struggle any more for life? It was useless—they were doomed. Like the
wave to a shipwrecked mariner, clinging desperately, hopelessly to some
fragment of rock—that cruel sickness, with its fell ally starvation,
came on slowly—surely—nearer—nearer—nearer. It was but the work of days,
perhaps of hours now. Death reigned everywhere. Her father, little
Effie, the physician, all were dead; Wilson was probably dying, and
Jamie;—a chill came over her. Should she ever see his face again, that
bright young face, except fixed in the awful stillness of death? She
scarcely dared to return home. And yet she must. She began to grow dizzy
and faint, and to think, almost to _hope_, that she was dying too. She
thanked God that for herself she had no fear. And she sought to trust
him with those so dear to her; but it was one of those dark hours when
Faith droops her pinions, and the tried heart sinks to the very depths,
refusing to respond even to the holy thoughts upon which in other
seasons it was wont to stay itself.
Once or twice she paused on her weary homeward way, as the last resource
of penury presented itself to her mind. Should she ask an alms? Her
cheek crimsoned with pain and shame at the thought, but for Jamie’s sake
she could conquer this weakness. Still, amongst the passers-by she saw
none to whom she could apply for the purpose, so at least it seemed to
her; and she had not the physical strength to go further.
Thus, at last, having accomplished nothing to help those she loved in
their sore distress, she found herself again at the familiar door. She
was able to admit herself; and after standing still for a moment or two
in silent dread of what she might meet above, she began to ascend the
narrow staircase with trembling limbs and an aching heart.
She had not gone half way when the sound of a voice arrested her. It was
Archie’s. Great was her astonishment at the quiet measured tones in
which the boy continued to speak. No; he was not speaking, but reading
or reciting something. She drew a few steps nearer, and found she could
distinguish the words. They thrilled her heart with a strange sense of
wonder and delight; for although she had never heard them before, she
felt instinctively that they were the words of God. Allowing for the
difference (here but very slight) between the quaint language of
Tyndale’s New Testament, and that into which our own minds and hearts
have grown, this was what she heard:—“Seek not ye what ye shall eat or
what ye shall drink, neither be ye of doubtful mind. For all these
things do the nations of the world seek after: and your Father knoweth
that ye have need of these things. But rather seek ye the kingdom of
God, and all these things shall be added unto you. Fear not, little
flock; for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.”
Mary’s soul was refreshed by this cup of cold water from the living
fountain, and hope began to take the place of her despondency. She was
soon at the chamber door. It was wide open; and, for a marvel, so was
the little window (despite all Janet’s theories), letting in an evening
breeze laden with pleasant messages from the fresh and open sea. But
then there was also a fire, before which Janet was standing, busy with
some cooking operation. Best of all, Jamie, whose face was turned
towards her, was sitting propped up in his bed, a faint flush, not from
fever, in his cheek, and a look of earnest living interest in his face,
as he listened to Archie’s reading. He was the first to perceive Mary,
and he cried out, “Come ben, Mary lass, and praise the guid Lord wi’ us!
He _hae_ cared for us, after a’.”
“Come an’ tak’ yer supper,” said Janet, “ye maun be amaist starved.”
Archie at the same moment laid down his book, and exclaimed with
characteristic vehemence, “We’re a’ richt noo, Mary! Our Jamie’s no to
dee, but to live!”
But Mary, instead of responding to these joyful words, threw herself
upon the nearest seat; and, worn out with sorrow, fatigue, and
excitement, wept long and unrestrainedly.
Who dreams that tears are the saddest things on earth? Sorrow has often
failed to bring them, when the gentle summons of joy and hope has called
them forth from their hidden cells.
[Illustration]
VII.
=New Friends and Old.=
“Oh! are not meetings in this world of change
Sadder than partings oft?”
HEMANS.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
VII.
=New Friends and Old.=
It was some time before Mary could obtain any distinct idea of what had
taken place in her absence. Janet and Archie, so eager to tell all that
they were in danger of telling nothing clearly, talked together, and
nearly drowned each other’s voices. At last, however, Jamie found
opportunity to put in a word. Taking the New Testament in his hands, he
said reverently, “Thank God for his guidness to me and mine the day. He
hae sent his ain dear servant to speak the words my soul langed for, and
to set my feet on the rock. We were no worthy o’ the like, and we didna
think on’t.”
“_Wha_ has been here?” asked Mary, with a bewildered look.
“Mary!” cried Archie, “I hae telled ye thae ten times—just Maister
Wishart himsel!”[8]
And then by degrees they told Mary all that had happened. It was a very
simple story, and not in the least wonderful, though they were disposed
to think far otherwise. The minister of Christ who spent his days in
such labours of love, and in whose eyes the soul of the poor man was as
precious as that of the rich, had heard of the Duncans from some
neighbour whom he chanced to visit. For although in more prosperous
times the family had rather the reputation of “hauding their heads
high,” and “keeping theirsels to theirsels,” they were generally
respected, as those are sure to be who in difficult circumstances “learn
and labour truly to get their own living,” making no complaint and
asking no help. When Effie’s death became known, people gave them a
passing sigh of pity; but the sorrow seemed a light one in comparison
with that of so many others. It was different when the tidings, “Our
Jamie’s down wi’ the sickness,” came from Archie’s lips, as he stood at
the window to answer some neighbourly inquiry from the street. Every one
knew what that eldest brother had been to the family; and men shook
their heads mournfully as they acknowledged that “the puir Duncans were
in sair trouble—God help them!”
The servant of Christ was thus furnished with the only motive he ever
needed for going anywhere, the motive that had brought him from the
midst of his honoured successful ministry in Ayrshire back to
plague-stricken Dundee—“They are now in trouble, and need comfort.” To
enter the humble dwelling, to take his seat by Jamie’s bedside, and in
simple language suited to his need and his weakness to offer him the
precious consolations of the gospel—this was easily done. But then the
sick man had perplexities to solve, and doubts to set at rest. “It was
that easy to speak to him, just as it is to yer ain sel, Mary,” he said
afterwards. Nor was this wonderful, from the peculiar grace and
gentleness which everything that has come down to us of George Wishart
leads us to attribute to him. One who watched him closely describes him
as “courteous, lowly, lovely,” in his intercourse with others. There
must have been fine elements of natural character; but independently of
these, men who live very near to Christ not seldom learn to deal with
their fellow-men in a loving, tender, self-forgetting spirit. One by one
Jamie’s difficulties, like shadows, fled away before the light of the
Word of God, patiently and skilfully brought to bear upon every dark
perplexing point. Power was given him from above to receive and embrace
the truths thus clearly set before him; and with a heart eased of its
heavy burdens, he was able to tell the minister (who talked not _to_ him
alone, but _with_ him) of the death of their little sister. They
ventured to ask him some of those questions which are so dear to every
bereaved heart—where and what was their lost one now?—were they not
right in thinking she was at rest, was happy?
Wishart told them in reply, that if any one “had begone to have the
faith of Jesus Christ,” as had their sister, his or her soul “shall
never sleape, bot ever shall leve ane immortal lyef; the which lyef from
day to day is renewed in grace and augmented; nor yett shall ever
perish, or have ane end, bot shall ever leve immortal with Christ thare
Head. To the which lyef all that beleve in him shall come, and rest in
eternal glorie.”
Prayer followed, such prayer as could only be offered by one who
habitually talked more with God than with man. Was the minister’s work
done then? Enough was done to fill at least three hearts with grateful
love, and to leave with them a hallowed memory that should last long,
long after—what we must not now anticipate;—but there soon came a day
from which this day could not be looked back upon except through
blinding, burning tears.
Another duty however remained, and one in which he especially delighted.
They had not confessed their necessities, nor would they have done so,
but it needed not to be, as he was, “maist scharp of eye and judgment”
to perceive what was amiss. The bare unfurnished room told its own
story, as did also the pale and sharpened features of the inmates. He
gave what they needed; and in a way that made it, if more blessed to
give, at least blessed also to receive—for much of this is in the
giver’s power. He spoke words of hope and cheer, for he guessed rightly
that the supply of the sick man’s wants would go far towards ensuring
his recovery; he gave Jamie the Testament out of which he had read to
him, knowing that the book could not easily be procured elsewhere; and
then he took his leave “as tho’ we’d been a’ braw gentlefolk like
himsel,” as the delighted Archie afterwards declared.
Mary heard all this, and much more in the shape of blessings invoked by
grateful hearts upon the good minister, with much wonder and
thankfulness. It was impossible not to regret that she had been absent;
but since every step of her way, even the smallest, was ordered by One
who thought and cared for her, she knew that this also must be right.
And the quiet depth of that love and reverence with which she regarded
the man who had been the messenger of God’s mercy to her soul, could
scarcely have been increased by standing face to face with him in a
room, and touching his hand with hers.
“Weel,” said Jamie, “it’s no to look for that we’ll ever see his face
again, ony o’ us, forbye at the preaching. But here’s the Testament—the
vera Word o’ God! Is no that wonnerfu’?”
“Let me hand it in my ain hand, Jamie,” said Mary.
No one that reads these pages will be able to understand from experience
what Mary felt as, loving Christ more than her life, she held in her
hand for the first time the Book that contains the words of Christ. Day
by day she had gone with eager willing footsteps for draughts from that
fountain; and now, behold! the fountain was hers, was theirs, to draw
from whenever they would. She raised the Book to her lips and kissed it.
“I’m to read it for ye a’,” said Archie, for the first time in his life
proud of his scholarship.
“I’m nae but a puir scholar,” added Jamie, “but ainst I’m weel again,
I’ll try hard to learn; and then, Mary, I’ll teach you and Janet.”
Janet, on hearing him speak with such confidence of his own recovery,
exchanged glances of satisfaction with Mary, and shortly afterwards
remarked: “The first words we heard Maister Wishart say, the day ye
gar’d us a’ gang to the Cowgate, Mary, will we or nill we, was just
this, ‘It’s nae herb nor plaister, but God’s Word that heals the folk,’
an’ I’m thinking it’s owre true.”
Yes; the worst was over now. The sunshine of that day abode with the
Duncans. By the aid of that best medicine, a happy because a trustful
heart, Jamie recovered surely though slowly. No other member of the
family took the sickness; and when the minister’s gift was exhausted,
other friends (perhaps through a hint from _him_) were raised up to
supply their necessities. For the preacher of righteousness by faith had
provoked men everywhere to love and good works. “The toune was
wonderouse beneficiall;” and the rich were becoming day by day not only
more willing to impart to the poor, but more active and self-denying in
searching out those cases of distress which are all the more worthy of
succour because carefully hidden from the public eye.
Jamie was not yet able to leave his bed, when one evening, as they were
all together listening to Archie, who was reading aloud from the
Testament, some one knocked at the street door. Archie put down the
book, and ran to open it, speedily returning with the tidings, “Yon’s a
gentleman speiring after Mary Wigton.”
“Did ye tell him the sickness was here, callant?” asked Jamie.
“He had his een,”[9] returned Archie, “sae he micht hae seen the mark.
But he gaed richt into the first room on the left han’ side, asking nae
leave o’ me.”
Mary knew that was the room where her father died. She could scarcely
tell why, but she felt a shade of apprehension as she silently went down
to meet the stranger.
She soon found herself face to face with a well-dressed man, who looked
about forty years of age, though he was in reality ten years younger. He
was pale, and had dark rings about his eyes, which were large and
mournful, indeed almost wild in their expression, and certainly the most
striking features of a face otherwise not prepossessing. His forehead
was high but narrow, his lips were large and full, and his whole
countenance had an anxious, restless look.
Mary courtesied, and asked, “Is it me ye were wanting, sir?”
“Do ye no mind me, Mary? I’m yer brother, John Wigton,” said the
stranger, taking her in his arms and embracing her.
For a moment she shrank back half frightened. Could this be the brother
from whom she parted, as a little child, so long, long ago? She only
remembered him a bright, noble-looking young lad; could this man of
middle age, with that sallow, care-worn face, be really John Wigton? And
again, could he be Sir John Wigton, the priest? If so, where was his
priest’s frock? Almost before she was aware of it, this question had
passed her lips.
“Nae matter o’ that,” was the reply. “Do ye no ken a kirkman may lay it
by when his superiors order the same, as mine hae done me?”
“Oh, but, John, hae ye heard that father’s dead?”
A look of hard repressed sorrow passed over Wigton’s face as he answered
briefly, “Ay.”
“He askit for ye, John, a’maist wi’ his last breath. His word was aye
and aye, ‘Whaur’s our John?’ Wae’s me! why did ye no come to us before?”
“I couldna, lassie,” he said, his voice trembling a little. “And noo, I
hae searched the haill town through to find ye.”
“Wha telled ye I was here?”
“Sin’ I left St. Andrews meaning to come here, I hae been at the auld
farm.”
“Then ye didna come here o’ purpose to speir after _us_,” said Mary, in
some surprise. “What gar’d ye come to sic’ a place ava’, gin it wasna
for that? Did ye no hear o’ the sickness?”
“I’m a servant o’ Holy Kirk, Mary; and I daur gae _onywhaur_, were it
into the vera jaws o’ death, to do my duty by the same.”
Mary thought this was certainly a noble sentiment, and one which Wishart
would approve; though at the same time it occurred to her that _he_ had
never said so much for himself, while he acted upon the principle every
day.
Wigton presently resumed: “Forbye, whaur the deil’s ain children are no
fear’t to gang upon their father’s evil wark, guid men and true suldna
shrink frae following them.”
“I didna ken we had ony sic’ wicked folk amang us,” said Mary, with a
puzzled look.
“Atweel, never mind that. Tell me—”
“Of our puir father and mither. Oh, ay—but ye suld hae been wi’ us,
John.”
Wigton, who had seated himself, now rose and turned his face away. After
a few moments he said, “Dinna talk o’ them. No the nicht. Tell me o’
yersel. Wha has fended for ye sin’ ye’ve been left yer lane?”
Mary told him of the kindness she had experienced from the Duncans,
admitting however that they had endured many hardships together, and
been in great want. Her brother warmly expressed his regret that such
should have been the case, adding, “Ye’ll no hae that to say ony mair,
lassie. I hae siller enoo’ for baith, and to spare.”
In proof of his assertion, he drew out a purse certainly much heavier
than that which had so lately relieved their necessities, and took from
it several pieces of gold.
Mary’s eyes sparkled. For herself, having food and raiment, although of
the humblest kind, she was more than content; but she could not help
rejoicing at the thought of having wherewith to assist those kind and
self-denying friends who had done so much for her.
“Jamie and Janet hae mony a time gone hungry theirsels that I might
share the bit bread,” she said. “An’ it’s blythe I’d be to bring them
thae broad pieces the nicht.”
“Sae ye sall,” answered John. “’Twas for you and father I took the gowd;
and noo, I’ve naebody but yersel to share it wi’.” After a pause he
added, “Can I bide here?”
“There’s naething to hinder but fear o’ the sickness. Sin’ father dee’d
here (John Wigton started), naebody daured tak’ the room.”
“Was it _here_, in this room, then?”
“Ay, in this vera room. There he lay, calling for you, John, and moaning
like, because he couldna get a priest.”
“That was awfu’,” said John, growing very pale.
“Oh, John, it a’maist broke my heart to think on’t. I daurna tell ye a’
the gruesome, fearfu’ thochts I used to hae. But God be thanked, a’
that’s by lang syne.”
Her brother did not answer; he may not even have heard her. He was
sitting with his head buried in his hands, absorbed in bitter
reflection. For the thought of his father’s death, without priest or
sacrament (as he would have expressed it), was more terrible to him than
it had ever been even to Mary.
After a while, his sister returned to the subject upon which they had
been speaking. “Ye could hae a room upstairs, John, and there wadna be
sae muckle risk in’t. There’s naebody in the haill land noo but guidwife
Brown and—”
“Brown!” repeated Wigton, rousing himself. “It was thanks to her
guidman, I fand ye ava’.”
“He’s but just hame frae the sea,” said Mary.
“Ay; I forgathered wi’ him at the tavern whaur I dined. We talked
thegither, and as seamen use, he was by-ordinar free, and willing to
tell me a’ his matters. His guidwife, he said, had been sair troubled
wi’ the sickness o’ her bairn; but he couldna say enoo’ o’ the kindness
o’ a lassie—ane Mary Wigton—wha bided in the same land.”
“’Twasna sae muckle what I did for her, puir thing,” said Mary. “Still,
I’m unco blythe ye fand me, John. But I daurna bring ye to the Duncans,
seeing Jamie’s no weel yet.”
“Did ye tell them ye had a brither a priest?”
“Oh, ay; I hae telled them that.”
“Then ye maunna say I’m yer brither, Mary.”
“What for?” asked Mary, evidently distressed.
“It doesna look sae weel for a priest to gang without his frock; forbye
there are reasons. Ye can just say I’m a friend.”
Mary shook her head. “I maun say what’s true,” she answered.
“Weel, say a kinsman. Nae doot but that’s true.”
With this compromise Mary, who hated unnecessary mysteries, was obliged,
though reluctantly, to content herself for the present. At her brother’s
request she left him alone for the night in the room where his father
died, having first tried in vain to induce him to seek quarters where he
would be less exposed to the danger of infection. Taking with her the
gold he had given, she returned to the Duncans, told them as much as she
was permitted to do, and in all simplicity and with the freedom of a
sister gave the money into Janet’s keeping for the family use.
The supply was very seasonable, though Jamie scrupled to accept of it.
But had they known from whose hands it came, and how it was obtained,
not Jamie alone, but Mary herself, Janet, and most certainly Archie,
would have died of absolute starvation rather than have touched it.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
VIII.
=The Cardinal’s Missionary.=
“The blood-thirsty hate the upright; but the just seek his soul.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
VIII.
=The Cardinal’s Missionary.=
The next morning Mary saw her brother again. First interviews between
relatives or friends who have been long parted are almost always
unsatisfactory. It is neither the things of most importance, nor those
nearest the hearts of the speakers that rise to the lips; the waters are
as yet too much troubled; they must have time to settle ere their depths
become visible. But after the night (though that night had been
sleepless to both, and to one very miserable), they talked more at their
ease. John Wigton was most incommunicative about everything that
concerned himself; but he seemed really anxious to hear every particular
about his family. He had previously learned the fact of his mother’s
death, but little more than this. Mary therefore began her story at this
point, and then told of the relinquishment of their farm, of the journey
to Dundee, and the hardships endured since their arrival there. The
narrative of her father’s death naturally followed, and was given much
more at large than on the preceding evening. John heard it almost in
silence; but he looked very sad, and now and then he sighed heavily.
Perhaps conscience was at work within him, whispering that if he had
done his duty, and honoured his father and mother according to God’s
commandment, all this sorrow need not have been. But John Wigton’s
conscience could not, in the present state of things, be greatly relied
upon. Not that it was by any means silent or dead; on the contrary, it
was in continual active exercise; but, like a chronometer wrongly set,
it was regulated upon such false principles that every beat tended only
to mislead.
Seeing him so much cast down, Mary essayed to speak some words of
comfort. “Ye ken, John,” she said, “gin a hantle priests had been wi’ my
puir father, they wadna hae done him muckle guid. When I kenned that
mysel, my ain heart grew lichter. An’ oh, but a’ the weary burdens were
taken aff me for aye and aye, aince I learned that the blessed Lord
loved me, and cared for me. Sin’ that wonnerfu’ sermon o’ Maister
Wishart’s—”
“_What!_” interrupted Wigton, with a start. “Ye hae heard _him_?”
“That I hae, and blessed God for the same. Wae’s me, what ails ye,
John?”
It was no wonder she asked, for John Wigton’s face was white to the
lips, and his eyes were gleaming with passion.
“This is waur than my puir father deeing like a dog, but shrift or
housel. Lass, lass! yer soul‘ll be lost for aye an’ aye. Do ye believe
his abominable heresies?”
Although pale and trembling at this outburst of rage, Mary answered
bravely, “I believe that he speaks the true word o’ God, whase servant
he is.”
“He’s no God’s servant; he’s the devil’s ain—”
“Whisht!” said Mary, laying her hand on his lips, and speaking in a tone
almost of authority, “Ye sallna say thae wicked words in my hearing.
It’s no that ye can hurt or harm God’s dear servant, but ye’ll sair hurt
yer ain soul.”
“How lang may it be sin’ ye hae been ta’en wi’ thae fooleries?”
“They’re nae fooleries, brother. Is it foolery, think ye, to ken for
sure that the guid Saviour dee’d for me, to hae a’ my sins forgien?”
“Haud yer clavers!” interrupted John Wigton, angrily. “It’s no sae easy,
the forgieness o’ sins. I tell ye, lass, there hae been blessed saints
whase shoon the like o’ you and me are no worthy to unloose, wha hae
toiled, and tholed, and striven their haill lives lang, and after a’ hae
been no sure, no _that_ sure. And noo, forsooth, lads and lasses wha
canna read or write, daur to prate o’ the forgiveness o’ sins, a’
because a leeing, thieving loon—”
Mary rose with a crimsoned cheek, and walked towards the door.
Angry as he was, John Wigton perceived that if he desired to be heard to
the end, he must use different language. “Weel,” he said with a sneer,
“because Maister George Wishart tells them a hantle lees and clashes out
o’ his ain head. What’s _he_, that folk suld tak’ his word before that
o’ my Lord Cardinal, and the Bishops, and the Doctors, and Holy Kirk
hersel?”
“It’s no _his_ word, John, it’s the Lord’s.”
“Hoot awa’! But there’s ane comfort, ye’ll no hear the like aft again, I
wad ye.”