that?” she asked. “It’s nae manner o’ use for the Cardinal or the
Governor to bid Maister Wishart awa’, as they did aince before, for noo
the townfolk’ll a’ stan’ by him like ane man. They a’maist worship the
ground he walks on; and that’s no wonnerfu’.”
Wigton’s pale face grew a shade paler, and he compressed his lips
firmly. Could Mary have read his secret thoughts she would have been
profoundly astonished. He was balancing _his own_ chances of martyrdom,
and arming himself with courage to meet them.
She broke the silence at last with the very pertinent question, “Hae ye
ever heard him yersel?”
“Me? Na; thank the saints. And hark ye here, Mary. Gin you and I are to
be brither and sister, _friends_ and no faes and strangers, ye maun gie
yer word to me this vera hour that ye’ll no gang ony mair to that
heretic’s preaching. Will ye dae that?”
“I’ll dee first,” answered Mary, very quietly. But there looked out from
her soft brown eyes a soul as strong and more resolved than that of John
Wigton.
He gazed at her for a moment or two, and then said bitterly, “I hae said
my say. God’s malison and mine I gie the traitor wha hae driven ye daft
wi’ his clavers, ye silly lass!”
He turned, and was about to leave the room, but Mary stopped him. “Bide
a wee, John Wigton,” she said. “It’s unco ill to thole that my ane
brither suld come back to me after a’ these years, naebut to say thae
cruel, bitter words. Wi’ father’s an’ mither’s twa graves between us, it
micht hae been different. But this maun be _the cross_ that Maister
Wishart talks of—God help me to bear it patiently. Atweel, John, it’s no
_that_ gars me speak. Sma’ matter for me, but muckle for yer ain puir
soul, gin ye put the word o’ God frae ye. Dinna mind what silly folk hae
telled ye, but use yer ain een, and the guid wit God gied ye. Is it to
look for, think ye, that a man wha hae put the dear life in his hand,
and come amang us at sic a time, like God’s ain blessed angel, suld be
what you daur call him, though _I_ daurna speak the word? Wha hae said,
‘By their fruits ye sall ken them?’ And did ye ever see sic’ fruit as
that grow on ony tree _He_ hasna planted?”
“Satan himsel can tak’ the likeness of an angel o’ licht,” answered John
Wigton. No words that human lips can utter sound as mournful as the
words of Scripture when quoted thus.
“I’m no asking ye to trust what ye havena heard and sifted,” answered
Mary. “But I think that when a man hae _done_ like Maister Wishart,
ither folk are bound at least to hear what he has got to say. Gang to
the Cowgate yersel, hear his doctrine, and pray God to show ye the
truth.”
“I’m content wi’ the truth o’ Holy Kirk,” said Wigton in reply, and with
these words they parted.
How often it happens that the thing we most earnestly desire, when at
last we obtain it, wears an aspect so different from all we anticipated,
is in such dark sad contrast to our brilliant hopes, that the desire
accomplished, instead of sweetness, proves very bitterness to the soul.
As in the fabled fairy gifts, the silver sheen changes into dust, the
glory has departed. Mary had longed for that lost brother, had wept and
prayed for his return through years of anxiety and sorrow. Not alone
from her dying father’s couch had that sad cry, “Where’s our John?”
re-echoed and found no answer. Night and day, and often with bitter
tears, had the same question been asked, first by the motherless, then
by the wholly orphaned girl. There is something very sorrowful in being
left in early youth without any near household ties. And although He
that setteth the solitary in families had dealt with Mary in fatherly
pity, there was still a waste and desolate place in her heart that no
one save the brother of her childhood could fill.
That brother had returned, but only to cast scorn on what she most loved
and revered, and to demand from her, as the price of his affection, the
renunciation of what was dearer to her than life itself. If tears were
mingled with her prayers that night, was it any marvel?
But her distress, keen though it was, was happiness compared with the
anguish her brother was enduring. For the fire of fanaticism, a fire
kindled from beneath and not from above, burned and tortured the heart
upon which it fed. They had the greater sin who had worked upon the
sensibilities of an awakened conscience, and an excitable nervous
organization. In that condition of mind and body which was the natural
result of years of mental distress, physical suffering, and intense and
continued excitement, and which might not improbably have been the
precursor of insanity, John Wigton had fallen into the hands of
remorseless designing men, who, being by no means fanatics themselves,
knew how to use a fanatic to the best advantage. Whatever his
capabilities or endowments may or may not be, a man who, for any reason,
has learned to despise death, always possesses a kind of strength which
other men have not. It was probably the fact that he had no objection to
the honours of martyrdom, that recommended “Schir John Wighton, a
desperat preast,” to the notice and employment of a personage of very
different character, David Beaton, Cardinal and Archbishop of St.
Andrews.
Great and signal service to be done to the Holy Catholic Church, full
pardon at last for all his sins, and immortal renown and glory, these
chiefly were the allurements that baited the hook. But alas for the
melancholy inconsistencies of human nature! The man who could feel the
power of these motives was at the same time not above taking gold in
payment for a deed of blood. For, on the one hand, fanaticism does not
expel the sordid passions of our nature; nor had it, on the other,
succeeded in stifling every sentiment of affection in the heart of John
Wigton. He hoped to atone for his past neglect by making ample provision
for his father and young sister; and he thought himself the rather at
liberty to do this, since he was about to perform an act of such
exceptional virtue that its merit might well obtain an indulgence for
greater weaknesses than those of filial and fraternal affection. So
thoroughly had he learned to put bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter.
The unhappy man had in an evil hour undertaken a cruel and a perilous
task. Beneath the gown for which he had exchanged his priest’s frock, he
bore a sharp new dagger, which he had sworn to sheathe in the heart that
had brought so much help and comfort to Dundee. Such were the convincing
arguments Cardinal Beaton employed to silence obstinate heretics like
George Wishart.
And this is “an owre true tale.” There is no room for the so-called
liberality of the present day to accuse us of libelling our adversaries,
and drawing from a heated fancy pictures of crimes never committed, in
order to calumniate the characters of men whose opinions we detest.
Those who accuse Protestant writers of doing this are recommended, if
their nerves will bear it, to study for themselves the history of past
ages in contemporary records. They will probably rise from the study
sadder and wiser, and in a temper to comprehend that sublime burst of
angelic thanksgiving, “Thou art righteous, O Lord, which art, and wast,
and shalt be, because thou hast judged thus. For they have shed the
blood of saints and prophets, and thou hast given them blood to drink;
for they are worthy.”
They who know the depths of Satan, as exemplified in the history of the
Romish apostasy, will respond from full hearts, Amen and Amen!
[Illustration]
IX.
=How the Mission Sped.=
“’Tis sweet to stammer one letter,
From the Eternal’s language; on earth it is called Forgiveness.”
LONGFELLOW.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
IX.
=How the Mission Sped.=
Without exactly fulfilling his threat of becoming to his only sister as
a stranger or an enemy, John Wigton withdrew himself almost entirely
from her society. He took up his quarters in a different lodging, and
only came to see her upon two or three occasions for a short time. Nor
were these visits productive of much enjoyment to either party; for
controversy was sure to arise between them, and then the brother became
violent, and the sister sorrowful though steadfast. It added to her
grief that she could not help perceiving he was very unhappy, while she
felt utterly unable either to aid or to comfort him. She tried once or
twice to induce him to speak of himself, and to tell her where he had
spent the past years, what he had been doing, and what he intended to do
in future. But he repelled, in an irritable and impatient manner, every
effort to win his confidence; until at last the poor girl, thus
prohibited from inquiring into what might interest _him_, and dreading
the mention of what interested herself for fear of raising a storm, was
almost reduced to silence. Above all, she sedulously avoided any
allusion to Wishart, as the name she most venerated seemed to awaken in
his mind a fierce and bitter hatred that filled her with anguish and
alarm. Thus it happened that she never told him of the minister’s
seasonable visit to the Duncans. Nor was this perhaps to be greatly
regretted. The circumstance that the man he intended to kill had saved
his sister from perishing of want, would not probably have either
softened the assassin’s feelings or altered his purpose. In his present
temper of mind, John Wigton would have regarded the heretic’s good
offices in the light of injuries and insults, intended to beguile and
calculated to degrade those who accepted of them.
Upon one occasion, however, he himself opened the forbidden subject by
asking abruptly, “Are ye bound for the heretic preaching the morn,
Mary?”
She answered quietly, “Yes.”
“Dinna gang, lassie,” said John, in a tone rather of entreaty than of
command.
The kindness of his manner touched her, and she answered, “I’m sair
vexed ye dinna like it, John, but I maun gang whaur I hear o’ my Saviour
Christ.”
“Ye hae gone aft and aft, can ye no bide at hame, just for aince!”
Mary shook her head; the matter was not only one of inclination but of
principle with her. She did not think she would be doing the will of her
Lord in forsaking the assembling together of those that loved his name,
and forfeiting even one of her precious opportunities of hearing more
about him. Who could tell how long those opportunities might be granted,
since the sword of the pestilence was still suspended over the heads of
both minister and people? She therefore steadily refused to grant her
brother’s request, that only this once, for his sake, she would absent
herself from the preaching. She expected a burst of passion, but this
time John Wigton exercised unusual self-control, merely saying, “Weel,
gang yer ain gait. It’s naebut for yer guid I spoke the word. Guid
nicht.” And as they parted he kissed her—a mark of affection he had not
shown since their first bitter quarrel about the preaching.
Jamie being still unable to leave the house, Mary, Janet, and Archie,
went together the next day to the East Port; taking their places of
course amongst the congregation who worshipped outside the gate. They
were unfortunate in the position into which they were forced by the
pressure of the crowd. Without much will or design of their own, they
were gradually pushed under the gateway, and quite close to the massive
bars of the gate. In this situation they could hear very well, but were
unable to see; a loss always considerable, but especially so where the
earnest speaking countenance of the preacher lent additional weight to
his words. Archie loudly deplored the privation, but Mary soon felt
herself more than repaid for it. She could scarcely indeed believe the
testimony of her eyes—there, within the gate, not a yard from her, stood
her brother! He looked pale and haggard, but at this she did not marvel,
since it must have been after a hard struggle with the prejudices and
prepossessions of half a lifetime, that he prevailed on himself to take
his place amongst the hearers of the great heretic. But was not this the
dawn of a brighter day for both of them, and the earnest of an answer to
her many fervent prayers on his behalf? Her heart went up silently in
words of thanksgiving, and it must be owned that she was rather in
danger of yielding to the subtle temptation of listening to the Word of
God with the ears of those in whom we are interested rather than for our
own edification. More fortunate, however, than the listeners without the
gate, her brother soon succeeded in obtaining a better position, and
passed on to where her eye could not follow him.
We must follow him thither. With the successful pertinacity of a man in
a crowd who has a settled purpose, while those around him have only a
vague desire to make themselves as comfortable as they can, he slowly
pushed his way until he reached the very foot of the narrow stair by
which the preacher always descended into the street from his elevated
position on the top of the gate. Then, for the first time, John Wigton
saw the man he purposed to slay. In spite of sleepless nights and weary
days spent in prayer to all the saints in the Calendar for a strong and
steady heart, a tremor ran through his frame at the moment. Wishart was
kneeling for the prayer that preceded his sermon, but he soon rose and
began to speak. Wigton however did not hear a word, he only saw the
speaker. A morbid but most natural fancy that he was looking at _him_,
at him alone in all that crowd, took possession of his mind. He could
not endure the gaze of that dark, mournful, noble countenance. It was
one thing to think of George Wishart as a kind of abstraction, the
representative of those ideas which his heart most loathed and detested;
another to stand and look him in the face, a living man, whom that sharp
“whinger” beneath his gown, upon the hilt of which his hand was resting,
must, in two hours at the most, change into a ghastly corpse. It was
gruesome work at the best,—_why_ had he undertaken it?
But it had to be done. The interests of Holy Kirk, the salvation of his
own soul, the rescue of many others from fearful peril, all demanded it.
His heart was resolved, and he would not look at the man again; where
was the use of it? But he _did_ look again, in fact he neither looked,
nor could look, away from him. A kind of fascination held his eyes fixed
to the spot. With that curious minuteness of perception which is
sometimes the result of intense excitement, his mind took in everything
however trifling—his victim’s dress, simple in fashion and coarse in
texture;[10] the long frieze mantle with the plain black “millian”
doublet underneath, relieved by snow white cuffs and Geneva bands,—all
such as a poor man might have worn, and yet so worn by him as to add to
the impression which made every one instinctively describe him as “a
braw gentleman.”
Then with a start Wigton tried to recall his wandering thoughts. But
before he was aware of it, he actually found himself, in spite of all
his previous resolutions, listening to the heretic preacher. The words
so often repeated in his heart, “the forgiveness of sins,” struck on his
ear, and beguiled him even into a few moments’ forgetfulness of his
purpose. What he heard was so unlike all his anticipations that very
wonder made him listen still for more. He expected to hear a torrent of
coarse and scurrilous abuse poured upon the dogmas and ceremonies of the
Church; not worse perhaps in point of good taste and good feeling than
the average sermons of the Gray or Black Friars, but necessarily most
offensive to a devout Catholic. He heard nothing of the kind. The
preacher’s soul was intent on “this one thing,” to bring other souls to
Christ; and he only stooped to notice error when it lay so directly in
the way between the sinner and the Saviour that he must needs clear it
thence and cast it forth. “To the pure word of God he gave his
labooris.” Christ, in his person and his work, was the theme of his
discourse.
“He only is our Mediator,” he said, “and maketh intercession for us to
God his Father.
“He is the door, by which we must enter in.
“He that entereth not in by this door, but climbeth ane other way, is a
thief and a murderer.
“He is the Verity and Life.
“He that goeth out of this way, there is no doubt but he shall fall into
the mire; yea, verily he is fallen into it already.”
Then he “exhorted all men equally in his doctrine,” to put their trust
in that Saviour, and to receive from him what he was exalted to God’s
right hand on purpose to give, and that freely, repentance and remission
of sins.
Had John Wigton heard these words twelve years ago, how different might
all have been! Then indeed for him might the parched ground—the mirage
of the desert—have become a pool, and the thirsty land springs of water.
Too late now! And yet it might be that a few drops of that living water,
poured so freely upon all around, forced their way through the hard
crust of fanaticism to the human heart that still throbbed beneath it.
For old feelings long forgotten, new feelings struggling for life, began
to stir within him. There was a strange sweetness in all this, mingled
with a kind of pain; as if those re-awakened longings, never satisfied
before, scarcely hoping to be satisfied now, cried aloud in his heart,
“Wherefore hast thou disquieted us to bring us up?” Glorious thought of
forgiveness, of peace with God, once, oh how ardently desired! Might it
even still be realized? Was it in this way,—
Where was he? What was he doing? Was he dreaming? No; at least the hard
hilt of the whinger, pressed by his right hand, was real enough. But he
had actually been listening to the heretic; and so listening that he had
forgotten himself, what he came to do, everything, except those
wonderful words. Had he forgotten his faith? Was the numbing spell of
heresy creeping over his senses, even over _his_? Horrible thought!
“Holy Mother of God, aid and keep thy servant,” he said within himself.
And then there came over him a great and sudden revulsion of feeling.
The very fact that for a few moments his heart had been half won, made
the strong rebound to his old hatred and fanaticism all the quicker and
surer. How subtle must be that poison which, in spite of all his
precautions, had well-nigh stolen into his own veins. How fatally sweet
the voice of that charmer to whom, trained and guarded as he was, he had
almost been seduced into listening! They who listened should no doubt
repent it where there was no more place for repentance, in the fire that
is not quenched for ever and ever. It was time all this were ended. The
murderer of souls had earned his doom, and his blood should be upon his
own head. Heart and hand were strong enough now, and ready for the work
of vengeance. It was well they were; for the heretic’s sermon was over,
and he was about to descend from the gate.
After the concluding prayer there was a pause of solemn silence, then
the people began soberly to disperse. Wigton, who was fully aware of the
hazard of the deed he had undertaken, had planned a quick escape through
the startled crowd after its accomplishment. He now retained sufficient
composure to look round and decide upon the way he should take. By the
time this was done, the preacher was descending the narrow staircase. In
a moment the two are face to face. Now—now! One blow for Holy Mother
Church!
Before that blow could be struck, George Wishart calmly laid his hand on
the assassin’s arm, saying, “Friend, what wad ye do?” Then, with a
gesture at once gentle and commanding, he threw back his gown, and took
the now useless whinger from his nerveless unresisting grasp.
John Wigton was the superstitious child of a superstitious age; and he
had long been in that peculiar temper of mind from which the thought of
the supernatural is never far removed. With nerves and brain stimulated
to a pitch of intense excitement, it was most natural that he should
take for a miracle what was in reality only an instance of wonderful
quickness of perception and presence of mind. Clearly God was on this
man’s side, and had interposed his own arm to protect and deliver him!
Then had _he_ been fighting even against God!
Overwhelmed by the thought, and conscience-stricken, he threw himself at
the feet of the man whose life he sought, confessing in broken accents
what he had been about to do, and why. He even named the Lord Cardinal
as the instigator of the crime. Beaton had indeed been guilty, not only
of a crime but of a blunder, when he selected for so tough a piece of
work an instrument at once too weak and too fine.
But in betraying his employer, the miserable man had also betrayed
himself, and that to an instant and horrible death. He knew and felt
this as he stood there like one turned to stone, with cheeks and lips of
ashy whiteness, and eyes wild with terror. The revelation of his
purpose, made by himself alone, and overheard by the bystanders, had
transformed the quiet orderly assembly into a frantic mob, thirsting for
his blood like one man, or rather like some fierce beast of prey
springing with eyes of fire upon its terrified, palsied victim. All mobs
have not had so fair an excuse for violence. Should a company of men who
are treading in the dark some perilous path that skirts a precipice,
arrest a stranger in the act of hurling their solitary light-bearer down
the rock, they would not probably be very scrupulous in their treatment
of the criminal. Every man in the crowd who had a sword or whinger, drew
it, and rushed towards the assassin, while the rest brandished staves or
caught up stones from the street. And “the noyse rising, and coming to
the ears of the sick (without the gate), they cried, ‘Deliver the
traitor unto us, or ellis we will tack him by force;’ and so they birst
in at the gate.”[11]
Wigton tried hard to cry to God for the mercy he dared not hope from
man; but no word would come to him, nor any thought except a fearful
looking for of judgment and fiery indignation. His head dropped on his
breast; his arms were folded in despair. A lifetime’s agony seemed
compressed into those horrible moments. He must die, and unforgiven. All
was lost—lost—lost—for ever.
No; he is saved! In the tumult he had not heard the voice of one who
pleaded for his life, nor perhaps could others hear it. But George
Wishart did not trust to words alone when the life of an enemy was at
stake. A moment more, and Wigton felt himself clasped in the minister’s
arms, shielded thus with his own person from sword and stave and
whinger. “Whosoever troubles him shall trouble me,” cried the
noble-hearted reformer. “He has hurt me in nothing, but has done great
comfort both to you and me, for he has letten us understand what we may
fear. In times to come we will watch better.”
This was George Wishart’s only vengeance. Rarely, perhaps, have such an
assemblage of qualities been displayed in so brief a moment of time. But
the flash of lightning which, in the space of a second, illumines a
whole landscape, creates nothing of what it reveals; all was there
before. Thus the occasion proved the man; what he did was but the
evidence of what he was. Through patient years of “the unremitting
retention of simple and high sentiments in obscure duties,” had been
trained the brave and loving heart, as well as the “maist scharp eye and
judgment,” which saved, that day, two lives—his own and his intended
murderer’s.
Our friends without the gate had their full share in the general
excitement and confusion. Archie strove and pushed and shouted with the
best; no man in the crowd more eager to be avenged upon the cowardly
assassin.
“I’d hae dinged his skull in wi’ a muckle stane,” he boasted afterwards,
“but I daurna for guid Maister Wishart.”
Jamie told him in reply that he’d “better hae been caring the lasses,”
which was true enough. For some minutes Janet and Mary, pressed as they
were against the gate by those immediately behind them, were in actual
peril. When at last it gave way, they were borne through it by the
crowd, and swept onwards without any power of resistance. Still they
clung together, sorely terrified, but unhurt, until in one unhappy
moment Mary chanced to look up, and caught a glimpse of the two men on
the staircase, locked together in that strange embrace.