home at Dunsinnane Brae. “All joy was darkened, the mirth of the land
was gone.” Mary moved with hushed footsteps about her household duties,
speaking little, but praying much. Many a quiet tear dropped over her
baby’s cradle; many a time the psalm she tried to sing died away in low
sobs; nor could she even recall the precious words of Scripture for her
own comfort, without too vividly recalling with them the thought of him
who was suffering for the crime of having brought to her and to others
that living water. Jamie’s grief was less resigned and patient than
hers. Certain very old perplexities about the works of God and his ways
with the children of men sorely haunted and troubled him. With these
came thoughts of anger and bitterness, only too natural under the
circumstances. Mary often heard him murmur, “How long, O Lord, holy and
true, dost thou not judge and avenge?”—But he could never bear to
complete the sentence.
Soon afterwards Archie, who was now wonderfully subdued and quiet,
joined their party. He brought with him from Dundee the tidings that the
Cardinal had asked the Governor for a temporal judge to pronounce
sentence upon the heretic; but that it was hoped and expected he would
refuse the request, which indeed he did, telling the Cardinal that “he
would not meddle with the blood of that good man.”
Further than this, for three slow and sorrowful weeks they heard
nothing. One evening they had just concluded their wonted family
worship, in which the prayer was never omitted, that God would hear his
servant in the day of trouble, send him help from the sanctuary, and
strengthen him out of Zion. Jamie’s voice faltered sorely as he offered
it; and, on rising from his knees, he drew Mary aside and said to her,
“It’s na use. I canna bide here ony langer. I maun gang to St. Andrews.”
Mary started at this announcement.
“To St. Andrews, Jamie! What gars ye think o’ that?”
“I wad learn a’ there, and—and—aiblins see his face again.”
“Eh, but that’s no like to be,—God wot,” she added very earnestly, “gin
you could bring him but sae muckle comfort as a cup o’ cauld water, I
wadna haud ye back, an’ ye were to set your ain life in the bawk to do
it. But ye couldna. Think on’t yersel; ye ken weel they wadna let you
see him. It’s naebut a fule thocht, Jamie.”
“No just that. We canna get the bit news our hearts are aching for, but
I maun gang a’ the gait to Dundee. St. Andrews is no sae muckle
farther.”
“Ay is it, owre twice as far. But it’s no the distance. It’s that I
canna see the guid on’t. Forbye, Jamie, St. Andrews is the Cardinal’s
ain town.”
“Weel, what matters that to a puir simple man like me, wha naebody
kens?”
“Ye might be owre gleg wi’ yer tongue.”
Jamie shook his head impatiently, was silent for a few moments, and then
wisely shifted his ground. He had made a mistake, in attempting to
reason at all about what was not a matter of reason, but of feeling.
“It’s a’ true what ye say, Mary. But ye maunna keep me back, for it’s
_borne in on me_ I suld gang. Fule thocht or no, I canna rest till I do
it.”
The woman’s nature responded to this appeal. She answered immediately,
“Then do a’ that’s in thine heart, Jamie. But oh,” she added, “for the
sake o’ yon bit bairn in the cradle, be prudent, man, and dinna be
thinkin’ out loud!”
“Ne’er fear for me. I havena done sae muckle for my Lord that he suld
honour me to suffer for him. But it’s my thought aye and aye, an’ I gae
to St. Andrews, aiblins he’ll gie me an answer here to the question
that’s rackin’ my heart baith day and nicht, ‘Thou art o’ purer eyes
than to behold evil, an’ canst not look on iniquity, wharefore lookest
thou on them that deal treacherously, and haudest thy tongue when the
wicked devoureth the man that is mair righteous than he?”
James Duncan acted on his impulse. It may be the highest wisdom of a
wise man to do this occasionally; for “the heart has its reasons, which
the reason cannot comprehend.” He was enough of a Scotchman, however, to
be prudent in his way of doing even what might be considered an
imprudent action. In order to cover his real purpose, he found a
plausible business errand to a brother of Janet’s husband, one Walter
Graham, who resided at St. Andrews. And being well aware how little
Archie’s discretion could be counted upon, he steadily refused his
passionate entreaties to be permitted to accompany him. It was perhaps
fortunate that he had another very sufficient reason for this refusal,
as the boy was still weak and suffering from the effects of his
accident. Janet volunteered to remain with Mary and the invalided Archie
at the farm during the few days of the master’s absence; and he set out
on foot, intending to cross the Firth of Tay, and in this manner to
accomplish the journey in a single day. Thus the man, as man ever will,
found relief for his sorrow in action, in motion, in excitement; while
the woman, as woman so often must, sat at home, and suffered and kept
silence.
Three anxious days passed heavily by at Dunsinnane Brae. But on the
evening of the third, a little after sunset, James Duncan returned home.
So calm, it might almost be said so radiant, was his countenance, that
at the first glance his impetuous young brother could not help
exclaiming, “Is he saved, Jamie—tell us, is he saved?”
“Saved—ay, that he is! Ane day and nicht (but there’s nae nicht there)
has he been in his Saviour’s presence, and is no that enoo to pay for a’
he suffered here?”
“Oh but, Jamie—did God let them do their waurst?”
“Nae doot he kens noo that the _waurst_ cruel men could do was just the
_best_ his Lord could appoint for him. And I’m amaist come to that
mysel. What I hae seen is wonnerfu’.”
“Let my God provide for me as best pleaseth him,” had George Wishart
said; and God had not denied him the request of his lips. But truly
man’s worst is often His best for his chosen. Our love is timid,
shrinking, more fearful even of inflicting than of enduring pain; His is
broad, and strong, and far-seeing, as well as tender. Could we have our
will with the dark tragedies of earth’s history, should we not be often
tempted to find for them some softer termination? But,—
“God himself is the true poet,
And the real is his song.”
And with deep meaning has it been said, that “he whom the poet loves he
allows to suffer.” For the heart attuned to comprehend its beauty, no
sweeter poem was ever sung than the life that ended at St. Andrews, upon
that 1st of March 1546.
As soon as the others were calm enough to hear it, James Duncan told his
tale:—“I hae tint my gait,” he said, “after I crossed Tay Frith, and I
fand mysel at Cupar—no that a’ that matters noo; but in sae far that it
gared me bide there the nicht. Neist morn (and no sae early either, for
I was owre forfoughten) I walked the sax mile to St. Andrews. Being come
there, straight I ken’d that something by-ordinar was on hand. Castle
and town were full o’ spearmen and jackmen, wi’ knapscall splent and
axe; and folk were busy loading the muckle guns in the Towers. I thocht
first it was for fechting, and that there maun hae been a stour in the
town, but soon I changed my mind. Passing the East Tower, I saw nigh the
Abbey, at the foot o’ Castle Wynd, men biggin’[20] _something_, I ken’d
na what. But ainst I looked up at the castle, I had it a’ fixed: the
folk were naebut making holiday, and they were biggin’ a stage for a
clerk-play, or sic like. For the hail fore tower was decked out wi’ braw
gear,—velvet cushions, tapestry curtains, and the lave,—as for the
Cardinal and the kirkmen to look on and tak’ their ease. By-an’-by, I
askit ane o’ the jackmen wha stood on guard what a’ this suld mean. He
answered me cold and careless,—‘They’re gaun to burn Maister Wishart,
and yon’s naebut for my lord and the bishops to see the ploy.’”
“_Curse them!_” cried Archie.
“Whisht, callant!—I cursed them ainst mysel, and that bitterly,—but I
hae done wi’ cursing noo. Weel, I just said, ‘The Lord require it,’ and
leaned back against the wa’. Na for a’ the muckle warld wad I fecht
thro’ sic’ an hour again! I thocht my heart maun break, no just wi’
grief for _him_, but wi’ rage an’ bitter hate. Christ’s gentle, loving
servant, wha had wared his haill life doing guid, to dee in cruel
torture,—and thae fiends to sit yonder, in their hatefu’ pomp an’ pride,
to _enjoy_ the sight o’ his agony! ‘Serpents, generation o’ vipers, how
wad they escape the damnation o’ hell?’ I was blythe to think they wadna
escape it. Wi’ an awfu’ thirl o’ joy the thocht gaed thro’ and thro’ me,
that the smoke o’ their torment wad gang up for aye and aye in the
presence o’ the holy angels. It’s nae word to say I wad hae slain the
bluidy Cardinal wi’ my ain hand; I’d hae deemed a quick death like that
owre muckle guid for him—it was no to _that_ death he doomed his victim.
Sae I gied him up in my heart to God’s ain fearfu’ vengeance, and I
lifted my hand to heaven to curse him in his holy name.
“But when I thocht upon God I was troubled. For I minded that _he saw a’
this_. He beheld, frae his dwelling-place, the cruel triumph of his
enemies, the bitter suffering of his dear, faithfu’ servant. Yet he
bided still, and gied nae sign. The sky was clear and blue;—he sent nae
thunnerstorm to smite the guilty town. Had he indeed forsaken him? Did
he no care what happened? Were the murderer and the martyr alike to him?
Ye may weel look fear’t, Mary, thae were gruesome wicked thochts—but God
had mercy on me.
“Belyve[21] a braw gentleman, wi’ sword and broidered doublet, passed
quick by us. The man wha had spoken wi’ me made him a salute, and said,
‘Yon’s our captain.’ Unkenning what I did, I gied ane glint at his face.
Sadder face hae I never seen upon living man! He looked as he’d hae gien
the haill warld just to greet like a bit bairn, but daredna do it
_then_. I couldna help mysel, I gaed richt up to him, and said, ‘Sir, in
God’s name, tell me gin this thing be true?’
“He didna answer me sae quick; but he peered in my face as he’d hae read
the vera thochts o’ my heart. Indeed, I trow ilka ane of us read the
ither’s heart, for the een whiles can say mair than the tongue. At last
he speired o’ me, ‘Be you a friend o’ his?’
“I said, ‘Nae mair than thousands wha hae heard the Word o’ Life frae
his lips, and wad be blythe to dee for him the day, gin that might be.’
“‘Ye haud his faith?’
“‘Dearer than my heart’s bluid.’
“‘Follow me then,’ sayeth he, ‘in the name o’ our Lord Jesus Christ.’
“Muckle wonnerin’, I did as he bade. As we passed alang to a postern o’
the castle, he spake but ane word mair to me,—‘He sall hae his last wish
the day, despite a’ the bishops in Scotland.’ Then a familiar[22] having
opened to us, he gied me in his charge, and we parted. I was led to a
quiet, pleasant room, and left there my lane. Like ane in a dream I
looked around me, and felt a kind o’ wonner at seeing ilka thing sae
still and hame-like. As tho’ that day were like ither days, and folk
could eat and drink, there was a fair white cloth laid on the table, wi’
bread and wine, and sic’, upon’t. Belyve, there dropped in quietly ane,
an’ anither, an’ anither. Aiblins the maist part were the captain’s ain
househald, but I ken there were mair by than that. Ane thing was sure,
they a’ feared the Lord. Strange it seemed to me to meet God’s children
_there_, in the vera seat o’ Satan. But I soon learned frae their talk
what had happened. It was but that morn they had tried and condemned
him.”
“Their feet were swift to shed bluid,” said Archie. “What need to try
him ava’?”
“It was naebut for fear the folk suld say he was unjustly slain, as
indeed they spared not to avow.” James Duncan paused for a moment, and
suppressed a bitter sigh. “I canna just tell a’ they tald me o’ that
trial as calm as I ought. Tho’ it’s a’ by noo, the heart maun burn still
at the cruel insults heaped on Christ’s servant. They gied him to drink
verra deep of his Maister’s cup; he was mocked, reviled,—even spit upon.
But he tholed a’ wi’ grand and sweet patience; not ainst, they say, did
e’en a change come owre his face. Sae calmly and bravely he defended
God’s truth, that the folk wha filled the Abbey Kirk—”
“Auld wives and doited carles they maun hae been to bide it. They suld
hae torn the Cardinal in pieces and saved him!” Archie burst forth
impetuously, every nerve in his frame quivering with passion. Mary and
Janet were weeping quietly.
“Callant, what could they do? I hae said the town was filled wi’
soldiers; and the gunners stood ready at the muckle guns till a’ was
done. Ane hundert jackmen, wi’ spear, splent, and axe, guarded the
prisoner. But the folk gied him what they could. Ainst, a priest wha
said the devil was in him, had the word gien back to him quick by ‘ane
young scholar boy’ in the crowd, ‘It’s a devilish tale to say that. The
devil never moved to speak as yon man speaks.’ Again, as he spake o’ the
priesthood of a’ God’s children, the bishops drowned his voice wi’ a
shout of insulting laughter. Sae soon as he might be heard, he said
gently, ‘Do ye laugh, my lords? Though these sayings appear to your
lordships scornful and worthy of derision, yet they are very weighty to
me, and of great value, for they stand not only upon my life, but also
upon the honour and glory of God.’ When folk’s hearts are owre full, a
sma’ thing’ll gar them greet; many wha were present brake forth into
tears at this, nor did they even fear to make lamentation for him aloud.
And at last, ere their wark was done, the bishops were fain to put the
people forth, for they daredna trust them mair.
“Ane that came in later than the lave, tald us that Dean John Wynram,
the sub-prior o’ the Abbey, wha preached the sermon in the kirk that
morn before them a’, having spoken afterwards wi’ Maister Wishart, was
moved to the vera heart; sae that he gaed, weeping bitterly, to the
bluidy Cardinal himsel, wi’ a’ his priests and bishops, and tald him
plainly, that ‘Maister Wishart was an innocent man, and that he said
this, not to intercede for his life, but to make known his innocency
unto all men, as it was known already unto God.’ May God remember that
man for guid, and bring him, in his grace, to a clear knowledge o’ the
Truth, for the whilk his servant suffered!
“But maist eager for his death, after the cruel Cardinal himsel, was the
Archbishop o’ Glasgow. Folk couldna fail to mind it was no that lang
sin’ he came to Ayr, wi’ his jackmen and spearmen, to tak’ the muckle
heretic. But he fand him wi’ a’ the Westland gentlemen around him, sword
in hand. Ye mind then how he seized the kirk, and how, as at Mauchline,
the angry gentlefolk wad hae driven him forth waur than he came, hadna
God’s servant withheld them, saying, ‘Let him alane; his sermon will not
much hurt. Let us go to the Mercat Cross.’ Bitter thanks the bishop gied
him for the same! But at least Maister Wishart had his will; ‘the Word
sent by him was a word o’ peace,’ na bluid was shed for it—_but his
ain_.
“We were talking o’ these things amang oursels wi’ sad hearts, when the
captain came again, and wi’ him—the man sae dear to us a’.”
“Oh, Jamie! Then, ye saw him?” Jamie bowed his head.
“Was he changed?” asked Mary in a trembling voice.
“He was pale and worn-looking, but ye’d scarce hae thocht o’ that; for
God’s peace was in his face, gin it’s ever been in man’s.”
“Then he wasna fear’t?” asked Janet.
“_Fear’t_, Janet? He was naebut gaun ‘unto God, his exceeding joy.’ But
I couldna but mind the day he knelt by my bedside sae kind and gentle,
and a great sob came up like a wave frae the bottom o’ my heart. Wi’ a’
my strength I forced it back, and kept still, warsling wi’ mysel, while
the lave pressed round and talked wi’ him.
“But presently I heard him say, ‘I beseik ye, my brethren, to be silent
for a little while, that I may bless this bread according to our
Saviour’s ordinance, and so take my leave of you.’ He was sae calm
himsel, that he calmed us a’. He gared us come to the table; and we were
soon seated there, as for a simple meal, yet kenning full weel the place
was na ither than the house o’ God, the vera gate o’ heaven.
“And sic’ God made it to us. Oh Mary, it was wonnerfu’ to hear a man
talk o’ Christ, wha we kenned, ere that day’s sun set, suld see Him eye
to eye. It was amaist as though he _had_ seen Him, even then. He seemed
to tak’ us wi’ him—abune—ayont a’ earth’s grief and dolor, into the
strange peace and quiet of our Lord’s ain immediate presence. He spake
first o’ the institution of the Lord’s Supper, then of his sufferings
and his death for us. He made us a’ think o’ that, till, looking at the
Cross, we amaist forgot the stake that was sae near us. Nae doot but
_he_ forgot it!
“But ye ken that in the old times, Mary, he never failed to bring the
truth hame to our ain hearts and lives. And sae it was the noo. Maist
lovingly he pleaded wi’ us, by that Death for us, to love ane anither
‘as perfect members of Christ, wha intercedes continually for us to God
the Father.’ And he bade us lay aside, for His name’s sake, a’ rancour,
envy, _vengeance_!—Weel we kenned what he meant! Archie, lad, it seemed
no hard to do it then, wi’ sic’ thochts before us. I looked for a’ the
rage and hate that a wheen agone had filled my soul wi’ the bitterness
o’ death, and lo! they were gone; Christ’s love had melted them awa’.
Frae the vera depth o’ my heart I forgave that hour—even the cruel
Cardinal. And I think we a’ did the same. This was the last lesson _he_
taught us.
“Then he blessed the bread and wine, and having tasted them himsel, he
gied to ilka ane of us. I feel the thirl yet o’ his hand touching mine,
and his voice saying to me, ‘Remember that Christ died for thee, and
feed on Him in thy heart by faith.’ Still mair when he gied the cup,
that the kirkmen say we daurna touch.”—Here at last Jamie’s voice
failed, and he was silent for some moments. Presently he resumed, “After
this he gied thanks, and prayed for us. Then he said, ‘I shall neither
eat nor drink more in this life. There is a more bitter cup prepared for
me, only because I have preached the true Word of God; but pray for me,
that I may take it patiently, as from his hand.’ And sae, having bade us
a’ farewell, he gaed forth.”
“Did ye greet?” asked Janet.
“Not ane tear till he was awa’. We wadna grieve him wi’ our grief;
forbye, ere he had done, our hearts were owre full of a kind of awfu’
happiness that left nae thocht o’ grief. But then—when a’ was by,”—again
his voice died away.
Archie broke the silence,—“It was just like him to help and comfort
a’body else to the vera last minute, wi’ nae thocht nor care for
himsel.”
“It was like his Lord,” said Mary’s low soft voice. “Thank God a’ yer
life ye hae seen him thus, Jamie.”
“I hae seen him ainst mair.”
“Sure ye daredna see the end?”—the question was Archie’s.
“I’d hae dared onything then. I said to mysel, ‘Am I sae weak that I
canna thole to _see_ what he maun suffer? Gin a’ that love him hae sic’
coward hearts, he’ll be left, that dreadfu’ hour, his lane amang faes
and strangers.’ Sae I gaed wi’ the lave.
“Archie, Mary, dinna ask me to say muckle on’t! I canna—no just yet.
Aiblins when lang years are by, and our hairs are gray, we’ll talk it
owre wi’ mair quiet hearts; but noo”—
After a long pause he went on, shading his face, and bringing out every
word slowly and with effort. “I saw him led to the stake—the gibbet I
suld say, for nae shame or scorning they could devise was spared him.
His hands bound behind him, a rope round his neck, and a muckle chain—oh
Mary, dinna greet like that, it’s a’ by noo. Shame, did I say? God’s
bright angels might hae envied him the glory o’ that hour. Gin ye’d seen
his face as I did, ye’d hae thocht sae. His spirit had just been in sic’
close communion wi’ the Lord he loved; he was gaun straight to the mair
perfect fellowship abune; and this was naebut a bit passage,—ane step
between the twa,—Christ’s presence in grace here, Christ’s presence in
glory up yonder.
“Vera gentle were his words to a’, baith friend and fae. Even to the
beggars, wha met him on the way, he couldna but gie a word o’ comfort.
‘I want my hands, wherewith I wont to give you alms. But the merciful
Lord, of his benignity and abundant grace, that feedeth all men,
vouchsafe to give you necessaries, both unto your bodies and souls.’ And
when the Grayfriars troubled him, urging him to pray to our Lady, he
answered meekly, ‘Cease to tempt me, I entreat you, my brethren.’
“Being come to the place, he kneeled down and prayed, ‘O thou Saviour of
the world, have mercy upon me. Father of Heaven, I commend my spirit
into thy holy hands.’ Then he spake to the people. I hae brought ye his
last message, Mary. I think my heart has gathered ilka ane o’ the words
he spake. For the hot airn takes the stamp, and keeps it for aye.
“‘I pray you,’ he said to them that stood around, ‘show my brethren and
sisters, which have heard me oft before, that they cease not nor leave
off to learn the Word of God, which I taught unto them after the grace
given unto me, for no persecutions or troubles in this world, which
lasteth not. And show unto them, that my doctrine was no wives’ fables,
after the constitutions made by men; and if I had taught men’s doctrine,
I had gotten greater thanks by men. But for the Word’s sake and true
evangel, which was given to me by the grace of God, I suffer this day,
not sorrowfully, but with a glad heart and mind. Consider and behold my
visage, ye sall not see me change my colour. This grim fire I fear not;
and so I pray you for to do, if that any persecution come to you for the
sake of the Word, and not to fear them that slay the body, and after
that have no power to slay the soul. Some have said of me, that I taught
that the soul of man should sleep until the last day; but I know surely
that my soul shall sup with my Saviour this night, or it be six hours,
for whom I suffer this.’
“Then prayed he for his enemies in sic’ words as thae: ‘I beseik the
Father of Heaven to forgive them that have, of any ignorance, or else of
any evil mind, forged lies upon me; I forgive them with all mine heart;
I beseik Christ to forgive them that have condemned me to death this day
ignorantly.’
“But no yet was done his last act o thoughtfu’ love. For we marked that
the doomster[23] kneeled unto him, and maist earnestly prayed his
forgiveness, saying he was in no ways guilty of his death. To whom he
said, ‘Come hither to me.’ When he was come, he kissed him on the cheek,
wi’ the words, ‘Lo, here is a token that I forgive thee. My friend, do
thine office.’”
A long, long silence followed. At last Archie murmured through his
tears, “What then?”
“Then—the end came. But my coward heart failed me; I could thole nae
mair. Scarce kenning what I did, I gat me frae the place, frae the town.
I dinna mind aething, till belyve I fand mysel in a bit quiet grassy
spot. There I threw mysel on my knees, and tried hard to cry to God. It
were sae easy for Him to tak’ a’ the bitter pain awa’, and gie his
servant peace in that last awfu’ hour. The ‘grim fire’ needna hurt, gin
He willed it sae. For fire and hail, snaw and vapour, alike fulfil His
word. A’ my heart gaed up in ane last prayer for him; and I took nae
thocht o’ time, till at length the sound of a bell frae the Abbey Kirk
struck my ear. Then my prayers changed to praises. For I kenned it was
the saxt hour, and I minded the martyr’s words, ‘Ere it be sax hours, my
soul shall sup wi’ Christ my Saviour.’ Nae truer thirl o’ joy do I ever
think to feel, were I to live a hundert year on earth. I couldna but cry
aloud, wi’ clasped hands, and tears that were a’ for gladness, ‘Thou
hast gien thy servant ‘quiet rest’ at last. I thank thee, O my Father!’”
“God be thanked for _him_. He rests frae his labours, and his warks do
follow him.—But it’s the waefu’ day for us!” sobbed Archie, who although
at an age when boys are more ashamed of tears than men, had for some
time been weeping without restraint.
James Duncan laid his hand gently on his shoulder. “Brither,” he said,
“daur ye stand this day by the word ye spake when ye waled sic’ a life
as his aboon ilka ither? Can ye drink o’ that cup, think ye?”
The boy raised his head quickly, dashed his tears away, and said with
deep emotion, “I’d rather live sic’ a life and dee sic’ a death, than be
king owre a’ the muckle warld, wi’ a’ the honour and glory o’t. But,” he
added presently, and in a lower voice, “it’s no by might or by power,
but by the Lord’s ain Spirit; the whilk he’ll no deny e’en to a puir
sinfu’ lad like me, wha asks it this day for his dear Son’s sake.”
“Amen,” said James Duncan.
Then they wept together, long and bitterly, like orphaned children for a
beloved father. But with their tears were mingled earnest prayers that
they might be enabled to follow his faith, considering the end of his
conversation.