the whole terrible truth flashed upon her mind. Her head sank on Janet’s
shoulder; and had there been room to fall, she would have fallen
senseless to the ground. Janet fortunately possessed a degree of
muscular strength unusual in a girl; and she exerted herself to the
utmost to drag her friend out of the throng. When the bystanders
understood what was the matter, they made way for them as well as they
could; and one or two men good-naturedly volunteered their assistance.
That a girl in the crowd should faint, in circumstances of such
excitement, seemed to all the most natural thing in the world. At last
she was carried to a quiet spot some distance down a neighbouring wynd.
Here, just as Archie and some others joined the group, she recovered
consciousness, and looking round her, asked with a bewildered air, “Hae
they killed him?”
Of course every one misunderstood the question. Janet answered eagerly,—
“Na, na! He’s as safe as you or I. God gied his angels charge over him!”
she added, for once in her life kindling into enthusiasm, and even
quoting Scripture.
“Eh, and what wad the saints hae got to do, gin they couldna tak’ care
o’ _him_ amang them a’!” cried Archie, his creed rather in confusion,
but his heart glowing with the delicious passion of a boy’s first
hero-worship.
Mary’s pale face scarcely showed relief or pleasure. She was bowed down
beneath a weight of sorrow those around her could not comprehend. Too
sick at heart to repeat her question, a little reflection sufficed to
convince her it was scarcely a necessary one. She did not fear for her
brother’s _life_; she had such absolute trust in him under whose
protection she had seen him, that to doubt either his good-will or his
ability never occurred to her.
At length she turned to Janet and whispered, “Let me gang hame.”
Janet and Archie took her home, still feeling as one who dreamed. She
hardly spoke to them; and she thought she dared not face Jamie then, or
indeed ever again upon earth. Still she ought to tell them—she _must_
tell them—all; but oh, not yet!
She went at once to the little room where she slept, shut the door, and
threw herself on her knees. Only before her God could she pour forth the
anguish of her soul. Her own—her only brother—had raised his hand
against the life of the man to whom she owed far more than life. For a
while she must be left to the shame and the bitterness of that thought.
By and by she will see comfort, rich comfort, in the mercy of Him who
interposed to shield his servant from the malice of wicked men, to save
her misguided brother from a fearful crime, and to give him still time
for repentance.
But while Mary mourned, the men of Dundee rejoiced and gave thanks, each
one as if for his own personal deliverance from terrible danger. For the
cardinal’s mission had failed. Well was it for them, well for John
Wigton, well for thousands who had yet to hear the word of truth from
the lips he sought to silence. But was it well for George Wishart? That
is not so clear. Little cause indeed had he to fear the assassin’s
knife. Had the murderer done his worst, it would still have been—
“But one step for those victorious feet,
From their day’s walk into the golden street!”
Only a moment’s shock, a death-pang scarcely felt,—then a joyful waking
in his Saviour’s presence. Were not this better far for him than the
dark and painful path he was destined to tread? Yet no. “The righteous,
and the wise, and their works, are in the hand of God,” and best in the
end for them the ways He chooses are sure to prove. Those who, in all
ages, have dared to resign themselves to his guidance, have borne
triumphant witness to the Light that illumined and the Hand that led
them throughout. Many doubtless there are on earth, who, bending wearily
beneath the weight of the cross, wish that weight were lightened; but we
may be sure that amongst the white-robed choir before the throne there
stands not one who would now be willing to have had his cross less
heavy, or to have done or suffered the least fraction less for his
Master’s sake.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
X.
=What became of the Cardinal’s Missionary.=
“Oh, if before thy death, our God
Will thee reclaim and own;
No dearer face than thine I’ll hail,
Around his judgment throne.”
REV. R. S. BROOKE.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
X.
=What became of the Cardinal’s Missionary.=
It was late in the afternoon, but Mary had not yet left her room, nor
would she admit even Janet. To the anxious inquiries of her friends she
only answered that she was not ill, and that she would come to them by
and by, but she needed rest and wished to be alone. In the meantime
Archie told his brother all that had happened; and it may well be
guessed the story did not lose any of its striking features by his
telling.
Jamie, who was considerably better, was amusing himself by walking up
and down the hall and passages of the house, when some one knocked
gently at the street door. Being near at the moment, he had it opened
before Archie, the usual porter, could bound down the stairs for the
purpose. But had Mary heard that knock, she would at once have
recognised it, and with her will no hand save her own should have opened
the door.
A gentlemanly person, unknown to Jamie, stepped inside. He had just
asked the stranger what he wanted, when, to his equal surprise and
horror, Archie sprang at the man’s throat like a wild cat, his fair
boyish face darkened by a scowl of positive hatred.
“Hae ye tint yer senses, callant?” cried Jamie, exerting all his
strength, which at the time was not great, to drag them asunder.
“Haud yer hand aff!” shouted Archie. “Yon’s the loon wha hae tried to
kill Maister Wishart.”
Jamie, however, succeeded in separating them, but only in time to save
Wigton (who seemed to lack the spirit to resist his youthful assailant)
from a severe fall.
“Is that true, sir?” he demanded then, much in the tone of a judge
interrogating a prisoner.
The unfortunate man raised his eyes for a moment to those of his
questioner, then dropped them again as if unable to bear his gaze, and
after making an ineffectual effort to speak, turned quickly towards the
door. But Archie, either from accident or design, was standing directly
between him and it.
“Let him pass, brither,” cried Jamie; then turning to Wigton with a
manner expressive of the most bitter contempt and loathing, “Nae hand o’
ours sall be upon ye, traitor tho’ ye are, for his sake wha askit yer
life; but tak’ yer foot frae an honest man’s threshold.”
John Wigton hesitated, and, to do him justice, his thoughts at the
moment were not selfish ones. His natural impulse would have been to
say, “Where’s Mary Wigton? She is my sister.” He had counted upon her
affection, sorely as it had been tried, for the shelter or the disguise
which might yet be necessary to save his life. But were it well done to
betray their relationship, and thus perhaps to deprive her of the only
friends now remaining to her on earth? For he himself, as friend or foe,
must henceforward count as nothing.
Archie eagerly flung the door wide open, Jamie sternly watched to see
him go, but still he stood irresolute. At last, looking full in the
young man’s honest though angry face, he said boldly, “Gin ye fear God,
and pity the unfortunate, let me bide here the nicht.”
Jamie’s eyes flashed, “An’ I do I’ll be——,” and there he stopped
abruptly, and bit his lip until the blood came; for an evil word had
well-nigh escaped him unawares. But presently his anger changed to
disdain. “What hae ye got to fear, gin it’s no yer ain ill conscience,
ye puir spirited loon? The law ’ill no touch a hair o’ yer head, sin’
(God forgie the wicked men wha hae done it) Maister Wishart’s been put
to the horn.[12] Ye kenned that unco weel, ye dastard, when ye thocht to
raise yer hand against his life.”
Wigton unconsciously answered him almost in the very words of the first
murderer. “But aebody wha finds me ’ill kill me.”
“Ye suld hae thocht o’ that afore ye took sic’ a bluidy trade in hand,”
said Jamie scornfully.
“Dinna fash yersel wi’ his clavers,” cried Archie. “Fling him across the
street!”
“Whisht, Archie!—Gin ye’re sae fear’t for yersel”—
“I do fear,” said Wigton, in a low voice. “I darena dee—_no just yet_.”
Jamie looked at him steadily, and the hard expression of his face began
to soften a little. “Be you a Dundee man?” he asked.
“Na.”
“God be thankit for the same! I couldna thole the thocht that _he_ had
come amang us, sae brave and kind, to do us a’ the guid he might for
soul and body, and that we had sought to pay him—wi’ the murderer’s
knife! I was aye proud to be a Dundee man, but I thocht to-day I maun be
shamed of it. Weel, that’s bye. What for can ye no gang hame? The sooner
ye free the toon o’ the presence of a traitor carl, the better.”
“Daur I pass the gate in this gear?” asked John Wigton.
Jamie had no answer to this question ready. It had now become clear to
him that the unhappy man was really in danger, and that either a change
of clothing or a night’s lodging was absolutely necessary to give him a
reasonable chance of safety. But what was that to him? For one short
moment he was glad—glad to think that, without overt act of his, the man
who had raised his cruel hand against the life so dear to them all
should pay the just forfeit of his crime. But then another thought came
to him,—and he stood irresolute, gazing on the pale troubled face before
him.
After a short pause, he turned abruptly and opened the door of the room
where Wigton once before had passed the night. “Gang in there,” he said;
“I maun think.” About to walk hastily upstairs, he fortunately
recollected Archie, and mindful of the explosion that would certainly
follow if he were left with that man, he seized the boy by his collar,
and marched him before him with little ceremony and much decision.
Whilst Archie told the astonished Janet who was in the house, Jamie
walked silently to the window and stood there, his head resting on his
hands. Not long since had his heart’s choice been made to serve and
follow his Master Christ; and this was the first time his faith had been
put to the proof by the solemn question, “Shall I do in this matter the
thing that _I_ please, or shall I deny myself, and do the will of Christ
my Saviour?” What that will was, he could not doubt. He from whose lips
he had learned “the mercies of God,” was very earnest and explicit in
beseeching those who tasted them to yield themselves living sacrifices,
holy, acceptable unto him. “If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he
thirst, give him drink;”—Jamie well knew the words, and felt them at
that moment directly addressed to him. But his eyes were resting on the
spot where so lately Wishart had knelt by his sick bed in prayer; the
Book he had given lay near him on the table; and all the blessed words
or help and healing, all the noble deeds of Christian love, which he and
others owed to him, came crowding on his memory. A personal wrong would
have been, oh how easy to pardon! But to attempt his life—_his_! That
was too cruel; it was beyond all pardon. He had yet to learn the last
and hardest lesson of Christian charity (witness any who have tried
it)—to forgive the injuries done to those we love and reverence. But
then, who possessed, after all, the right to decide the question, and to
dispose of the man’s life? And had not he, in the plainest possible
manner, already made known his decision! This thought softened him; his
lip trembled, and a mist came over his dark eye.
At last he spoke aloud, but as if addressing himself: “I’ll do it, sin’
Maister Wishart willed it thus.”
“Oh, Jamie!” cried Janet, who for some moments had been watching him
earnestly, “dinna do it for Maister Wishart’s sake, but for the guid
Lord Jesus, wha prayed on the cross for his murderers!”
Jamie was surprised at this burst of feeling from the ordinarily
reserved and silent Janet. But not the less had the arrow she sped
winged its way to his heart. “Ye’re richt, lass,” he said, in an altered
tone. Then, turning to the large “kist” which did duty as the family
wardrobe, he began to ransack its contents with a hasty hand.
“What gars ye make sic’ a litter?” asked Janet, subsiding in a moment
into her ordinary sphere of common life and practical activity. “Tell
_me_ what ye’re seeking, an’ I’ll find it for ye without turning aething
topside down.”
But Jamie silently held up the object of his search—a suit of coarse
clothing which he had been accustomed to wear when about his daily work.
Just then Mary entered the room, looking very pale. She had heard the
loud voices in the passage, and at once the idea occurred to her that
her brother might have ventured to the house. As hitherto, in compliance
with his own request, she had always been careful to watch for his knock
and to admit him herself, he would naturally calculate upon this.
Alarmed at the thought of his being recognised by any one else, she was
going down to meet him, when, in passing by the open door of the
Duncans’ room, she overheard part of their conversation.
“Jamie,” she said, in a low but tolerably calm voice, “yon man is my
brither, John Wigton.”
Janet and Archie uttered exclamations of surprise, perhaps of horror.
Jamie remained silent, but drew his hand across his face.
Mary’s soft eyes were fixed on that shaded face with a wistful inquiring
gaze, very touching in its sorrowful earnestness. “Do _you_ indeed
despise me?” they seemed to ask.
At length Jamie spoke, and in that peculiarly gentle tone which a keen
observer might have noticed he never used except in addressing her:
“Mary, lass,” he said, “wad ye rather see him again or no?”
“I maun see him, Jamie.”
“Then bring him thae bit claes; an’ he wants meat or drink, ye ken whaur
to get it.”
“God bless ye,” answered Mary; and taking the clothes with her, she left
the room.
Mere courage, or the absence of it, is not always a fair test of a man’s
moral condition. That morning John Wigton had been ready enough to brave
a violent death; that evening, he was willing to do or suffer almost
anything in order to retain for a little longer.
“The poor common privilege of breathing.”
But in the meantime a revolution had passed over him; and the man who
shrank from death was in some respects better and wiser than the man who
faced it fearlessly. His daring had been the offspring of ignorance and
superstition; his fears were at least reasonable. A weight of conscious
guilt was on his soul, how then could he venture to enter his Maker’s
presence?
He was sitting at the table, his head bowed down between his hands, when
Mary entered the room, came towards him, and said softly, “Brither.”
He started and looked up, but in an instant afterwards his head sank and
he covered his face again.
“I’ll no reproach ye,” said Mary, her voice trembling, “but gin it’s no
wrang to think it, I could wish God wad hae taken me hame afore this
bitter day. Brither, brither—what gared ye dream o’ sic’ a deed?”
“I hae nae will to blame him that bade me do the wark, my ain guilt is
owre heavy for that,” he answered; and Mary saw that his heart was
crushed within him.
“Thank God it was nae waur,” she said gently; “it gars me grue to think
what micht hae been the day.”
“Sister, ye were richt. Maister Wishart preaches the true Word o’ God.
Miserable sinner that I am, I hae focht against God himsel!”
“God can pardon, brither.”
“Oh ay, he can, but I sair misdoot,—atweel, Mary, we maun part the noo
for aye and aye. Ye ken yersel it’s better sae.”
Mary did not deny it. Tearless, but with a look more sad than many
tears, she answered, “Brither, I’ll pray for ye night, noon, and
morn—I’ll nae mair forget yer name than I could _his_ whase life ye
sought. And I hope in God’s mercy we’ll meet ainst again at his right
hand.”
“Then we part friends, Mary?” said Wigton, extending his hand.
“Oh ay,” replied Mary quickly; but a sudden thought of the deed that
hand had been about to do overcame her at the moment, and she hesitated
to take it.
“Ye willna touch me,” said her brother. “_He_ took me in his arms.”
Overpowered by the recollection, he buried his face once more in his
hands and wept aloud. George Wishart’s forgiving love had conquered. All
the ice of fanaticism, that for years had been gathering around the
heart of Wigton, melted beneath its beams in a single hour. Since he
left his father’s home he had scarcely known what it was to weep; for
men who harden their hearts as he did, do not often yield to the
softening thoughts that bring tears. But now he was sobbing like a
child; not for sorrow, not for shame, not even for the sense of sin, but
only at the memory of those arms clasped around him—that voice pleading
for him—“Whosoever shall trouble him troubles me.” And he had hated the
man so bitterly, had believed so firmly that by killing him he should do
God service! Truly, as Martin Luther said, “Satan cannot cast out
Satan,” nor hate vanquish hate, “but the finger of God, which is love,
will do it.”
When men weep thus they do not soon grow calm again. Mary saw that every
nerve in her brother’s frame was quivering with emotion. She came very
close to him _now_, wound her arms about his neck and pressed her lips
to his. “God will pardon thee,” she said again.
“God’s servant pardoned,” murmured Wigton.
“An’ I dinna think the Maister’s ain heart ’ill be less full o’ love
than the servant’s. Whaur but frae the blessed Lord himsel did Maister
Wishart learn to forgie like that? Gin _he_, wha ye thocht to kill,
could shield ye wi’ his ain body frae them that sought yer life, ye may
ken for sure that the guid Lord ’ill no refuse, an’ ye turn to him, to
tak’ ye in _his_ arms and keep ye safe frae scathe and harm.”
“O Mary, what a refuge for the like o’ me! Na—na—it’s owre guid.” And he
shook his head despondingly.
“He saves to the uttermost, he forgies e’en the chief o’ sinners,”
answered Mary.
“But I maun gang,” said Wigton, rising. “It’s wearing late, and they’ll
hae shut the gates.”
Mary gave him the clothes she brought, and proffered food, which he
declined. He changed his dress in a small adjacent room where Mary used
herself to sleep before her father’s death; and then returning to her,
said, “I dinna think aebody’s like to ken me noo, forbye it’s weel nigh
dark.”
“Could ye no bide here the nicht, John?”
“I daurna; an’ what guid wad it do?”
“Will ye no tell me whaur ye’re gaun?”
“I dinna just ken mysel. But I ken unco weel whaur I’m no like to gang,
and that’s to St. Andrews. Aebody’s hand ’ill be again me noo; and my
lord the Cardinal wad gie me sharp thanks for this morn’s wark.”
Mary shuddered. “He maun be a bluidy blackhearted man, God forgie him,”
she said. “What gars him hate guid Maister Wishart, wha never did him or
ony man harm?”
To this question John Wigton was scarcely competent to give an answer.
But he gave the best he could,—“Because he is—he was—that is, they ca’
him—an awfu’ heretic. But heretic or no,” he added very earnestly, “wi’
a’ my heart I pray God bless him, an’ I’ll pray the same ilka day until
I dee, gin the prayer o’ sic’ a puir wretch as I can be worth aething
ava.”
Again his voice faltered and his lips trembled. But steadying both with
an effort, he said, “Guid nicht, Mary. Aiblins ye’ll hear o’ me again,
but maist like ye willna.”
“Brither!—”
“Dinna fret for me. I’ll no starve, I’ll fend for mysel some gait or
ither. It’s an ill pairt I hae done by you, lass, but ye’ve better
friends than me noo. Guid nicht!”
Mary threw herself into his arms. One moment she was locked in his
embrace, the next he was gone. Where he sat and wept, there she too
seated herself, and her tears began to flow. “Brither! brither!” was the
cry of her heart, though her lips uttered no sound—“My puir, puir
brither!” Love and pity were now the only feelings that found place in
her soul. Pity for his shame and sorrow; mingling with the old familiar
childish love, the love that never grows up save between those whose
“Voices mingled as they prayed
Beside one parent’s knee.”
Oh, might they meet again, here if it were her Father’s will; if not,
hereafter, in that home where shame and sorrow can never come!
But did John Wigton really repent? Towards the man whose life he sought
he certainly repented; did he towards that God against whom he had
sinned so deeply? We cannot answer. It is God’s own high prerogative to
_give_ repentance. He alone who made the heart can re-make it, changing
its stony hardness into flesh “like a little child’s.” Man’s love and
forgiveness may soften even obdurate hatred towards man; but it needs
the revelation of a divine tenderness, divinely made, to subdue that
awful and mysterious enmity of the depraved mind against Him who is the
source of all good and all happiness.
Mary’s tears were changing into prayers for the now doubly lost one,
when some one quietly entered the darkening room. She knew Jamie’s
footstep,—but why should she tremble so? How glad she was that in the
waning light they could not see each other’s faces! She could not help
the strange fear that thrilled her heart. Fear of what? His contempt? He
was too generous for that; but generous as he was, the sister of John
Wigton could never be to him, or to any of them, what she had been
before. The very name was infamous now. She would go away—would hide
herself from them all.
James Duncan walked straight up to her, and took her passive hand in
his. “Mary, lass?” said his gentle voice,—the voice of a strong man’s
tenderness.
Mary steadied hers to answer him. “Jamie,” she said, “ye ken God has
laid his hand on me the day. For I maun think, it’s my comfort, that a’
the grief and dolour comes straight frae his ain hand; an’ no be minding
the wicked, cruel men wha hae had to do in’t. And, oh Jamie! there hae
been ithers mair to blame than my puir misguided brither. God forgie
him; and I hae that faith He will. For sure he repents.—But that’s no
what I want to say.” She paused a minute; and the darkness hid the
deepening crimson of her cheek, but not the faltering of her voice, as
she resumed, “Puir we hae been, but dishonour ne’er came to our house
till the day. It has come noo, God help me to bear it! Na Wigton ’ill
ever haud up the head again in a’ the country. God may forgie this day’s
wark, but men willna forget it; aiblins they suldna. And I’m Mary
Wigton, John Wigton’s sister. Archie and Janet—”
The rest of the sentence was never spoken, for Jamie quickly
interrupted, “Janet hauds ye her ain dear sister, an’ I—hear me, Mary—I
love ye as I love naething else in a’ the muckle warld.”
And he added a great deal more, which need not here be written. If the
sober, quiet, but deep-feeling young man grew actually eloquent, it was
no marvel, for eloquence is the language of strong emotion, and his soul
was moved to its centre. What he said might, and probably would, have
been said weeks before, but for the circumstances of danger and trial in
which they had been placed, which seemed to render such thoughts
untimely and unsuitable. Or it might still have been deferred for weeks,
had not Mary’s grief and shame for her brother smitten the rock of
reserve and caused the waters to gush forth. However this may be, it
_was_ said now. There, in the soft autumn gloaming, the faces of the
speakers unseen, but their hands clasped together, simple earnest vows
were exchanged, vows which they prayed God to bless and confirm. They
believed he would look down in love upon his two poor children, whose
hearts he had bound together by such a close and tender tie. They had no
dream of happiness apart from his favour and blessing; whatever he might
give them in each other, the cry of both their hearts was still the
same,—“Thou, and Thou alone art our portion.” They could not have loved
each other so well, if they had not loved Him better.
That bitter day did not close in bitterness upon Mary Wigton. Subdued
and chastened but most heartfelt thanksgivings for God’s mercies to
herself, mingled with her prayers for her misguided, wandering, but as
she hoped, repentant brother.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
XI.
=Clear Shining after Rain.=
“Bent on such glorious toils,
The world to him was loss;
Yet all his trophies, all his spoils,
He hung upon the cross.”
MONTGOMERY.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
XI.
=Clear Shining after Rain.=