their faults; but
they were brave and honest, as well as strongly attached to each other.
The noble struggle made by James and Janet to keep the family together
after their father’s death, had developed and strengthened these
qualities. They had learned to endure privation cheerfully, to practise
self-denial for each other’s sakes; and when things were at the worst,
not to lose courage, but to look hopefully for better days.
It was now the time to put all these lessons into practice. Not poverty
alone, but starvation, seemed before them. Most of the resources to
which the poor betake themselves in the day of need were cut off by the
state of the city. Provisions were at famine price, so that “mony people
died with great scant and want of victuallis.” Employment could not be
had; nor was it even easy to barter their clothes and furniture for
food, on account of the terror of infection which everywhere prevailed.
And yet they would not beg. Those who survived to tell the tale in
happier times, found it difficult to understand how they lived on from
day to day. As Jamie said, “they tholed it as they might.” Each spared
the other, and Jamie, as far as possible, spared them all. He was
naturally somewhat of a despot, and his circumstances had fostered this
tendency. His despotism now assumed the form of an obstinate
determination to bear the worst of every privation himself; nor could
Janet ever prevail on him to allow their scanty provisions to be divided
on the good old principle of “share and share alike.” He always said he
was a man, and “the lassies and the bairns maun be thocht on first.”
He was much less irritable and impatient than he had been when without
employment on a former occasion. This was partly perhaps because Archie
tried him less. The boy had a new interest now; and although not deeply
impressed by what he heard, he still preferred a preaching at the East
Port to a stolen game of play in the streets, or a visit to the quays.
The same influence told, and in a greater degree, upon every other
member of the family. No sudden change took place in either Jamie or
Janet; but both kept the words they heard, and pondered them in their
hearts. What was more important, both prayed earnestly in secret; Jamie
asking for light that he might find the Truth, while the burden of his
sister’s cry was ever this, “O Lord, I beseech thee, pardon mine
iniquity, for it is great.”
It was well for Mary Wigton that in this evil day her heart stayed
itself upon the Lord. It caused her bitter grief to feel that she added
daily to the privations of her kind and generous friends. Much did she
ponder, and often did she pray that she might be shown some way out of
the difficulty. But what was she to do? She could not, in the present
state of things, hope to obtain any employment; especially as she had
not, except the Duncans, a single friend in the city. Once or twice she
thought of applying to Wilson; but she felt she could scarcely hope that
a man who had treated her father with so much injustice would prove a
friend to her in the time of need. Perhaps the idea would not even have
occurred to her, were it not that she had frequently seen him amongst
the crowd at the East Port, where he seemed not only an attentive, but
sometimes a deeply affected listener. Still it did not appear to her
that any good was likely to result from an application to him.
One morning she succeeded, to her great satisfaction, in disposing of
some little article of personal decoration, a relic of more prosperous
times. Having purchased a loaf of bread, she brought it to the Duncans
with a pleasant anticipation of Archie and Effie’s delight. But she had
no sooner opened the door of their room than she drew back in surprise
and alarm. Jamie stood at the window, shading his face with his hand. He
did not notice her, but Archie, who was beside him, turned quickly
round, and she saw that his eyes were red with weeping. Janet was in
another part of the room, bending over Effie’s little bed. Before Mary
could find breath to ask what was amiss, Archie touched his brother’s
arm, and said softly, “It’s Mary.”
The young man started, and looked towards her, his face pale and
quivering with emotion. In another moment he took her hand, led her from
the room, and gently closed the door.
“Mary, lass,” he said, “we’re stricken vera sair. It’s the bairn Effie,
our youngest. Wae’s me! I didna think o’ fearing for her.”
Is it not often thus? Is not the keen arrow sure to smite us through
some “joint in the harness,” at some point where we never thought of
strengthening ourselves?
“Is she vera ill?” asked Mary.
Jamie shook his head. “I canna thole to part with her,” he said
presently. “She was the wee bairn o’ the house, the bit plaything wi’ us
a’. We fought through the hard times thegither, and kept her frae scaith
and sorrow as we could. An’ noo—just in ane day, wi’ this cruel
sickness—oh, Mary, it’s owre hard!”
“Oh, Jamie, dinna say that. It’s the Lord sends it. It’s his ain
hand—‘His ain gentill visitation that man cannot eke or paire,’[7] as
guid Maister Wishart says.”
“It’s the Lord sends it?” repeated Jamie, and he raised his head and
gazed upwards as one who earnestly looks for something he cannot see.
“Does the Lord care about us ava’?” At another time he would not have
said this; but in that moment of agony the gnawing doubt hidden far down
in his heart rose to the surface, and forced itself into words.
“Is it the blessed Lord Jesus wha dee’d for us? Jamie, lad, he cares for
us mair than we care for our ainsels. He kens a’ about ye, and how loath
ye are to part wi’ the bairn; and maybe—” Here her own voice faltered,
but after a moment she resumed, “I maun gang in to Janet.”
“Na, na! Dinna gae in—whaur’s the use?”
“Oh, Jamie, ye wadna say that! Is it to bid me awa’, and ye all in sic’
trouble?”
Jamie considered a moment, then opened the door. “Be it sae,” he said.
“For guid or ill we maun bide thegither.”
Mary entered the sick room; and with that quiet self-possession which in
a sick room is such a treasure, she spoke to Janet, and took counsel
with her as to what they should do.
A physician seemed unattainable; but many panaceas, under the names of
plague water, plague pills, plague elixir, &c., were popularly believed
in, and might be purchased at a trifling expense. Most people maintained
the sovereign efficacy of some one or other of these, nor was Janet any
exception to the rule. She was very anxious to procure her favourite
remedy; and the remainder of the sum obtained by Mary for her silver
brooch was appropriated to this purpose. Archie was despatched to the
shop, and it is needless to say he did not linger upon this errand. But
when he returned his little playfellow no longer recognised him. Her
mind, like a shattered mirror, reflected only confused and broken
fragments of the experience of her young life. She talked of merry games
with Archie, of walks along the heathery slopes of the Law, of easy
household tasks performed under Janet’s direction. But there ran through
all, like a silver thread through some dark pattern, words of childlike
trust in “the guid Lord Jesus, the blessed Saviour.” Now and then it was
a text of Scripture, or some simple saying out of one of the sermons she
had heard, but oftener still the words were those of prayer.
At length there was a gleam of returning consciousness. Seeing her
favourite brother beside her, she asked him to take her in his arms.
Jamie did so, with a calm face but a heavy heart, for by this time they
all “perceived that the Lord had called the child.”
“Effie, dear, do ye ken ye’re vera ill?” he asked.
The child’s blue eyes sought his wistfully, perhaps wonderingly. At last
she said softly, “Yes.”
“Are ye no fear’t, darling?”
“What for? The Lord Jesus ’ill take care o’ me.”
“What gars ye think that, bairnie?”
“The minister tald me at the gate. The Lord Jesus loves me. But I’m unco
tired, Jamie.”
The blue eyes closed wearily, the little head rested heavily upon
Jamie’s shoulder; and it was not long before the tired child slept—that
deep and quiet sleep from which they do not awake until the heavens be
no more. Many who remained might have envied her that tranquil rest.
“Short and narrow her life’s walk” had been; but long enough, since in
its brief span she had found Christ, or rather, had been found of Him.
Type of a vast multitude whom in all ages the Good Shepherd has carried
in his bosom; so keeping them, in his love and tenderness, that their
feet do not touch the waters of the dark river, nor their eyes even
behold the conflict and the anguish through which others have to pass.
Theirs is the crown almost without the cross. Thrice happy they! Yet
happier still are those who have come out of great tribulation, because
more closely conformed to the image of the Captain of their salvation,
and more highly privileged to work and to suffer for Him.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
VI.
=The Darkest Hour.=
“The corpse is calm below our knee,
Its spirit bright before Thee;
Between them, worse than either, we,
Without the rest or glory,—
Be pitiful, O God!”
E. B. BROWNING.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
VI.
=The Darkest Hour.=
On the following morning, the Duncans and Mary Wigton sat together in
the desolate stillness that succeeds bereavement. Already their dead had
been buried out of their sight,—buried hastily, by cold, unloving hands.
Nor might they even hope to visit the spot where she lay, for a common
and unhonoured grave must receive the victims of the pestilence. This
was one of the lesser sorrows in their cup. For the most part they sat
silent, neither weeping nor speaking, but thinking sadly of what they
had lost, and trembling for what still remained to them. For now that
one link in the chain was broken, it seemed as if all were loosened and
ready to fall asunder.
They were very helpless in their time of trouble. If they could have
prayed together, if they had possessed a copy of the Scriptures, it
would have fared better with them. But the Duncans were groping after
comfort in the dark; and even Mary, who knew more herself, was hardly
able to explain her own convictions to others, and shrank from the
attempt.
Archie was the first to suggest a thought of consolation. “Effie ’ill no
be hungry ony mair,” he said.
“True, callant,” answered Jamie; “and what for suld we greet? It’s
better far wi’ her than wi’ us the day.”
“But, Jamie,” said Janet, looking up with a puzzled, half-frightened
air, “what do you think about—purgatory?”
“Hoot! Is it that wee bairn, and she to dee as she did? I tell ye, I’d
gie a hantle siller, gin I had the same, for the lassie’s simple faith.
Na, na, my mind is clear; she’s wi’ the blessed saints this minute.”
“Nay, but wi’ the guid Saviour she loved sae weel,” said Mary. “Forbye,
I’m unco sure there’s nae sic place ava’ as purgatory. Gin the Lord were
to send his messenger for you or me the day, Janet (sae’s we believed
his Word), we’d gae right up to him; and neither sin, nor death, nor
Satan himsel, could keep us ane minute from his presence.”
“Eh, but that’s guid tidings,” said Janet.
“Ower guid to be true,” added Jamie. “At least, I’m no that certain yet.
Though,” he continued after a pause, “Maister Wishart does say, he has
‘oft and divers times read ower the Bible, yet such a term fand he
never, nor yet any place of Scripture applicable thereunto.’”
“And do ye no mind the braw words he tells us about the rest of God’s
children, and the guid hame Christ is keeping for them up in heaven?”
said Mary. “It’s enoo to make us lang to gae there oursels, and feel
like kneeling down to thank God for taking ane we love frae this sad
warld to that better place.”
There was a long silence, which Jamie broke. “It’s a’maist time for the
preaching.”
Every one looked surprised, and Janet said, “Ye’re no gaun the day,
Jamie?”
“Why suld we bide awa’? God’s hand is on us (his voice trembled), we’re
in sair trouble—is that a reason we’re no to gang to the ane place on
airth whaur we’re like to get comfort?”
“I’d a hantle rather gang than bide,” said Archie; and as the rest
appeared to agree with him, they began to prepare.
All were soon ready except Jamie himself. After rising to fetch his gown
and bonnet, he sat down again, looking very pale.
“What’s wrang wi’ ye?” asked Janet, in a frightened voice.
“Hoots! naething but a kind o’ dizziness. Dinna look sae fear’t, lass.”
“Aiblins it’s the hunger. Ye havena broken fast the day,” said Janet,
having recourse to Mary’s loaf.
But he rejected the food, and asked for water instead. Archie ran to
fetch it, and Jamie presently added, “Gang to the preaching, and dinna
mind me. I’ll try to sleep.”
But no one went to the preaching that day. Instead of listening to the
words of life, they sat in the chamber of sickness, soon perhaps to be
again the chamber of death. For the fiery arrow of the pestilence had
struck down their best and noblest, the prop and stay of the household.
The morning had risen in gloom upon the empty place of their youngest,
the child Effie, but that gloom seemed brightness itself compared with
the horror of the night.
Their hearts sank within them; from his first seizure they gave him up
for lost. Nor did he himself take a more cheerful view of his condition.
The attack differed considerably from those they had witnessed before;
though it still presented certain unmistakable symptoms marking it as
the dreaded sickness. There was no delirium, and but little acute
suffering, but there was a low wasting fever, and ever-increasing
exhaustion. There are cases, it has been said, “when a person has so
long and gradually imbibed the fatal poisons of an infected atmosphere,
that the resisting powers of nature have been insidiously and quietly
subdued.” Whether Jamie’s was really such or no, it looked very like it.
It seemed as if his frame, weakened by a long course of severe
privation, must sink and that speedily, beneath the attack of the
destroyer. Those around him longed, more than words can tell, for the
strong wine and nourishing food that they felt instinctively might save
him even yet. But what could they do?
Janet’s courage and calmness gave way when she saw this beloved brother
about to be snatched from her. Any other sorrow she could have
borne,—but this was too terrible. Once or twice the usually strong
self-possessed girl was obliged to leave Mary and Archie to watch by
that sick bed, whilst for a brief space she sought relief in tears. Mary
did all that was required of her; and if she learned to conceal a
breaking heart beneath a countenance that was almost cheerful, she did
no more than many women do every day. Yet Janet did not suffer more than
Mary, perhaps not so much. She never asked herself why this was so, or
whether it should be; it seemed quite natural and inevitable. They were
a family, bound together by the strong links that sorrow forges, and
what touched one touched all equally.
“Is it you, Mary?” asked the sick man upon one occasion when Mary kept
watch beside him. “I hae twa or three things that are vexing me sair,
aiblins ye could help me.”
“Dinna vex yersel noo, Jamie; but think o’ the guid Lord Jesus, wha
dee’d to tak’ yer sins awa’.”
“Eh, but that’s just it, Mary lass. I ken a’ about the blessed Lord wha
dee’d for sinners; but what’s that to me, sae lang’s I’m no sure _I’ll_
get the guid on’t? There’s bread enoo at the baxter’s, but we maun jist
starve for a’ that, gin we’ve no a plack to pay for it.”
“But He gies it to us, Jamie, ‘without money and without price.’”
“_Wha_ does He gie it to? O Mary! gin I couldna think it out an’ I
strong an’ weel, what chance hae I, noo that I lie here weak and
feckless, and canna put twa thochts thegither? The Lord hae mercy on me!
An’ I had a priest—”
“That wad do ye nae guid ava’, Jamie.”
“Wae’s me! I ken the same. I hae dooted lang; but noo I’m unco clear;
they’re nae better than idle paivies—the oil, and the cross, and sic’
like. But I maun hae _something_, Mary. Death’s a gruesome thing to look
at, and I’m sair afear’t.”
“Dinna fear, look on the Saviour’s face. ‘Only believe.’”
Very touching was Jamie’s wistful gaze of intense anxiety. “Is it ‘Only
believe,’ Mary? Can I mak siccar there’s naething mair to do? Forbye,
what’s the right gait to believe?”
“To believe is naething but to trust. It’s to trust the guid Lord as I’d
trust ye or Janet—(anely a hantle mair)—kenning weel as I do that ye’d
no wrang me, but keep yer ain promise fast. Whilk promise frae God is
just this, ‘I’ll forgie yer transgressions, and yer sins an’ iniquities
I’ll remember nae mair.’”
“Mary, could ye pray for me?”
Mary first lifted up her own heart in silent supplication; and then said
in a low voice, “I’ll try.”
But at that moment Archie, who had stretched himself in a corner of the
room to make up for a lost night’s rest, startled them both by showing
he had heard the conversation.
“Eh, Jamie!” he cried, thrusting up his head, “_I’d_ do mair for ye than
a’ that.”
As no one replied to this strange announcement, he went on: “What for
suld I no just gang to guid Maister Wishart and ask him to come and see
ye? Nae doot but he’d do it, for the love o’ God; and he’d tell ye a’
the things ye’re speiring after.”
This audacious proposal, as Mary considered it, fairly took away her
breath; while it brought a moment’s colour to Jamie’s pale face. “Is it
for the like o’ me?” he said; “a puir baxter lad! Callant, ye’re clean
daft.”
“I’m no daft ava’. He gaes to waur than us, aft an’ aft. Ye’re in
trouble and hae the sickness—”
“And hae the sickness!” repeated Jamie indignantly. “Guid reason _that_
to bring him here! Na, na, Archie, let me fend as I may, I’ll no hae the
precious life that’s help and comfort to sae mony risked for me. What
wad we a’ do without him? He’s just like ane licht in a dark sky to the
puir folk in this stricken toun.” He was growing excited, and might have
injured himself, had not Janet re-entered the room at that moment. She
looked pale and haggard; and when, at Jamie’s request, she brought him a
drink of water, she could not help expressing her sorrow that she had
nothing better to give him.
“Weel,” said the sick man with a sigh half sorrowful, half resigned, “we
maun thole it. It’s no for sae lang.”
Shortly afterwards he fell asleep, and Mary beckoned Janet from the
room, leaving Archie with his brother.
“Janet,” she said, as they stood together in the passage, “something
maun be done.”
“I dinna ken what to do, but to dee a’ thegither,” answered Janet,
hopelessly.
“Let us dee, then, by God’s visitation, no by our ain fecklessness.
Janet, we’re like to starve, and Jamie—” her voice faltered, but she
presently resumed, “gin he had the meat and drink a sick man suld hae, I
doot but he’s no that ill, after a’.—Listen, I hae seen my ain dear
father dee o’ this awfu’ sickness; forbye that, I hae watched the bairn
Effie. It’s no easy to mak me fear’t, and ye say I’m gleg an’ handy. Sae
I might find a place to nurse some o’ the sick folk. Dinna think to
hinder me, Janet, my mind is set on it; I’ll just gang my gait to the
guid leech wha came to father, and ask him to help me. An’ I daur think
God ’ill prosper me, sin’ I hae prayed to him wi’ a’ my heart. I’ll
bring, or send ye help, the first minute I can. But dinna tell Jamie.”
Janet at first objected to the plan, but Mary’s resolution conquered.
Weak herself from watching and fasting, she set out on what her reason
told her was a sufficiently hopeless errand. But she trusted in God; and
having earnestly prayed for help in the dark hour of trial, she believed
he would give it, either by this or by some other means.
Bitter, therefore, was her disappointment to find that the physician
whom she sought had himself fallen a victim to the disease with which he
had so bravely striven on behalf of others. She sat down on the doorstep
to consider what next to do; and it was with difficulty she could
prevent herself from giving way to tears. She knew no other physician
even by name. To whom then could she go? Again the thought of Wilson
occurred to her, and finding any sort of action a relief, she rose half
mechanically and moved in the direction of his house. The walk was long
enough, and she was very weary. But it seemed as if her limbs must fail
her utterly, when, upon arriving at the spot, she found the door shut,
and inscribed with the well-known mark that told the plague was within.