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Title: The dark year of Dundee
A tale of the Scottish Reformation
Author: Deborah Alcock
Release date: November 24, 2025 [eBook #77324]
Language: English
Original publication: London: T. Nelson & Sons, 1867
Credits: Richard Tonsing, Richard Hulse, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DARK YEAR OF DUNDEE ***
[Illustration: THE DARK YEAR OF DUNDEE.]
[Illustration]
THE
DARK YEAR OF DUNDEE:
=A Tale of the Scottish Reformation.=
_BY THE AUTHOR OF
“Sunset in Provence, and other Tales of Martyr Times,” &c._
[Illustration]
LONDON:
T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW;
EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK.
1867.
[Illustration]
PREFACE
The Dark Year of Dundee may be called a tale of Fact, since Fiction has
only been employed in it as the handmaid of Truth, and for the purpose
of throwing a more vivid light upon scenes and events that actually
occurred. The “story,” slight as it is, may not inaptly be likened to
the sheath or calyx that encloses and protects the yet unopened bud.
When the flower unfolds its petals, the calyx has fulfilled its work,
and, hidden from the eye, no longer attracts the thoughts and attention
of the spectator. Thus it has been intended only to leave upon the
reader’s mind the impression of one grand and simple character;—only to
tell, plainly and briefly, the story of one who, long ago, laboured
abundantly and endured nobly for Christ’s sake, “strengthened with all
might according to his glorious power.” And no alloy of fiction has been
admitted into what is here recorded of George Wishart; for, apart from
any other consideration, such a character as his is “God’s workmanship,”
and it would seem impossible to add anything to the great Artist’s
design without marring its beauty and completeness.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CONTENTS
THE DARK YEAR OF DUNDEE.
Page
I. Fanaticism 9
II. Clouded Death 21
III. God’s Messenger 31
IV. Fruits of the Message 45
V. More Fruits of the Message 57
VI. The Darkest Hour 69
VII. New Friends and Old 83
VIII. The Cardinal’s Missionary 99
IX. How the Mission Sped 111
X. What became of the Cardinal’s Missionary 129
XI. Clear shining after Rain 147
XII. The Reward of God’s Messenger 169
XIII. He giveth his beloved Sleep 189
───────────────────────────────────────────────────
THE PRIOR’S TITHE.
I. Tithing the Fish 219
II. The Excommunication 231
III. The First Prayer 243
IV. Dawnings of Light 257
V. The Great Change 271
VI. Entering into the Cloud 287
VII. Voices in the Cloud 301
VIII. The Cloud Breaks 315
IX. Left Alone 329
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
I.
=Fanaticism.=
“I know the dim haunts of fever,
Where the blossoms of youth decay:
I know where your free broad river
Sweeps disease on its breast away.
“Yet despite your earnest pity,
And despite its own smoke and din,
I cling to yon crowded city,
Though I shrink from its woe and sin.”
_Hymns of Faith and Hope._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
I.
=Fanaticism.=
It was the early summer of the year 1544, and the shadow of a dark cloud
was already looming over every home in Dundee. God’s terrible angel of
the pestilence stood with his sword outstretched, as of old over guilty
Jerusalem; but no eye was opened to behold him; as yet no one suspected
the danger and the anguish at hand.
In a small room of one of the high dark houses of the old town, a
pretty, modest-looking young girl sat spinning, and singing as she span,
in a sweet though rather listless voice. Now and then she glanced
anxiously at the door, or rose to pay some little attention to the
“kail” for the mid-day repast. Although the meal could scarcely have
been intended for more than two persons, the fire necessary for its
preparation increased uncomfortably the heat of the narrow room.
“Guid day, Mary,” said a girl about her own age, or a little older,
entering without ceremony.
The new comer was tall and strongly made; and, without the smallest
pretensions to beauty, had an honest, open countenance. She held in her
hand a large bunch of the pretty field-flowers so well known in Scotland
as blue-bells.
“Look what I hae brocht ye, sin’ ye tell me ye come frae the hills. I
thocht ye’d like them, maybe, to mind ye of yer auld hame.”
Mary Wigton eagerly took the flowers, thanked her friend with many
expressions of delight, and a moment or two afterwards burst into tears.
Honest Janet Duncan was considerably disconcerted by the effect produced
by her gift. “Weel, to be sure,” she ejaculated, “gin I didna think
they’d hae pleasured ye!”
“Sae they hae,” said Mary, recovering herself quickly. “It was naebut a
wee thocht of the auld hame and the auld times, and the heather and
gowans on the bonnie Sidlaw hills. But it’s nae use thinking lang. Noo
father’s farm is sold, it’s no like we’ll ever gae back again. Where did
ye get thae blue-bells, Janet?”
“Archie, the ne’er-do-weel, played the truant frae his schule wi’ a
wheen idle callants like himsel, and gaed out owre the Law and Balgay
Hill. I’m afeard when Jamie comes ben and hears it he’ll be sair
angered. An’ it’s no wonnerfu’, when he’s focht as he has to keep the
lad to his schuling, and he nae mair himsel but a puir journeyman
baxter.”[1]
“He’s a guid brither to ye, Janet.”
“Ye may say just that.” Then, as a new thought struck her, she
contradicted herself energetically. “Na, he’s nae guid brither, but the
best brither in a’ Dundee. Left but[2] father, or mither, or friend in
the wide warld, wha wad hae thocht he could hae keepit us thegither, and
fended for us sae weel. I can turn my hand to mony a thing, thank the
saints, but there’s Archie and Effie, puir bairns; Archie naebut gaun
threteen, and unco witless, and Effie a wee bit lassie. Eh, but we’ve
seen hard times, Mary.”
Mary probably thought her own troubles had been greater than those of
her friend; but she only said in a sympathizing tone, “Sit ye down,
Janet, ye’re no hurried the day?”
Janet replied in the negative, for she dearly loved half an hour’s chat
with a friend, when it could be obtained without neglecting her duties
to her paragon brother Jamie, or her youthful charges, Archie and Effie.
“Ye’re watching for your father?”
“Ay; but I’m in hopes he’s got a lift o’ wark, he’s sae late. It’s unco
little he brings hame,” she said sadly.
“It’s ill speiring after wark in this muckle town,” answered Janet. “Why
did ye no bide in the country pairts, whaur a’body kenned ye?”
“I tell ye. There’s a man here that owes father a matter o’ twa hundert
merk—that Maister Wilson wha has the muckle shop in the Nethergate, and
sells silks and ribbons and sic’. He’s a rich man, but he’s no an
_honest_ man, Janet. When father loaned him the siller he was naebut a
puir laddie, and father helped him sin’ he was sib to his wife’s mither.
Weel, father’s that careless he never took tent to get a bit writing,
forbye his word o’ mouth, ye ken. Sae when the warld gaed by-ordinar ill
wi’ him, and the oats failed, and the sheep dee’d, and he maun sell the
bonnie farm his forbears held before him, he thocht o’ Maister Wilson
and his twa hundert merk, and came here to look after the siller. But
Maister Wilson, he says there’s nae debt ava’, and that father canna
prove it. Whilk last is owre true, wae’s me! Gin John, that’s my
brither, wad hae bided wi’ us, he’d hae been a braw lawyer the noo, and
richted us.”
“I didna ken ye had a brither, Mary.”
“Oh, ay; there were five o’ us, and a’ dee’d bairns but John and mysel.
He was the eldest, an’ I the youngest. He was twal year aulder than I.
He was a clever bairn, _vera_. Father had siller to spare in thae days,
sae he thocht to make a man of him, and sent him to St. Andrews to study
the law. And he was sae guid and kind-like, and loved his book sae weel.
A’ the maisters set muckle store by him, and as for father and mither,
he was just the licht o’ their een. But he gaed clean daft.”
“Gaed daft, Mary?”
“I canna mind mysel, for I was a wee lassie the time; but father told me
he wasna seventeen year auld full when sic’ a change came owre him. He
grew dour and hard, and wad hae nocht to do wi’ archery, and goff, and
putting the stane, and a’ thae ploys that young men use. He wad gang by
himsel, and greet and talk of his sins. It was aye and aye his sins wi’
him. Gin he had been a thief or a murderer he couldna hae made mair to
do on’t. Yet he was aye a guid lad, and what he could hae done to gar
him tak’ on sae, nae mortal could speir. Let father say what he might,
naething would serve him but to gie the law up, and tak’ the priest’s
frock. Sae that was the end on’t.”
“And do ye no see him whiles?”
“Na; we couldna gang to him, and he wouldna come to us. Father thinks he
has clean forgot us. Thae holy men grow unco hard to their ain folk
whiles. He’s no John Wigton ony mair, he’s Sir John Wigton the priest. I
dinna ken whaur he is the noo, and gin we met in the street ane ’id pass
the ither by.”
“When yer mither dee’d did ye no tell him?”
“How could we? We’re nae scholars, father nor I. But I trow he helped
mither to her grave.”
“Weel, our Jamie’s no _that_ religious; but he gaes to his kirk regular,
and says his _aves_ and minds his puir soul as he can.”
“Seems to me,” said Mary, “it’s a hard case gin puir folks canna save
their souls but they break their parents’ hearts. But here’s father!”
Janet stayed to exchange greetings with an elderly man of respectable
appearance, but with something in his step, voice, and manner, that
betrayed a certain weakness and indecision of character. Having answered
his remark, “It’s by-ordinar hot and heavy for the time o’ year,” with a
heartfelt, “Ye may weel say that,” she bade Mary good-bye, and hastened
upstairs to the rooms in the same “land” which the Duncan family
occupied.
While the father and daughter partake of their simple meal, a few words
may be added in explanation of the religious history which Mary had
recounted to her friend, much as an ignorant person might describe the
appearance of some curious piece of mechanism, the construction and uses
of which he was alike unable to comprehend.
John Wigton was no very unusual character. There have been obscure
Dominics and Loyolas, as well as village Hampdens and mute inglorious
Miltons. Naturally of a thoughtful temperament, as he passed from
boyhood into youth he began to ask himself some of those solemn
questions which are the birthright of every human soul. He knew but
little of the great realities of the eternal world, but that little
sufficed to make him first anxious and then miserable. He knew that sin
was hateful to God, and he felt himself a sinner. His convictions
partook of the ardour and intensity of his character, he was willing to
do or suffer anything so that he might escape from the wrath to come. At
this time perhaps John Wigton was not very far from the kingdom of
heaven. Had a copy of Tyndale’s New Testament fallen into his hands, had
he heard some enlightened reformer preaching Christ and him crucified,
his character, humanly speaking, might have differed from what it
actually became as light differs from darkness. But Rome had him in her
hands to mould, and out of such materials Rome moulds fanatics—from this
wine she distils her sourest vinegar. She did not seek to obliterate his
convictions; she rather strengthened, though she did not, properly
speaking, deepen them. She told him little of the holiness of God’s
character and of the true nature of sin; but she told him much of the
sinner’s awful doom, of the fire and brimstone and the never-dying worm.
She employed almost exclusively images of physical suffering, and
employed them to terrify the imagination and to shake the nerves, rather
than to touch the heart or the conscience. And when he sought for a way
of escape from all these horrors, the path of penance and
self-mortification was opened before him. He was taught to torture
himself here that God might not torture him for ever hereafter; for it
was in such an aspect that the Lord merciful and gracious, slow to anger
and plenteous in goodness and truth, was presented to his mind. Being
sincere and earnest, he did all, and more than all, that was required of
him. He scourged himself, he starved himself, he deprived himself of
necessary sleep, and in many other ways, which it would be neither
pleasant nor profitable to enumerate, he practised “will-worship and
neglecting of the body.” But it would not do. If the blood of bulls and
goats cannot take away sin, neither could a man’s own blood, though he
were to pour it forth drop by drop, and in the most painful way that
even the depraved imagination of monkish inquisitors could devise. John
Wigton’s conscience, like that of many another miserable victim of Rome,
bore sad witness to this truth. He was not at peace, he was not
forgiven. On he went, further and further, upon the painful path
prescribed to him, still pursuing a phantom that, like the mirage of the
desert, always eluded his grasp. He did not find what he sought, but
something he did find which, in the abnegation of all possible
enjoyment, and the endurance of almost all possible suffering, still
made life tolerable to him—he found excitement, he found employment for
his powers, and food for his pride. Even apart from the praise it
brought him (and he who _knew_ himself a miserable unpardoned sinner
liked to hear himself called a saint), he began to take a morbid but
real pleasure in self-infliction.
But there is an old and wise saying, “When water ceases to quench
thirst, what will you drink after it?” It is the character of every
unnatural excitement to pall with indulgence; and thus John Wigton found
at length that his bodily austerities ceased to afford him even
temporary relief and satisfaction. A stronger stimulant was required,
and he found it. He set himself to mortify, not the nerves and muscles
of his body, but the desires of his mind and the feelings of his heart.
Family affection, friendship, the love of study, the free exercise of
reason and judgment, all were ruthlessly sacrificed on the altar of his
faith. In process of time he came to regard an impulse of tenderness
towards his parents or his little sister as a kind of sinful
self-indulgence, only greater than a soft bed or a luxurious meal. And
there is this difference between the grosser and the more subtle forms
of self-torture, that while a man may perhaps educate himself into an
unnatural insensibility to bodily pain without injury to the rest of his
character, the process of hardening his soul is equivalent to a moral
self-murder. John Wigton dared not allow himself to love or to pity, and
he succeeded (or _thought_ he did) in conquering these weaknesses of
human nature; but he paid a heavy price for his success. He soon learned
to regard the sufferings of others with indifference, nay, with joy and
triumph, when they advanced the interests of the Church. In her service
he was willing (or thought he was) to give his own body to be burned,
and it was quite as meritorious, and on the whole rather more
convenient, to burn the bodies of other men. At this point his education
may be considered finished. At thirty years of age he was a thorough
fanatic, with conscience and feeling both absorbed in one master
passion. And then cooler heads began to take note of him as a man who
might make a useful tool when there was work to be done from which
ordinary men would shrink in horror.
Is this a fancy sketch? Alas! history answers, No; and from amongst the
dim and shadowy forms of that multitude whom Rome has crowned with her
doubtful honours there rises before the memory more than one so-called
“saint” who might have sat for the portrait.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
II.
=Clouded Death.=
“O God! to clasp those fingers close,
And yet to feel so lonely:
To see a light on dearest brows,
That is the sunlight only!
Be pitiful, O God!”
E. B. BROWNING.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
II.
=Clouded Death.=
When we look from a distance upon some great mountain, we are apt to
form rather mistaken ideas, not only of its dimensions, but of its
relation to the surrounding landscape. It seems to stand before us alone
in its majesty, rising like an altar to heaven, and sundered by some
sharp dividing line from the plain beneath. But usually it is not so. A
nearer approach brings us to gentle slopes, green with pasture or waving
with corn, rising higher and higher, sometimes almost imperceptibly,
till at last, by slow gradations, we arrive at the region of jagged rock
and frowning precipice. Something like this we may find in the moral
world. To the distant observer, a time of terror and anguish stands out
in bold relief from the ordinary level of common life; and he forgets
the subtle gradations, the diversified incidents, some of them trivial
enough, through which men usually pass from one kind of life to another.
So passed the men of Dundee, in the summer months of that terrible year,
step by step from vague apprehension to vivid, actual terror; as the
pestilence that walketh in darkness first struck down one, and another,
and another; then gradually multiplied its victims until the voice of
lamentation filled the city, and no man felt his own life safe from the
destroyer for a single hour.
Not very long after the first appearance of the pestilence, Archie
Duncan came back one morning in high glee from the grammar-school,
whither he had been despatched by the careful Janet only half an hour
before.
“Nae mair schule,” he cried, flinging his book on the table; “maister’s
awa’, for fear o’ the sickness;—and may guid gang wi’ him!”
Jamie, who happened to be in the room, brought his brother’s ill-timed
hilarity to a close by a smart box on the ear. “Hae ye no feeling,
callant?” he asked angrily. “Ye suld be on yer twa knees, praying the
blessed saints to pity us, instead of jesting and daffing.”
There was justice in the reproof, and Archie was abashed. He withdrew
quietly to the window where his little sister was standing, and Jamie
presently resumed: “A’ the rich folk’ll soon be awa’, and naebody left
in the toun but puir bodies, wha maun just bide because they canna
quit.”
“There’s a hantle shops shut up alang by the High Street and the
Nethergate,” remarked Janet.
“Folk dinna care to buy, these times,” responded Jamie. “I hae thocht it
an ill trade enoo’ to be naething but a puir baxter lad, Janet; but noo
I thank Saint Andrew for the same, for folk maun _eat_, so lang’s
they’re alive.”
At this moment the door was partly opened, and a low, startled voice
called, “Janet!”
“Come ben, Mary,” said Jamie, at once recognising that of Mary Wigton.
Mary did not come in, however, and Janet went outside the door to speak
to her. The poor girl’s face was deadly pale, and her eyes were large
and wild with terror. “What’s wrang wi’ ye?” asked Janet, in alarm.
“Na sae muckle,” said Mary, trying to hide her fears, not so much from
her friend as from herself. “Father’s head’s licht the day, and he’s no
himsel a’ thegither,—but—but—he’s no _that_ ill, Janet.” She was
trembling violently and clinging to the handle of the door for support.
“Puir lassie,” said Janet, compassionately.
“Will ye come and see him the noo? Do, Janet, _do_—for mercy’s sake!”
Janet was a brave girl, and she loved Mary Wigton dearly. But for the
sake of the other members of her family she felt she durst not enter the
infected room. She answered, therefore, after a moment’s hard struggle
with herself, “Wae’s me! I daurna, for Jamie and the bairns.”
Mary did not remonstrate, but the sorrowful expression of her face
touched Janet deeply. She said, “I’ll gang in and gar Jamie fetch ye a
leech.[3] He’ll ken what’s wrang wi’ yer father. Aiblins it’s no the
sickness.”
Mary thanked her, and returned sadly to her watch beside her father’s
bed; still hoping against hope that this might prove some passing
ailment, and not the dreaded “sickness.”
James Duncan found it difficult to procure a physician; as some, who
thought their own lives of more value than those of their patients, had
quitted the town, and of course those who remained had their hands full
of work.
At length, however, he succeeded; though at the heavy price of
presenting himself late at his master’s shop, and being obliged to admit
that the sickness had made its appearance in the house where he lodged.
The physician, a compassionate man, reluctantly pronounced the verdict
poor Mary most dreaded. He then prescribed some remedies, which were
probably calculated to do neither good nor harm to the sufferer; and
left, promising to send a hired nurse, and to return himself on the
morrow.
The presence of the nurse probably saved Mary’s reason, if not her life.
All that day, and the night that followed it, they two kept their awful
watch beside the suffering and delirious patient. When the morning
broke, and all things looked weird and strange in the faint gray light,
then there came a change. Mary had risen to extinguish the useless lamp,
when to her great joy her father quietly asked her to leave it burning
still. Reason had returned, but alas! it was only the last look cast
upon earth by the parting soul ere its dread flight to the unknown
world.
“I hae been vera ill, Mary!” said the dying man. “I maun hae a priest.
Where’s our John?”
Mary started. Up to this moment, terror and anguish had so bewildered
her, that, as she afterwards thought, with bitter self-reproach, she had
forgotten her dear father’s soul in ministering to his body. “John’s no
here,” she said, “but I’ll fetch ye a priest.”
“Na, na,” said Wigton, holding her hand in his; “ye maunna leave me, my
lassie.”
Nor could she part with the nurse, so she again had recourse to the
Duncans. Standing this time at the foot of the stairs, she called Janet,
and in a few agitated words made her request.
Jamie was out, his business requiring his attendance at an early hour,
but Janet herself readily undertook the mission; while Mary returned to
her place, and heard the nurse whisper as she passed her, “He’s sinking
fast.”
Two long slow hours wore away, and then Janet returned. Mary met her in
the passage. “He’s amaist gone!” she gasped.
“Wae’s me! I hae travelled the hail toun, and the never a priest could I
get!” said Janet, in much distress. “The mair part hae gone awa’ like
ither folk, and the lave willna come when it’s the sickness. There’s ane
frae St. Mary’s Kirk might hae come, but he’s ill himsel the day.
Anither—”
But Mary did not stay to hear the detailed account of her failures. With
a look of anguish she put her hand to her head, murmuring, “Too late!
Too late!” then hurried back to her father, and knelt down beside his
bed.
She took his cold hand in hers, and said, as calmly as she could,
“Father dear, we canna get a priest. We maun trust in the guid God
aboon, and in the blessed Virgin.”
“Nae priest—nae priest!” said the dying man, with a bewildered look.
“But where’s our John?”
“We maun try to pray,” answered Mary, and she began in faltering tones
to repeat a Paternoster. But the Latin words, which she could not
understand, were soon exchanged for a wild agonized cry for mercy in her
native tongue. And almost before she had finished, the spirit of Hugh
Wigton passed away.
It is painful to linger over scenes like this, and the heart yearns to
escape from the thoughts they suggest. But for once, at least, let us
dare to face the bitter, bitter truth; it may have its lessons for us.
Were there not many deathbeds in the plague-stricken town no brighter
than that of Hugh Wigton? We have every reason to suppose it. For it
must be remembered, that even had Janet Duncan succeeded in procuring a
priest, the rites he would have administered might have made the dying
man more comfortable, but could not have made him safer. Not having
Christ, what had he in which to trust?
Are not the same awful tragedies still enacted before us day by day?
Dare we ask ourselves how many, even from the midst of a nominally
Christian land, “go to the generation of their fathers, and never see
light?” And meanwhile _we_—even we who have tasted the good Word of God
and the powers of the world to come—do we not too often eat and drink,
buy and sell and get gain, and pursue our various schemes of business
and pleasure, all too heedless of “the exceeding great and bitter cry,
which seems as it were to go up from the waste places of the earth,
Bless us, even us also, O our Father?”
[Illustration]
III.
=God’s Messenger.=
“Across the fever’s fiery path he trod,
And one went with him like the Son of God.”
REV. W. ALEXANDER.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
III.
=God’s Messenger.=
After the death of Hugh Wigton, the Duncans took his desolate and
broken-hearted orphan to their own home. Mary’s grief was not wild—that
was not in her character—but it was intense and crushing. Except the
absent brother, her father had been her only surviving relative, and all
the tendrils of her loving nature had entwined themselves around him. He
was snatched from her in a single day; and that in a manner so bitter
and heart-rending that horror was at first almost stronger than sorrow.
One thought, above all others, cruelly aggravated her distress, and it
was rarely absent from her. He died without the sacraments of the
Church—what then would become of his soul? This anguish was too deep for
words, and almost for tears; it was only upon one occasion that she even
alluded to it.
“I wonner,” she said to Janet one day, while she helped her in some
humble household work, “I wonner gin the kirkmen be richt sure themsels
that a’ they tell us is true,”
“Oh, Mary!” exclaimed Janet, whose mind was the reverse of speculative
in its tendencies, “what gars ye speir sic’ a thing?”
But Mary answered intelligently, for sorrow is a good master in the art
of thinking, “Did they no care for their ain lives, and let my dear
father dee like a puir dumb beast, that has nae soul ava’?”
“Tut, lassie, a’body cares for his life,” said Janet, going on
vigorously with her work.
Mary shook her head. “But they suld hae mair pity. They suld hae a
thocht o’ the puir souls that are deeing around them. God forgie me, I
canna bide the thocht of it! My puir, puir father! An’ there’s mony sic’
as he, Janet; mony sic’!”
“Weel, it’s no for the like of us to be deaving our heads wi’ sic’
things;—gie us a hand wi’ the spurtle, Mary; Jamie’ll come ben keen for
his parritch,—tho’ there’s unco little meal left in the kist.”
Mary was silenced, but not comforted. Soon, however, other troubles
came. The victims of the pestilence were every day more numerous; and
although Mary cared but little just then for her own life, she took part
in the fears of the Duncan family for each other; nor could any of them
remain unmoved by the universal terror and distress. To their trials
that of want was now added; for James Duncan’s master had dismissed him
from his employment on hearing that a person had died of the plague in
the “land” where he lived; and although the girls could spin and sew,
they found it, for the same reason, impossible to dispose of their work.
Knowing it would be useless to seek another situation at present, Jamie
had no alternative but to sit at home, idle, hungry, and miserable.
Naturally, these circumstances did not tend to improve his temper, which
was further soured by various collisions with Archie. It was not to be
expected that a bright active boy would be content to stay indoors all
day without occupation or amusement; and yet it seemed little less than
madness to allow him to wander about the streets at his will. Janet’s
good sense fortunately led her to compromise matters by sending him,
whenever she could, upon necessary errands, cautioning him to “gang
hoolie,”[4] to keep the middle of the street, and above all not to
linger with idle boys, “wha might gie him the sickness.”
On one of these occasions he delayed such an unreasonable time that
Jamie vowed summary vengeance on his return. His absence being still
further prolonged, annoyance changed to serious anxiety, as instances
had occurred of persons being suddenly seized with the pestilence in the
streets, and unable ever to regain their homes. But towards the end of
the second hour, Archie reappeared, and with a countenance and manner
which showed there was nothing amiss.
Laying down the loaf he had been sent to purchase, he exclaimed, “Eh,
but there’s braw news the day! A’ the tounfolk are weel nigh daft wi’
joy, sae that a body wad think the sickness was awa’. Maister Wishart’s
come back again.”
“Wha’s he?” asked Effie, who thought that what pleased Archie ought to
interest her.
“Hoot! a’body kens Maister George Wishart. He’s a guid priest (but they
ca’ him the minister), and nae common priest either; he’s a braw
gentleman, and sae guid to the puir folk, forbye preaching like an
angel.”
“He’s nae priest ava’,” said Jamie. “He’s naebut a preacher; and he’s a
muckle heretic. Do ye no mind when he was here before, how the lord
cardinal put the tounfolk in fear, and they bade him gang his ways?”
“He’s nae heretic!” returned Archie, who was not sorry to contradict his
elder brother, and who besides had spent the greater part of the last
two hours taking lessons in “heresy” at the street corners and in the
shops. “He’s nae heretic. It’s naebut the bishops ca’ him that, because
they canna preach like him theirsels, the doited loons!”
“Whist, laddie! ye suldna misca’ yer betters.”
“But what gars him come back the noo, when a’body wha could do it has
just rin awa’? Is he no fear’t o’ the sickness?” asked Janet.
“He’s no fear’t of _onything_,” said Archie, with genuine admiration,
for courage is perhaps the only virtue a boy can thoroughly appreciate.
But at these words Mary dropped her thread (she had been spinning), and
fixed her eyes on his face with a sudden look of interest. “And he’s
gaun to preach the morn frae the Cowgate.”
“Frae the Cowgate!”
“Frae the top o’ the Cowgate. And the folk wha hae had the sickness
amang them maun gang outside; and the _free_ folk maun bide inside.”
“Then we maun gang out,” said Janet.
“Ye’ll gang neither out nor in wi’ my guid will,” Jamie interposed.
“Gin our puir souls havena enoo’ upon them, these ill times, without
fashing oursels wi’ his heresies. He was weel awa’. What gars him come
back to set the town in a bleeze wi’ sic’ fooleries?” An ungenerous
speech, which James Duncan afterwards repented.
“He maun hae a guid heart to Dundee,” Janet ventured to remark, “or he
wadna come here sic’ a time. Mair pity gin he is a heretic.”
“Gin!” repeated Jamie ironically; “gin my lord cardinal had him in his
grip, nae doot but he’d burn him quick, and gie the silly folk wha gang
to hear him something to remember.”
“Atweel,” said Archly smartly, “let my lord cardinal come and gie us a
sermon himsel, and we’ll a’ leave Maister Wishart and gang to hear
_him_. But I wad ye a plack, he’ll put mair than the length of his
muckle cross between us and him the noo!”
“Ye may hand yer clavers,” said Jamie, who did not feel himself equal to
a discussion of the subject “Ye’re nane gaun to the Cowgate the morn.”
Archie vigorously remonstrated against this decision. “It’s no for the
heresy,” he said in self-vindication, “but I want to see a man preach
frae the top o’ the gate.”
Janet however, as in duty bound, threw her weight into the scale of
Jamie’s lawful authority. “Ye’ll be a guid lad and mind yer brither,”
she said to Archie; “and forbye the heresy, wha kens but we micht tak’
the sickness, gaun promiscuous into sic’ a muckle crowd.”
Here the matter might have ended, but for Mary Wigton, who looked up and
said very quietly, “I hope ye’ll no be fashed or think hard o’ me, but I
maun gang to hear Maister Wishart.”
This took them all by surprise, for since her father’s death Mary had
been as it were quite passive, not seeming to have any will or purpose
of her own.
“An’ what for, Mary, lass?” Jamie asked, in the softened tone he always
used when speaking to her.
“Because he hae ta’en thocht o’ the puir folks’ souls, and doesna think
muckle to set his ain life i’ the bawk. God bless him for it! Gin he had
been here, father needna hae dee’d like—like—”
“Atweel, he maun hae the love o’ God in his heart, and the Word o’ God
on his lips, let them ca’ him heretic as they may.”
When James Duncan gave himself time to reflect, he began to modify the
opinions he had expressed. Granted that Wishart was a heretic, he was
still a man of rank and talent, admired and beloved not only by
thousands of the people, but by many of the nobles of the land. That
such a man should put his life in his hand, and voluntarily hasten to
the city where death was raging, and whence all who could do it had fled
in terror, served at least to impress one lesson on his mind. The men of
Dundee were not, as in his dejection he had begun to think, quite
forsaken both of heaven and earth. One man at least there was who had
found it in his heart to come to them in this time of trouble, for the
express purpose of giving them all the help and comfort he could. Might
not his courageous charity be a sign that God’s mercy was not so far
away as they were tempted to imagine? Thus, at last, Wishart’s coming
began to look very like a single ray of light in their clouded sky, and
in his heart he “blessed him unawares.”
Janet having ascertained next morning that Mary still persisted in her
intention of going to the preaching, was considerably surprised to see
her brother take from the “kist” in which it was deposited, a gown which
had belonged to his father, and which he carefully reserved for
important occasions.
“Ye’re no gaun out the morn?” she asked.
“Do ye think, woman, I could let the lassie gang her lane to the
Cowgate?” was the answer.
“An’ _you_ maun gang, _I’ll_ not be left behind,” said Janet.
“Please yersel,” was Jamie’s laconic reply.
“But we daurna leave the bairns,” suggested Janet.
The “bairns” overhearing this, entreated to be of the party; and after a
little more discussion it was decided that all were to go, Jamie
quieting his conscience with the reflection, “Ane sermon willna dae us
muckle harm, an’ it were as full of heresies as Glasgow is of bells.”
They were soon a part of the crowd that thronged about the east gate of
the town. Janet and Mary stood together; Jamie took little Effie in his
arms; while Archie, to his great joy, succeeded in dislodging a taller
boy than himself from the top of a particularly eligible heap of stones.
Mary could not help remarking the mournful expression of all the faces
that surrounded them. Pallid, sickly, worn-out faces they were, for the
most part; many of them bearing the traces of just such agonies as she
had passed through when she watched by her father’s death-bed. And not a
few had a wild and reckless look, as if, in the effort to escape from
anguish, they were hardening themselves into despair.
Suddenly every eye was raised upwards with a look of eager interest and
expectation. Very touching was the gaze of that great multitude, in its
wistful, silent appeal to the heart of him who had come among them,
promising to tell them something which could make life more tolerable,
and death less bitter. Mary looked where others did, and her eye rested
with involuntary admiration on the stately figure of the preacher, a
tall man, dark-haired, and of dark complexion, with a noble countenance,
and singularly graceful manner. Something else there was, not so easy to
describe or to analyze, which insensibly attracted her. It may have been
the love and pity that beamed from his face as he looked on those
sorrowing thousands—the love that winged his footsteps to that scene of
death, because, as he said, “They are now in trouble, and need comfort;
and perhaps the hand of God will make them now to magnify and reverence
that Word which before, for fear of men, they set at light part.”
But besides this, a man could scarcely live as George Wishart did—so
very near to Christ that he loved to spend whole days and nights in
direct communion with him, or follow so closely in the footsteps of his
self-denying charity—without reflecting, even in outward appearance,
some little of the glory of that land in which his spirit dwelt. For
there is a calm and an elevation which nothing but the peace and the
presence of God can impart to the countenance of man.
Amidst a deep silence he read aloud the text he had chosen: “He sent his
Word, and healed them.” “It is neither herb nor plaster, O Lord,” he
said, “but thy Word that heals all.” And then, for the first time, Mary
Wigton heard Christ preached. She heard that there was a disease more
deadly than the dreaded pestilence; that she herself had breathed its
poison; that it had entered her being and become a part of it; and her
heart and her conscience answered “yes” to the charge. Then she heard of
the Deliverer, the “Word” of God, who, because he loved mankind, because
he loved _her_, had left his home which was the Heaven of Heavens, to
suffer and die upon earth, that all who believed on him might be healed
of their deadly sickness, forgiven their transgressions, renewed in the
spirit of their minds, and made the sons and daughters of the Lord
Almighty.
Are “the words of this life” in our ears as an oft told tale? If so, let
us thank God for it, while we ask him never to allow their familiarity
to let them seem less precious. But to Mary, and to many who heard them
with her, they were new and wonderful as the glory of the sunrise in the
eyes of one who has dwelt all his life in a darksome cave. The love of
the blessed Son of God, and of the Father who sent him, sank to the very
depths of her heart. She believed that love was for her; she received
and embraced it, without so much as staying to question whether this was
indeed the faith upon which the preacher insisted. For her the fiat had
gone forth, “Behold, I make all things new!” and peace and joy took the
place of the deep dejection which before had threatened to overwhelm
her. Lonely and sorrowful, an “orphan of the earthly love and heavenly,”
had she come thither that morning; she returned home with a happy,
thankful heart,—God’s forgiven and accepted child.
Nor was hers the only heart to which George Wishart was made the
messenger of peace that day. The great reformer Knox, who loved and
reverenced him deeply, tells us that by this sermon “he raised up the
hearts of all that heard him, that they regardit not death, but judgit
thame mair happie that sould depairt, than sic as sould remain behind.”
And was not the joy of bringing this joy to thousands, who otherwise
would have lain in darkness and the shadow of death, worth all he braved
and all he suffered for it? This was far more than the peril of
infection; inasmuch as the wrath of wicked men is more deadly than the
breath of disease, and as we have yet to learn, they gave him “cruel
thanks” for his labours of self-devoted love. Yet it is true that “he
that reapeth receiveth wages” here and now, as well as “gathereth fruit
into life eternal.” It does not need the heart of a hero or a martyr, it
only needs a little sense of the value of one human soul, and a little
love to Him who died to redeem it, to enable the humblest Christian to
comprehend what that wages is, and to esteem such a life as George
Wishart’s, not only grander and nobler, but actually _happier_ than the
most triumphant career the lofty ambition of youth ever pictured forth
in the future.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
IV.
=Fruits of the Message.=
“The shadow had passed from her heart and brow,
And a deep calm filled her breast;
For the peace of God was her portion now,
And her weary soul found rest.”
_Lays of the Kirk and Covenant._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
IV.
=Fruits of the Message.=
The Duncans walked home from the East Port in thoughtful silence, which
Mary Wigton did not feel inclined to disturb. Her own heart was full of
new strange feelings, which she could not as yet understand or arrange;
but they filled her with joy, and with a love which seemed to pour
itself forth on every one around. She could not join in Janet’s
lamentations over the spare meal that awaited their return, for was it
not provided by that heavenly Father of whose love she had just heard,
and would he not send whatever they really needed? To her it was a
feast; and she quietly enjoyed the luxury of a clandestine transfer of
more than half her own portion to poor Archie, who, being a healthy,
growing boy, suffered keenly from the want of sufficient food.
At length they began to discuss the sermon; it was little Effie, the
youngest of the party, who introduced the subject.
“Didna yon man on the gate speak braw words o’ the guid Lord Jesus’?”
she said, addressing Jamie, who was very fond of her.
“I didna ken ye were minding him, bairnie.”
“Ou ay, I minded every word. I never heard the like before.”
“There’s mair than you can say that, Effie, dear,” added Mary, with a
beaming face. “God be thankit for thae guid words. Mony’s the sair heart
they’ll hae healed the day.”
“Weel,” said Janet, “I dinna think sae muckle on’t. He seemed to jalouse
we were a by-ordinar sinfu’ folk; and, sae far as I ken, we’re nae waur
than the lave. What do you say, Jamie?”
Thus directly appealed to, Jamie answered oracularly,—
“He’s a braw preacher, Janet; but he’s a muckle heretic.”
Nor could he be induced to commit himself to any more explicit opinion.
He manifested, however, an extraordinary desire to hear the “muckle
heretic” on every possible occasion. When, a short time afterwards, he
was fortunate enough to be taken back by his former master, who set a
high value on his uprightness and industry, he announced the fact to
Janet with the following commentary—
“It was no that easy to settle between maister and me; for he’s unco
keen after the preaching himsel, and didna like to leave the shop; but I
gared him promise to shut it up the while, though I hae tint[5] a trifle
wages thereby.”
“Oh, Jamie lad, wasna that a silly thing, wi’ sae mony mouths to fill,
and the meal sae dear?”
“Tut, lassie, wad ye no let a man pleasure himsel whiles?”
And so not one of the very frequent preachings from the East Port was
missed by any of the Duncan family, or by Mary Wigton. All loved to go,
though from different motives. Mary, as a new-born babe, desired the
sincere milk of the word, that she might grow thereby. She was very
ignorant, not only of the doctrines of the Christian faith, but even of
the great facts that underlie those doctrines. She could not read; and
had she been able to do so, she had never so much as seen any portion of
the Word of God in her own tongue. She was therefore entirely dependent,
both for instruction and edification, upon the sermons of Wishart; and
she valued those precious means of grace perhaps more highly than those
can conceive who are surrounded with churches and Bibles, with Christian
friends and religious books. She soon learned that prayer was not the
vain repetition of words she could not understand, but the lifting up of
the heart to a reconciled God and Father; and she found the way into his
presence opened to her through the merits of Him in whom alone she
trusted. When perplexities arose in her path (and to the thinking mind,
whether educated or ignorant, they surely will arise), she either prayed
over them until they vanished, or the preacher took them up and solved
them for her in one or other of his discourses. But she was saved from
many difficulties by the simple, childlike faith with which she had been
led to receive the word of God, and in a lesser degree by the fact that
religion had previously been with her merely the sentiment of a
naturally devout and amiable character. She had not been either deeply
acquainted with, or strongly attached to, the peculiar tenets of Popery;
and she gave them up almost without a struggle, when convinced, less by
the reformer’s eloquence than by the instincts of her own renewed heart,
that they were dishonouring to the Saviour she loved.
With James Duncan it was far different. The battle between the old faith
and the new had to be fought out step by step in his slow but thoughtful
mind. The good words of the gospel, its free invitations and promises of
mercy, seemed every day more suited to his need, and more grateful to
his longing heart. But he found that this pure and lofty faith could not
be made to harmonize with the creed to which he was still so strongly
attached. In his soul, that which letteth would let, until it was taken
out of the way. He was sometimes roused to vigorous, even bitter
opposition, by the preacher’s powerful though temperate exposure of
Romish superstition. To the mass, to purgatory, to the invocation of
saints, he clung almost with the energy of a drowning man; but he felt
them, as it were, dragged one by one from his unwilling hands by a moral
force greater than his own.
But no doctrine irritated him so much as that of justification by faith
only, which Wishart, who was lecturing on the Epistle to the Romans, set
forth with all the power and clearness for which the reformers were so
peculiarly remarkable. Yet even when he was most opposed to it there was
a voice within him that witnessed to its truth; and sometimes he was not
very far from suspecting that the secret of the peace he longed for lay
in the doctrine he despised.
As for Janet, the preaching did not, in the first instance, either
perplex her mind or touch her heart, but it troubled her conscience. She
did not hear it as a bigoted Romanist, nor yet as a candid inquirer
after the truth, but as a sinner, who had hitherto lived in careless
security, without God in the world. She grew miserable, and at one time
would gladly have discontinued her attendance; but she would not refuse
to accompany her brother, and besides she was herself not insensible to
the fascination which the preacher exercised. She could not speak of
what she felt; and, fearing to betray herself, she joined energetically
in Jamie’s condemnation of his heresies, while, in fact, she scarcely
understood in what they consisted.
The children loved to attend sermon almost as much as their elders.
Archie, while he remained utterly indifferent to the doctrines taught by
Wishart, contracted a boy’s first enthusiasm for his person; and little
Effie always liked to go where she might hear “mair o’ the guid Lord
Jesus.”
Upon one occasion Jamie returned from the East Port in a state of more
than usual apparent irritation, but real doubt and perplexity. They had
just heard a very full and luminous exposition of the way of the
sinner’s acceptance before God.
“It’s ill to ken what a man suld think,” he said. “Naebody does what he
preaches, or preaches what he does. Maister Wishart and the priests are
like enoo; there’s nae muckle to choose between them.”
“What gars ye sae sic a thing?” asked Archie indignantly. “Maister
Wishart’s no like the priests; he proves a’ he says, frae his wee book.”
“Do ye no mind that the priests are aye and aye telling us to do guid
warks for our puir souls? And they never do ane themsels that _I_ hae
seen; while Maister Wishart, wha does a hantle guid warks himsel, tells
folk they’re nae manner o’ use.”
“Ye may weel say he does guid warks,” said Archie, who preferred the
concrete to the abstract, and was glad to escape from a theological
discussion to a matter of fact. “A’ the toun says he does naething in
the warld (when he’s no preaching) but gang up and doun amang the sick
folk, wi’ neither fear nor care for his ain life, telling them the guid
words, and gieing them a’ the comfort he can, for their puir bodies as
weel as their souls. I hae heard that whiles, when he’s got nae mair
siller, he’s gien his vera claes awa’.”
“Mair’s the wonner what he can be thinking on, to tell us its nae use
our doing warks ava’, and that we hae nocht to do but just _believe_.
It’s owre easy ganging to heaven that gait.”
“Ye’re wrang, Jamie,” said Janet, turning suddenly round on him. “It’s
no easy ava’, but owre _hard_, the way he puts it. Does he no say we
maun love the Lord better than father, or mither, or brither? an’ that
we maunna gie up his Word, aince we ken it in our hearts, no, not to
save our vera lives? It’s owre muckle that for flesh and bluid, say I.”
Mary, who had not spoken before, now quietly put in a word.
“Ay, Janet, ye’d be richt enoo, gin we had to do it oursels. But the
guid Lord wha loved us, and gied his ain bluid for our sins, forbye a’
that, he gies us _the heart_ to do what he bids.”
“Then,” said Jamie quickly, “we maun do what He bids, and no just
believe and nae mair.”
Mary was a little puzzled, not exactly for thoughts, but for words in
which to clothe them. At last she said—
“Ane couldna believe and nae mair. Aebody wha kens the guid Lord loved
and forgave them, maun just be trying the haill day lang to do bits o’
things by way o’ thanks to him. But gin he didna make us free to the
love and forgieness _first_, what wad become of us ava’, puir sinners
that we are?”
She said this with much feeling; for it was with her as with many others
whose hearts are opened to receive the word immediately and with
gladness. Conviction rather followed conversion than preceded it; and
she grew day by day, as well in the knowledge of her own sin as in that
of her Saviour’s grace.
She was about to leave the room, and Jamie asked her whither she went.
“But to the guidwife wha bides in the top back room. Her wee bairnie’s
vera ill the day.”
“God grant it’s no the sickness.”
“Na, na; but she couldna gang to the preaching, sae I hae promised to
tell her the sermon.”
“Nae harm in that,” said Janet. “But ye maunna bide wi’ her the haill
nicht, to help caring the bairn.”
“Did ye do that, Mary lass?” asked Jamie.
“Ay, did she, twice over,” said Janet.
“Weel, the puir thing was sair troubled and forfoughten. And she has
naebody to fend for her; her guidman’s at the sea.”
When she was gone, Janet remarked to her brother—
“Wad ye think, Jamie, it was the same lass that used to sit at yon wheel
a wee while ago, like a puir dead thing, wi’ neither wish nor care for
hersel or onybody else?”
Jamie shook his head.
“I wonner,” he said, “how ane can keep sic’ a bricht face and happy
heart in the midst of a’ this fear and trouble.”
“It’s naebut she frets hersel whiles, because she’s sorning upon us, as
she says.”
“Hoot awa’!” cried Jamie indignantly. “Ye’re no worth a plack, Janet
woman, gin ye let the lassie think _that_. She has brought us nought but
comfort and blessing.”
“That’s owre true, Jamie; forbye she’s unco quick and handy in fending
for the bairns, and sic’ like. Sin’ the time she cheered up sae
wonnerfu’ hersel, she’s no had a thocht but to save and help us a’ she
could. And it’s clear she maun bide wi’ us, for she couldna find a
service the noo’, let her seek as she may.”
Jamie expressed his entire acquiescence, even more by his looks than by
his words.
“Ony ither time idle folk might hae their clavers, ye ken,” Janet added,
with a little hesitation.
“What care I for that?” said Jamie. “Not ane bodle. Forbye, the hand o’
God is upon us; and the folk wha he has brought thegither, to help and
comfort ane anither in this sair distress, maun just be thankfu’ an’
bide as he pleases. Gin he send us better days—” But here he stopped
abruptly, either because he was a man of few words, and had already said
more than his wont, or because some purpose was stirring in his heart,
to which as yet he did not choose to give words at all.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
V.
=More Fruits of the Message.=
“God took thee in his arms, a lamb untasked, untried;
He fought the fight for thee, He won the victory;—
And thou art sanctified.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
V.
=More Fruits of the Message.=
As day after day passed quietly on, the Duncans began to hope, with
trembling, that they were destined to escape the sufferings which
surrounded them on every side. But they were to enjoy no such happy
immunity; the fiery trial had its work to do for them as for others, and
they must needs pass through it. At first, however, it did not assume
the form they most dreaded, but one to which they were already in some
degree inured.
One morning Jamie returned from his master’s shop at an unusual hour;
coming in with his blue bonnet pulled over his face, and his whole
demeanour showing that something was amiss.
Janet, who was giving Archie and Effie their “morning pieces,” turned
round, and uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“Maister dee’d this morn at the fourth hour,—God’s guid will be done!”
said Jamie, uncovering his head.
“Wae’s me!” cried Janet, dropping her arms by her side. “There’s our
bread gane again.”
Little Effie began to cry; and Archie, who would not of course
condescend to any such demonstration, certainly looked mournful enough.
Both well knew what it was to want for bread.
“We’re no waur than mony ither puir folk,” said Jamie. “And we maun just
thole[6] it as we may, and thank the guid Lord wha hae keepit us frae
the sickness.”
“It’s no true that we’re like the lave,” said Archie. “Ither puir folk
’ill beg for bread and get it,—but the Duncans never beg;” and the boy
held up his head proudly.
Nor did he say more than the truth. The Duncans had their faults; but
they were brave and honest, as well as strongly attached to each other.
The noble struggle made by James and Janet to keep the family together
after their father’s death, had developed and strengthened these
qualities. They had learned to endure privation cheerfully, to practise
self-denial for each other’s sakes; and when things were at the worst,
not to lose courage, but to look hopefully for better days.
It was now the time to put all these lessons into practice. Not poverty
alone, but starvation, seemed before them. Most of the resources to
which the poor betake themselves in the day of need were cut off by the
state of the city. Provisions were at famine price, so that “mony people
died with great scant and want of victuallis.” Employment could not be
had; nor was it even easy to barter their clothes and furniture for
food, on account of the terror of infection which everywhere prevailed.
And yet they would not beg. Those who survived to tell the tale in
happier times, found it difficult to understand how they lived on from
day to day. As Jamie said, “they tholed it as they might.” Each spared
the other, and Jamie, as far as possible, spared them all. He was
naturally somewhat of a despot, and his circumstances had fostered this
tendency. His despotism now assumed the form of an obstinate
determination to bear the worst of every privation himself; nor could
Janet ever prevail on him to allow their scanty provisions to be divided
on the good old principle of “share and share alike.” He always said he
was a man, and “the lassies and the bairns maun be thocht on first.”
He was much less irritable and impatient than he had been when without
employment on a former occasion. This was partly perhaps because Archie
tried him less. The boy had a new interest now; and although not deeply
impressed by what he heard, he still preferred a preaching at the East
Port to a stolen game of play in the streets, or a visit to the quays.
The same influence told, and in a greater degree, upon every other
member of the family. No sudden change took place in either Jamie or
Janet; but both kept the words they heard, and pondered them in their
hearts. What was more important, both prayed earnestly in secret; Jamie
asking for light that he might find the Truth, while the burden of his
sister’s cry was ever this, “O Lord, I beseech thee, pardon mine
iniquity, for it is great.”
It was well for Mary Wigton that in this evil day her heart stayed
itself upon the Lord. It caused her bitter grief to feel that she added
daily to the privations of her kind and generous friends. Much did she
ponder, and often did she pray that she might be shown some way out of
the difficulty. But what was she to do? She could not, in the present
state of things, hope to obtain any employment; especially as she had
not, except the Duncans, a single friend in the city. Once or twice she
thought of applying to Wilson; but she felt she could scarcely hope that
a man who had treated her father with so much injustice would prove a
friend to her in the time of need. Perhaps the idea would not even have
occurred to her, were it not that she had frequently seen him amongst
the crowd at the East Port, where he seemed not only an attentive, but
sometimes a deeply affected listener. Still it did not appear to her
that any good was likely to result from an application to him.
One morning she succeeded, to her great satisfaction, in disposing of
some little article of personal decoration, a relic of more prosperous
times. Having purchased a loaf of bread, she brought it to the Duncans
with a pleasant anticipation of Archie and Effie’s delight. But she had
no sooner opened the door of their room than she drew back in surprise
and alarm. Jamie stood at the window, shading his face with his hand. He
did not notice her, but Archie, who was beside him, turned quickly
round, and she saw that his eyes were red with weeping. Janet was in
another part of the room, bending over Effie’s little bed. Before Mary
could find breath to ask what was amiss, Archie touched his brother’s
arm, and said softly, “It’s Mary.”
The young man started, and looked towards her, his face pale and
quivering with emotion. In another moment he took her hand, led her from
the room, and gently closed the door.
“Mary, lass,” he said, “we’re stricken vera sair. It’s the bairn Effie,
our youngest. Wae’s me! I didna think o’ fearing for her.”
Is it not often thus? Is not the keen arrow sure to smite us through
some “joint in the harness,” at some point where we never thought of
strengthening ourselves?
“Is she vera ill?” asked Mary.
Jamie shook his head. “I canna thole to part with her,” he said
presently. “She was the wee bairn o’ the house, the bit plaything wi’ us
a’. We fought through the hard times thegither, and kept her frae scaith
and sorrow as we could. An’ noo—just in ane day, wi’ this cruel
sickness—oh, Mary, it’s owre hard!”
“Oh, Jamie, dinna say that. It’s the Lord sends it. It’s his ain
hand—‘His ain gentill visitation that man cannot eke or paire,’[7] as
guid Maister Wishart says.”
“It’s the Lord sends it?” repeated Jamie, and he raised his head and
gazed upwards as one who earnestly looks for something he cannot see.
“Does the Lord care about us ava’?” At another time he would not have
said this; but in that moment of agony the gnawing doubt hidden far down
in his heart rose to the surface, and forced itself into words.
“Is it the blessed Lord Jesus wha dee’d for us? Jamie, lad, he cares for
us mair than we care for our ainsels. He kens a’ about ye, and how loath
ye are to part wi’ the bairn; and maybe—” Here her own voice faltered,
but after a moment she resumed, “I maun gang in to Janet.”
“Na, na! Dinna gae in—whaur’s the use?”
“Oh, Jamie, ye wadna say that! Is it to bid me awa’, and ye all in sic’
trouble?”
Jamie considered a moment, then opened the door. “Be it sae,” he said.
“For guid or ill we maun bide thegither.”
Mary entered the sick room; and with that quiet self-possession which in
a sick room is such a treasure, she spoke to Janet, and took counsel
with her as to what they should do.
A physician seemed unattainable; but many panaceas, under the names of
plague water, plague pills, plague elixir, &c., were popularly believed
in, and might be purchased at a trifling expense. Most people maintained
the sovereign efficacy of some one or other of these, nor was Janet any
exception to the rule. She was very anxious to procure her favourite
remedy; and the remainder of the sum obtained by Mary for her silver
brooch was appropriated to this purpose. Archie was despatched to the
shop, and it is needless to say he did not linger upon this errand. But
when he returned his little playfellow no longer recognised him. Her
mind, like a shattered mirror, reflected only confused and broken
fragments of the experience of her young life. She talked of merry games
with Archie, of walks along the heathery slopes of the Law, of easy
household tasks performed under Janet’s direction. But there ran through
all, like a silver thread through some dark pattern, words of childlike
trust in “the guid Lord Jesus, the blessed Saviour.” Now and then it was
a text of Scripture, or some simple saying out of one of the sermons she
had heard, but oftener still the words were those of prayer.
At length there was a gleam of returning consciousness. Seeing her
favourite brother beside her, she asked him to take her in his arms.
Jamie did so, with a calm face but a heavy heart, for by this time they
all “perceived that the Lord had called the child.”
“Effie, dear, do ye ken ye’re vera ill?” he asked.
The child’s blue eyes sought his wistfully, perhaps wonderingly. At last
she said softly, “Yes.”
“Are ye no fear’t, darling?”
“What for? The Lord Jesus ’ill take care o’ me.”
“What gars ye think that, bairnie?”
“The minister tald me at the gate. The Lord Jesus loves me. But I’m unco
tired, Jamie.”
The blue eyes closed wearily, the little head rested heavily upon
Jamie’s shoulder; and it was not long before the tired child slept—that
deep and quiet sleep from which they do not awake until the heavens be
no more. Many who remained might have envied her that tranquil rest.
“Short and narrow her life’s walk” had been; but long enough, since in
its brief span she had found Christ, or rather, had been found of Him.
Type of a vast multitude whom in all ages the Good Shepherd has carried
in his bosom; so keeping them, in his love and tenderness, that their
feet do not touch the waters of the dark river, nor their eyes even
behold the conflict and the anguish through which others have to pass.
Theirs is the crown almost without the cross. Thrice happy they! Yet
happier still are those who have come out of great tribulation, because
more closely conformed to the image of the Captain of their salvation,
and more highly privileged to work and to suffer for Him.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
VI.
=The Darkest Hour.=
“The corpse is calm below our knee,
Its spirit bright before Thee;
Between them, worse than either, we,
Without the rest or glory,—
Be pitiful, O God!”
E. B. BROWNING.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
VI.
=The Darkest Hour.=
On the following morning, the Duncans and Mary Wigton sat together in
the desolate stillness that succeeds bereavement. Already their dead had
been buried out of their sight,—buried hastily, by cold, unloving hands.
Nor might they even hope to visit the spot where she lay, for a common
and unhonoured grave must receive the victims of the pestilence. This
was one of the lesser sorrows in their cup. For the most part they sat
silent, neither weeping nor speaking, but thinking sadly of what they
had lost, and trembling for what still remained to them. For now that
one link in the chain was broken, it seemed as if all were loosened and
ready to fall asunder.
They were very helpless in their time of trouble. If they could have
prayed together, if they had possessed a copy of the Scriptures, it
would have fared better with them. But the Duncans were groping after
comfort in the dark; and even Mary, who knew more herself, was hardly
able to explain her own convictions to others, and shrank from the
attempt.
Archie was the first to suggest a thought of consolation. “Effie ’ill no
be hungry ony mair,” he said.
“True, callant,” answered Jamie; “and what for suld we greet? It’s
better far wi’ her than wi’ us the day.”
“But, Jamie,” said Janet, looking up with a puzzled, half-frightened
air, “what do you think about—purgatory?”
“Hoot! Is it that wee bairn, and she to dee as she did? I tell ye, I’d
gie a hantle siller, gin I had the same, for the lassie’s simple faith.
Na, na, my mind is clear; she’s wi’ the blessed saints this minute.”
“Nay, but wi’ the guid Saviour she loved sae weel,” said Mary. “Forbye,
I’m unco sure there’s nae sic place ava’ as purgatory. Gin the Lord were
to send his messenger for you or me the day, Janet (sae’s we believed
his Word), we’d gae right up to him; and neither sin, nor death, nor
Satan himsel, could keep us ane minute from his presence.”
“Eh, but that’s guid tidings,” said Janet.
“Ower guid to be true,” added Jamie. “At least, I’m no that certain yet.
Though,” he continued after a pause, “Maister Wishart does say, he has
‘oft and divers times read ower the Bible, yet such a term fand he
never, nor yet any place of Scripture applicable thereunto.’”
“And do ye no mind the braw words he tells us about the rest of God’s
children, and the guid hame Christ is keeping for them up in heaven?”
said Mary. “It’s enoo to make us lang to gae there oursels, and feel
like kneeling down to thank God for taking ane we love frae this sad
warld to that better place.”
There was a long silence, which Jamie broke. “It’s a’maist time for the
preaching.”
Every one looked surprised, and Janet said, “Ye’re no gaun the day,
Jamie?”
“Why suld we bide awa’? God’s hand is on us (his voice trembled), we’re
in sair trouble—is that a reason we’re no to gang to the ane place on
airth whaur we’re like to get comfort?”
“I’d a hantle rather gang than bide,” said Archie; and as the rest
appeared to agree with him, they began to prepare.
All were soon ready except Jamie himself. After rising to fetch his gown
and bonnet, he sat down again, looking very pale.
“What’s wrang wi’ ye?” asked Janet, in a frightened voice.
“Hoots! naething but a kind o’ dizziness. Dinna look sae fear’t, lass.”
“Aiblins it’s the hunger. Ye havena broken fast the day,” said Janet,
having recourse to Mary’s loaf.
But he rejected the food, and asked for water instead. Archie ran to
fetch it, and Jamie presently added, “Gang to the preaching, and dinna
mind me. I’ll try to sleep.”
But no one went to the preaching that day. Instead of listening to the
words of life, they sat in the chamber of sickness, soon perhaps to be
again the chamber of death. For the fiery arrow of the pestilence had
struck down their best and noblest, the prop and stay of the household.
The morning had risen in gloom upon the empty place of their youngest,
the child Effie, but that gloom seemed brightness itself compared with
the horror of the night.
Their hearts sank within them; from his first seizure they gave him up
for lost. Nor did he himself take a more cheerful view of his condition.
The attack differed considerably from those they had witnessed before;
though it still presented certain unmistakable symptoms marking it as
the dreaded sickness. There was no delirium, and but little acute
suffering, but there was a low wasting fever, and ever-increasing
exhaustion. There are cases, it has been said, “when a person has so
long and gradually imbibed the fatal poisons of an infected atmosphere,
that the resisting powers of nature have been insidiously and quietly
subdued.” Whether Jamie’s was really such or no, it looked very like it.
It seemed as if his frame, weakened by a long course of severe
privation, must sink and that speedily, beneath the attack of the
destroyer. Those around him longed, more than words can tell, for the
strong wine and nourishing food that they felt instinctively might save
him even yet. But what could they do?
Janet’s courage and calmness gave way when she saw this beloved brother
about to be snatched from her. Any other sorrow she could have
borne,—but this was too terrible. Once or twice the usually strong
self-possessed girl was obliged to leave Mary and Archie to watch by
that sick bed, whilst for a brief space she sought relief in tears. Mary
did all that was required of her; and if she learned to conceal a
breaking heart beneath a countenance that was almost cheerful, she did
no more than many women do every day. Yet Janet did not suffer more than
Mary, perhaps not so much. She never asked herself why this was so, or
whether it should be; it seemed quite natural and inevitable. They were
a family, bound together by the strong links that sorrow forges, and
what touched one touched all equally.
“Is it you, Mary?” asked the sick man upon one occasion when Mary kept
watch beside him. “I hae twa or three things that are vexing me sair,
aiblins ye could help me.”
“Dinna vex yersel noo, Jamie; but think o’ the guid Lord Jesus, wha
dee’d to tak’ yer sins awa’.”
“Eh, but that’s just it, Mary lass. I ken a’ about the blessed Lord wha
dee’d for sinners; but what’s that to me, sae lang’s I’m no sure _I’ll_
get the guid on’t? There’s bread enoo at the baxter’s, but we maun jist
starve for a’ that, gin we’ve no a plack to pay for it.”
“But He gies it to us, Jamie, ‘without money and without price.’”
“_Wha_ does He gie it to? O Mary! gin I couldna think it out an’ I
strong an’ weel, what chance hae I, noo that I lie here weak and
feckless, and canna put twa thochts thegither? The Lord hae mercy on me!
An’ I had a priest—”
“That wad do ye nae guid ava’, Jamie.”
“Wae’s me! I ken the same. I hae dooted lang; but noo I’m unco clear;
they’re nae better than idle paivies—the oil, and the cross, and sic’
like. But I maun hae _something_, Mary. Death’s a gruesome thing to look
at, and I’m sair afear’t.”
“Dinna fear, look on the Saviour’s face. ‘Only believe.’”
Very touching was Jamie’s wistful gaze of intense anxiety. “Is it ‘Only
believe,’ Mary? Can I mak siccar there’s naething mair to do? Forbye,
what’s the right gait to believe?”
“To believe is naething but to trust. It’s to trust the guid Lord as I’d
trust ye or Janet—(anely a hantle mair)—kenning weel as I do that ye’d
no wrang me, but keep yer ain promise fast. Whilk promise frae God is
just this, ‘I’ll forgie yer transgressions, and yer sins an’ iniquities
I’ll remember nae mair.’”
“Mary, could ye pray for me?”
Mary first lifted up her own heart in silent supplication; and then said
in a low voice, “I’ll try.”
But at that moment Archie, who had stretched himself in a corner of the
room to make up for a lost night’s rest, startled them both by showing
he had heard the conversation.
“Eh, Jamie!” he cried, thrusting up his head, “_I’d_ do mair for ye than
a’ that.”
As no one replied to this strange announcement, he went on: “What for
suld I no just gang to guid Maister Wishart and ask him to come and see
ye? Nae doot but he’d do it, for the love o’ God; and he’d tell ye a’
the things ye’re speiring after.”
This audacious proposal, as Mary considered it, fairly took away her
breath; while it brought a moment’s colour to Jamie’s pale face. “Is it
for the like o’ me?” he said; “a puir baxter lad! Callant, ye’re clean
daft.”
“I’m no daft ava’. He gaes to waur than us, aft an’ aft. Ye’re in
trouble and hae the sickness—”
“And hae the sickness!” repeated Jamie indignantly. “Guid reason _that_
to bring him here! Na, na, Archie, let me fend as I may, I’ll no hae the
precious life that’s help and comfort to sae mony risked for me. What
wad we a’ do without him? He’s just like ane licht in a dark sky to the
puir folk in this stricken toun.” He was growing excited, and might have
injured himself, had not Janet re-entered the room at that moment. She
looked pale and haggard; and when, at Jamie’s request, she brought him a
drink of water, she could not help expressing her sorrow that she had
nothing better to give him.
“Weel,” said the sick man with a sigh half sorrowful, half resigned, “we
maun thole it. It’s no for sae lang.”
Shortly afterwards he fell asleep, and Mary beckoned Janet from the
room, leaving Archie with his brother.
“Janet,” she said, as they stood together in the passage, “something
maun be done.”
“I dinna ken what to do, but to dee a’ thegither,” answered Janet,
hopelessly.
“Let us dee, then, by God’s visitation, no by our ain fecklessness.
Janet, we’re like to starve, and Jamie—” her voice faltered, but she
presently resumed, “gin he had the meat and drink a sick man suld hae, I
doot but he’s no that ill, after a’.—Listen, I hae seen my ain dear
father dee o’ this awfu’ sickness; forbye that, I hae watched the bairn
Effie. It’s no easy to mak me fear’t, and ye say I’m gleg an’ handy. Sae
I might find a place to nurse some o’ the sick folk. Dinna think to
hinder me, Janet, my mind is set on it; I’ll just gang my gait to the
guid leech wha came to father, and ask him to help me. An’ I daur think
God ’ill prosper me, sin’ I hae prayed to him wi’ a’ my heart. I’ll
bring, or send ye help, the first minute I can. But dinna tell Jamie.”
Janet at first objected to the plan, but Mary’s resolution conquered.
Weak herself from watching and fasting, she set out on what her reason
told her was a sufficiently hopeless errand. But she trusted in God; and
having earnestly prayed for help in the dark hour of trial, she believed
he would give it, either by this or by some other means.
Bitter, therefore, was her disappointment to find that the physician
whom she sought had himself fallen a victim to the disease with which he
had so bravely striven on behalf of others. She sat down on the doorstep
to consider what next to do; and it was with difficulty she could
prevent herself from giving way to tears. She knew no other physician
even by name. To whom then could she go? Again the thought of Wilson
occurred to her, and finding any sort of action a relief, she rose half
mechanically and moved in the direction of his house. The walk was long
enough, and she was very weary. But it seemed as if her limbs must fail
her utterly, when, upon arriving at the spot, she found the door shut,
and inscribed with the well-known mark that told the plague was within.
If ever she felt despair, it was at this moment. Why should they
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.”
Mary now looked not only distressed but alarmed. “What gars ye say
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.
Well did she recognise the white agonized face of her brother. At once
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.=
Janet Duncan gave Mary a sister’s welcome with heartfelt pleasure and
affection. With her, as well as with her brother, ties were slowly
formed, though when once formed they were strong as adamant. She
contracted friendships rather from long association and mutual service
than from congeniality of disposition or sentiment. Mary had shared her
watch beside little Effie’s dying bed, had helped to tend Jamie during
his long illness, and had struggled and suffered with them through their
sorest trials;—these were cogent reasons for taking her at once to her
warm and honest heart. Nor was Archie less satisfied with his brother’s
choice; though he pertly suggested, that the sooner Mary Wigton changed
her name to a less objectionable one the better it would be for all
parties.
But there were difficulties about ways and means sufficient to have
perplexed much more thoughtful heads than Archie’s. James and Mary,
however, were quietly happy in the present, and therefore content to
“bide their time.” Upon one point they were both agreed: they must wait
at least until God was pleased to remove “the great plague and sickness”
from the city where they dwelt. Had not the worst been already over, the
matter would scarcely have become even one for deliberation.
The worst _was_ over. Joy and thankfulness were about to take the place
of universal sorrow and fear. Day by day, and more and more rapidly, the
number of deaths decreased. Life began to return to its usual course;
shops and other places of public resort were re-opened; people no longer
threaded their way cautiously through the middle of the streets,
jealously guarding themselves from every touch that might convey
infection, but began to jostle the passers-by on the footways, or to
stop and talk with their neighbours as in former times. Devout and
fervent were the thanksgivings that arose from many hearts; nor were the
Duncans and Mary Wigton among the least grateful of the inhabitants of
Dundee.
James Duncan was now anxiously seeking another situation. Since the
memorable day of Wishart’s visit the family had not known want; but they
were not of a temper to eat the bread of charity one hour longer than
was absolutely necessary. Besides, Jamie had now an object before him
sufficient to animate him to tenfold energy and activity. A very frugal
livelihood, it is true, would suffice for them. Janet and Mary could
help in various ways (for as a matter of course they were all still to
remain together); and it was fully time even for Archie to take the
matter of earning his own bread into consideration. But the first thing
necessary was, that James should procure employment. Poor in everything
else, the young man was rich in character; the family of his late
employer and many of his customers were ready to give him those “goodly
words,” which in certain cases are the reverse of useless. Still, for
some time his efforts proved unsuccessful; and he was beginning to feel
disheartened and seriously anxious, when a circumstance occurred which
diverted his hopes and his exertions into an entirely new channel.
Mary had gone out one day to take home some fine sewing which had been
given her through her friends the Browns; for people were again
beginning to care, not only for the necessaries, but for the elegancies
and superfluities of life. On her return, Janet surprised her with the
intelligence that no less important a personage than Maister Wilson from
the Nethergate had been inquiring for her, and requested her to call at
his house as soon as she could. Mary’s feelings towards the man who had
wronged her father had once been very bitter; for it is possible for
gentle natures to harbour very bitter feelings when those they love are
injured. She could not forget that her father’s desire to recover the
debt so dishonestly repudiated had occasioned the removal of the family
to Dundee, and been thus, in a manner, the cause of the troubles that
had ensued. But her resentment against this man was amongst the old
things that had passed away from her when the great change came over her
heart and life. When she found that he too had been smitten with that
terrible plague, she had not failed earnestly to pray that God would
have mercy both on his body and his soul; and it was with pleasure she
learned that his sickness was not unto death. Still the thought of an
interview was embarrassing; and the more so as the recollection of the
father to whom she had been so tenderly attached naturally came back
very vividly on her mind, and threatened almost to overcome her.
Not choosing, however, to defer a disagreeable duty, she at once
repaired to the mercer’s dwelling; and it was fully two hours before she
returned. When she did so, she looked agitated, and there were traces of
recent tears on her countenance. Seeing that Janet remarked them, she
said in explanation, “It’s no that I’ve been fretted, Janet; but it’s an
unco thing to think that Maister Wilson suld come to himsel the noo, and
make a’ richt between us—and my puir father in his grave.”
“Ye dinna mean to say he’s gien ye back the siller, lassie?”
“Ay, has he. Ilka plack and bodle o’t. Forbye, it’s a hantle mair than
the twa hundert merks, for there’s what he ca’s _interest_.”
“Eh, but that’s guid news!” cried Janet and Archie in a breath.
“I’m blythe to win it—for Jamie,” said Mary softly, and with a blushing
cheek.
“Hae ye brought it wi’ ye?” asked Archie.
“Na; I was fear’t to carry sae muckle gowd. I thocht Jamie wad gang and
fetch it for me.”
“Weel for him an’ he has nae waur wark to do,” said Archie.
“Maister Wilson maun hae gone clean wud, I’m thinking,” said Janet. “I
hae never heard the like! And naebody e’en speiring after the siller.”
It was a moment or two before Mary answered; and then she said, in a
quiet, reverent voice, “God has changed his heart, Janet.”
“And was _that_ what gared him pay the debt?”
“Just that. And he’s sair grieved to think of a’ the sorrow that he—”
here her voice faltered, and she stopped. “I telled him that was a’ bye,
and suldna be thocht on again. Forbye, God meant it for guid to me; for
ye ken, gin it hadna been for the siller we’d hae never come here, whaur
the true Word o’ God is preached. But he askit o’ my puir father, and
wad hear the haill story, sair vexed as I was to tell it. It gaed hard
wi’ him, Janet—he a’maist grat before I had done. And he said to me that
he kenned full weel God had forgien him, but he couldna forgie himsel. I
tried to gar him see that he suldna hae sic’ thochts; but I’m naebut a
puir body for words, and no gleg wi’ my tongue.”
“How did he find ye out, Mary?”
“I dinna just ken; gin it wasna through the guid folk wha hae helpit
Jamie. He has aft seen my face at the preaching, little dreaming wha I
was. Eh, but ye suld hae heard him talk o’ the preaching, Janet.”
At that moment Jamie entered, and was soon told the pleasant news. Mary
had now a “tocher” that many a lass in a higher grade might have envied.
“And it’s a’ anent Maister Wishart,” said Archie, “wha tells folk they
canna be saved for doing guid warks; and gars them do mair in a day than
a’ the priests in Scotland wadna in a year.”
A discussion of their plans naturally followed. The possession of this
sum of money removed most of the obstacles to Jamie and Mary’s union.
The first and apparently the most feasible proposition was, that Jamie
should undertake a shop of his own, in which Archie might assist. This
was not at all to Archie’s taste; but had his been the only dissentient
voice, it might still have been carried. Mary had been for some time a
silent listener to the conversation between Jamie and Janet, but when
directly appealed to by Jamie, she said gently, “I dinna doot it’s a’
richt, Jamie. Aiblins it’s the best thing we can do.”
“But I’m fear’t ye dinna like it, Mary.”
“Oh ay.” Then after a pause, and rather timidly, “Whiles I canna help
thinking lang for the bonnie Sidlaw Hills.”
“Wad ye like to gang _there_, lassie?” asked Jamie, eagerly.
“Oh, _brawly_,” answered Mary, with sparkling eyes. “An’ John tald me
father’s farm’s to let. But it’s a fule thocht,” she added; “ye couldna
mind a farm, Jamie.”
“It’s a’maist time I was awa’ to the Nethergate to Maister Wilson,” said
Jamie, evading a direct reply. But though he spoke little, he thought
much. Intensely anxious to gratify Mary, and conscious of his own power
to master almost anything in the way of business in which his strong
will was sufficiently interested, he revolved the plan she had suggested
in his mind. Now that he was possessed of the requisite capital, could
he not turn farmer, and thus secure, not only a comfortable livelihood,
but a healthy country home to Mary and Janet? Part of his own boyhood
had been spent with a relative in the country; and he had thus acquired
a taste for rural occupations, as well as a little elementary knowledge
on the subject. For the rest, he could engage competent assistance, and
feel his way, trusting to his natural shrewdness to protect him from
imposition. If he was imprudent, he had at least a very valid excuse.
“It will please Mary so much,” was a reason weighty enough to
counterbalance many difficulties.
His visit to Wilson proved much longer than he anticipated. The mercer,
a new convert to “Christ’s Evangel,” and full of life and zeal, was glad
to find a kindred spirit in Mary Wigton’s “weel-wisher.” A very short
time sufficed for the transaction of their business; and they then
entered into conversation upon the higher themes so dear to both their
hearts. Wilson was struck by the young man’s general intelligence, as
well as by his knowledge of the Word of God, which indeed had been his
meditation day and night since he obtained possession of it. No subject
makes strangers friends so quickly as this. Ere they parted, Jamie could
not help yielding to the impulse that prompted him to ask the advice of
Wilson upon the project Mary had suggested. Wilson thought it might be
accomplished, and volunteered his counsel and assistance, which in many
ways were very useful.
Anxious to perform a service for the family Mary was about to enter
which might in some degree atone for past injuries, he offered to take
the young brother, whom Jamie had casually mentioned, as his apprentice;
and if he liked the business, to establish him in life without cost to
his relatives. Archie’s future was just then a matter of serious
consideration to Jamie, and he was deeply grateful for an opening much
more eligible than any he could have dreamed of securing for him.
Having duly thanked Wilson on his brother’s account and his own, he
hurried home freighted with pleasant tidings. Great was his astonishment
when Archie declared that no persuasion could induce him to be bound to
a trade. He who in past days had so hated school, would now do anything,
possible or impossible, would work half the night, would live on one
meal a day,—if Jamie would only consent to keep him there for another
year. Most earnestly did he entreat his brother to grant him this boon;
but when pressed to say what he proposed doing at the year’s end, he
continued obstinately silent. Jamie reasoned, remonstrated, and finally
grew angry and threatened, all to no purpose. Even when an elder brother
performs a father’s part, he seldom possesses in full measure a father’s
authority.
Janet’s well-meant expostulations did not tend to smooth matters. Archie
was probably not mistaken in thinking that if he explained himself
freely, his practical sister would ridicule him as an absurd dreamer,
and he dreaded nothing in the world so much as ridicule. Therefore no
more could be got from him than this, “I willna be Maister Wilson’s, or
ony man’s ’prentice.” Jamie was fain to treat his extraordinary conduct
as the result of a fit of boyish naughtiness, and to tell him he would
give him until next morning to recover his senses.
Meanwhile the old farmstead on the slope of Dunsinnan, amongst the
bonnie Sidlaw Hills, grew fairer and fairer in prospect. Difficulties
seemed to vanish away upon closer inspection; and after a long happy
talk together that evening, Jamie said, “My mind is set to try it, Mary,
and I think God ’ill help me; for I hae askit him to show us the gait we
suld gang.” Very thankful was Mary for this decision. It was her
character to cling fondly to old cherished scenes and associations, and
even with Jamie she felt as if a narrow room in a crowded “land” could
scarcely ever be “hame” to her. Besides, he had not since his illness at
all recovered his wonted strength; and for his sake, as well as for her
own and Janet’s, she longed for those fresh mountain breezes that “sweep
disease on their breath away.”
A night’s reflection strengthened Jamie’s determination; neither,
unfortunately, did it alter Archie’s. Jamie, anxious to avoid a sinful
loss of temper on his own part, told the boy as quietly as he could,
that if he refused Wilson’s generous offer, he did so on his own
responsibility, and very much to his own disadvantage. He added, that he
could only maintain him by taking him with him to the country, where he
must expect to work hard and fare hard; and that as he did not see fit
to entrust him with the motives of his strange behaviour, he must at
least go with him to the Nethergate, thank the mercer himself for his
kind proposal, and give his own reasons for declining it. He was of an
age to speak for himself, Jamie said, and certainly in this instance
_he_ could not undertake to speak for him. To this Archie agreed, and
prepared to accompany his brother. A consciousness that all his friends
were displeased with him, made him sullen in manner and extremely
uncomfortable in feeling; but he was cherishing a purpose that he
believed in his heart of hearts to be a good and noble one, and like an
inconsiderate boy, he resolved upon pursuing it, without pausing to
reflect whether it was practicable or no.
“I’m sair fashed for Archie,” said Mary to Janet when he was gone. “The
callant has some notion or ither in his head, gin a body could come by
it. Do ye no mind how he’s changed, Janet? He’s grown sae douce and
still; and he’s aye and aye reading at ‘Maister Wishart’s wee bookie,’
as he ca’s it.”
To Jamie and Janet and Mary the New Testament was “God’s Word,” to
Archie it was only as yet “Maister Wishart’s book.”
“Hoot,” cried Janet contemptuously, “the laddie’s clean wud, that’s a’.
An’ I had my will, he suld e’en want his parritch till he fand his
wits.”
In the meantime Jamie and Archie walked silently to the Nethergate, and
soon found themselves in the mercer’s comfortable parlour. The rich man
greeted Jamie cordially, and noticed his young brother with frank
kindness, but he appeared grieved and pre-occupied.
“There’s news to-day,” he said, “mony a heart in Dundee ’ill be sair to
hear.”
“Is the sickness waur again, sir?” asked Jamie.
“No, God be praised, the sickness is a’maist gone; but I hae just seen
Maister James Wedderburn, wha’s weel acquaint wi’ Maister Wishart, and
its owre true he’s gaun awa’. Neist sermon ’ill be his last here.”
Jamie’s exclamation was drowned by a real cry of distress from Archie, a
cry that made Wilson turn and look at the boy more attentively than he
had done before.
“That’s ill news indeed for Dundee,” answered Jamie, with a face that
said more than his words. “But is it sure he maun gang, sir? Couldna the
Lord Provost or Maister Robert Mill, or Maister James Wedderburn, gar
him bide wi’ us?”
Wilson shook his head. “Na, na. He says ‘God has weel nigh put an end to
this battle, he finds himsel called to ane ither.’ But there’s mony
amang us ‘id gae thro’ a’ the trouble and dolour o’ this waefu’ year
again, anely to hae him still to comfort us.”
“God’s will maun be done,” said Jamie sadly. Then after a pause, “Does
aebody ken whaur he’ll gang the noo, sir?”
“Maister Wedderburn’s no sure yet. Aiblins to Montrose, whaur he first
began to preach, aiblins back to Kyle.” Some conversation followed upon
Wishart’s brief but brilliant ministry in the west. Jamie and Archie
knew very little of their venerated pastor, except what they had
themselves seen and heard. They listened therefore with much interest to
Wilson’s animated description of his “offering Goddis Woord” in Ayr and
the surrounding places. For everywhere, as amongst them, had he approved
himself the minister of God, “by pureness, by knowledge, by
longsuffering, by kindness, by the Holy Ghost, by love unfeigned.”
One story amongst others the mercer told them, which Knox has preserved
for us, bestowing upon the picture one or two of those rare touches of
grace and tenderness of which his strong bold hand was not incapable.
Having been invited to preach in the church of Mauchline, Wishart found
himself on his arrival excluded by the Sheriff and a strong party of
Romanists, who, acting under his orders, had seized upon the building.
The high-spirited gentlemen, his friends and adherents, were indignant
at this treatment, and vowed to enter the church by force. But the
servant of the Lord would not strive. Taking Hugh Campbell of
Kinyeancleugh, the most zealous of his followers, aside, he said to him:
“Brother, Jesus Christ is as potent upon the fields as in the kirk; and
I find that he himself more often preached in the desert, at the
sea-side, and in other places judged profane, than that he did in the
Temple of Hierusalem. It is the word of peace that God sends by me: the
blood of no man shall be shed this day for the preaching of it.” And so,
followed by all the people of the town, he withdrew to the hillside,
where they stood or sate around him while he preached from “a dyke in
the moor edge.” And Knox forgets not to tell us, that “God gave the day
pleasing and hote.” Modern church-goers may be surprised to hear that
the sermon lasted more than three hours; but the preacher knew his time
was short, nor were the hearers weary, for “the word of the Lord was
precious in those days.” And “in that sermon God wrought so wonderfully
with him, that ane of the most wicked men that was in that country,
named Laurence Rankin, laird of Sheill, was converted. The tears ran
from his eyes in such abundance that all men wondered.” And his life
thenceforward was such as to evidence the reality of the change.
Here Wilson paused, struck by the eager attention of his younger
listener. Archie’s bright young face was indeed glowing with interest
and enthusiasm; and the mercer, pleased with the boy’s appearance, felt
the more desirous to receive him into his household. He therefore asked
him kindly if his brother had told him of his proposal, and what he
thought of it.
“Ye’re unco guid, sir,” said Archie, so fired by all he had been hearing
that reserve and shyness were forgotten, “but I willna hae a trade. I
maun gang to the schule and learn my book. Aiblins God’ll gie me sae
muckle grace that when I’m a man grown I may preach his holy Word—like
guid Maister Wishart.”
Jamie stood aghast at this revelation of his brother’s ambition. Had the
friendless orphan boy declared his intention of one day becoming lord
provost of Dundee, or even lord high sheriff of Angus, he would have
deemed his aspirations comparatively moderate and reasonable. “Ye puir
fule callant!” he said, too deeply compassionate to entertain the least
thought of ridicule, “ye’ll no ever be like _him_. What gars ye cry for
the moon, like a senseless bit bairn?”
“Leave him his lane,” interposed Wilson. “He’ll no be the waur, ony
gait, for having dreamed that dream; and he’s like to be the better his
haill life lang.”
The famous words,
“Who aimeth at the sky,
Shoots higher far than he that means a tree,”
had not yet been penned; but they would not be so famous if they did not
embody a truth which thoughtful spirits had recognised and acted upon
long before.
Wilson then spoke to James Duncan about his plans; and having
ascertained his determination to remove to the country, he finally
offered Archie a home in his house for the next year; telling him he
might attend school with his own bairns and show what progress he could
make; and adding, for Jamie’s benefit, that if it seemed advisable, at
the end of that time, he might still be bound to the trade.
Archie “wasna blate,” as Jamie afterwards declared. He frankly and
gratefully embraced the proposal, leaving his brother little opportunity
for showing the reluctance he felt at accepting so great a boon from a
comparative stranger.
The brothers did not return as silently as they came. Their brief
misunderstanding had been swept away by a common interest and sympathy;
and if the elder remonstrated with the younger on the wildness of his
ambition, it was in the spirit of love and meekness. For he had reason
to fear that the boy had not yet in his own heart felt the power of the
truths that Wishart preached; and that what looked so like an ardent
attachment to the doctrines of the gospel, was, in fact, only the result
of a passionate admiration for the best and noblest man he had ever
known. Archie’s answers to the questions he put, though both frank and
intelligent, confirmed him in this opinion; and he warned him, gently
but faithfully, against the danger of self-deception. He was so far
impressed and sobered, that on his return home he actually allowed Jamie
to narrate to Janet and Mary all they had heard; not interposing a
single word until his brother told Wishart’s reason for leaving Dundee,
when he could not refrain from saying, “Eh, but I think it’s unco hard.
_Our_ troubles are bye noo, and we’re gaun to rest. An’ is _he_ naebut
to gang to some ither battle, aiblins as hard as this ane?”
“Ay, lad,” said Jamie, “there’s nae rest for the preacher o’ God’s Word
till God gies rest himsel. How could it be ony ither gait, sae lang as
the haill country lies in darkness and the shadow o’ death, and men are
deeing ilka day without the fear o’ God or the hope o’ heaven? Atweel,”
he added after a pause, “he’ll no ever ken here a’ the guid he’s done
us, and a’ the love we bear him for it; but an’ it’s no wrang, I like to
think whiles that we’ll get to tell him up yon in heaven. For doesna the
Book say that sic’ as we ’ill be the minister’s joy and crown o’
rejoicing in Christ’s presence by and by?”
“But I’m no just sure, Jamie,” said Mary thoughtfully, “that it’s richt
to leave a’ the doing and suffering in Christ’s cause to Maister
Wishart. What has the guid Lord done for him he hasna done just the same
for ilka ane of us?”
“But ye ken we canna preach, Mary,” remarked Janet.
“That’s owre true, Janet, but we can _live_. Forbye, Jamie, when we gang
to Dunsinnan, do ye no think we can tell our puir neebors the Word o’
God, and read them a wheen chapters out o’ the Book?”
“Sae we will, God helping us,” said Jamie. “Gin trouble suld come to us
for the same (I’m no saying it’s like to come, Mary, but ye ken it
_might_), we’d be blythe to thole it for his sake wha tholed the bitter
cross for ours.”
“Ony gait, Jamie, we’re unco safe in his keeping. An’ how weel he has
fended for us! I canna but mind that bit verse in the wee psalm book ye
bought me yestreen for a propine.[13] ‘The lot is fallen to me in a fair
ground: yea, I hae a guidly heritage.’”
“God be praised,” answered Jamie; “the year o’ the muckle sickness has
been the best year I hae seen in a’ my life.”
Many besides James Duncan could have borne this witness. The dark year
of Dundee proved one of the brightest in her history. Never before, and
perhaps never since, until the great revival of the present day, had
such numbers there been turned from darkness to light and from the power
of Satan unto God. It was but a little while until that light so
increased and brightened, that it chased the shades of darkness away
before it,—nay, until its beams, concentrated as in a burning-glass,
shrivelled to ashes the worn-out gauds and trappings of Romish
superstition. Dundee was the first of all the Scottish burghs that
declared for the Reformation; and by her whole-hearted steadfastness in
the good cause she won the honourable name of the Second Geneva.
Three hundred years, with all their changes, lie between us and those
stormy days of conflict and victory. Yet they are not quite forgotten.
The old walls of Dundee have indeed been laid level with the ground; but
reverent grateful hearts have spared the antique gateway, hallowed so
long ago by the feet of him who brought glad tidings and published
peace. Fitting emblem of a grand truth! Thus shall perish the memories
of mere human greatness—the renown of kings and captains—the gaudy
trophies of successful warfare. But the work of faith and labour of
love, wrought in Christ and for him, stands secure of a double
immortality. Its blessed results here shall last as long as the earth
herself, while its bright memorial and recompense above are imperishable
as the stars, like which they that turn many to righteousness shall
shine for ever and ever.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
XII.
=The Reward of God’s Messenger.=
“I bless Thee for the light that dawns e’en now upon my soul,
And brightens all the narrow way, with glory from the goal.
The hour and power of darkness, it is fleeting fast away,
Light shall arise on Scotland, a glorious gospel day!
· · · · ·
Now let thy good word be fulfilled, and let thy kingdom come,
And in thine now best time, O Lord, take thy poor servant home.”
_Lays of the Kirk and Covenant._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
XII.
=The Reward of God’s Messenger.=
More than a year has passed away since James and Mary Duncan, with their
sister Janet, left Dundee for their new home amongst the Sidlaw Hills. A
very happy home they have found it. They have not been without cares and
anxieties, but these have seemed light because borne together in loving
sympathy. God has established the work of their hands upon them, and
they have now every reason to believe that the old farm of Dunsinnan
Brae will amply supply their simple wants. What is still better, they
may hold and even profess the true faith in peace, none making them
afraid. The neighbours are friendly, the parish priest careless and
indifferent. Provided he receives his “teindis, rentis, and all uthir
dewties,” he is quite willing to connive at the absence of the Duncans
from their parish kirk; and even if he is aware that many of the
neighbours find their way in the winter evenings to the farm-house
spence,[14] to hear the Scriptures read in their own tongue, at least he
is obliging enough to keep the knowledge to himself. Having thus learned
in a humble way to water others, James and Mary Duncan are abundantly
watered themselves. They often long, it is true, for the public
ministrations of the gospel; but since the streams are at present denied
them, they repair the more frequently to the fountain-head. Both can now
read with ease and fluency; and to the Testament and Psalm book they
possessed before leaving Dundee they have since added the remaining
portions of the Word of God. These they study diligently and
prayerfully, and the Lord himself is their teacher. Meanwhile, in their
daily walk, and in all their dealings with others, they seek to show
forth the praises of Him who called them out of darkness into his
marvellous light.
Janet is now no longer an inmate of the Dunsinnan homestead. An
honest-hearted farmer of the neighbourhood, who received the new
doctrines from James Duncan, has learned to appreciate the sterling
qualities of his teacher’s sister, and asked her to share his home. But
a distance of only two or three miles separates Mary and Janet, who will
always continue to be, what sorrow shared together made them to each
other,—loving sisters and true friends.
Archie is still in Dundee, and bids fair to be one of the first pupils
of the grammar-school. The good abilities of the once idle thoughtless
boy are rendered available by the industry which is born of a cherished
purpose. Wilson proves a true and wise friend, and allows him to lack
for nothing; and, moreover, in a town like Dundee, there are prizes
enough to be won by the talented and studious. A free education and
maintenance at the University of St. Andrews might be easily obtained;
but as things are at present, this would scarcely be an advantage to one
of his views and opinions. He is not, however, either at an age or of a
disposition to foresee difficulties, and is too happy in his present
life of conscious progress and improvement to think much of the future.
The beginning of the year 1546 brings great joy to Dunsinnan Brae. A
proud and happy man is James Duncan when he holds in his arms “a bonnie
lad bairn,” his first-born; prouder and happier still when Mary’s gentle
step again moves softly through the house, or her sweet voice chants for
a cradle-song some verse from the “guid and godly Ballates” of Maister
John Wedderburn.
It was a cold inclement winter, but within that home there were warmth
and light; even for the life that now is there were “all things richly
to enjoy,” and there was a bright and sure hope for that which is to
come.
“Jamie,” said Mary softly, one day as she sat at work beside her baby’s
cradle, “do ye mind a bit promise ye made before we left Dundee?”
“I ken what ye mean, Mary,” answered Jamie, with a thoughtful face. “I
said, gin the guid Lord gied me a bonnie bairn, I’d no hae it kirstened
wi’ ‘spittle, salt, candle, coit, oil,’ and the lave, but according to
our blessed Saviours ain simple ordinance.”
“Ye said mair than that, Jamie.”
“Ay, and I’ll haud to the same. Nae hand but guid Maister Wishart’s sall
bapteeze my bairn, an I hae to carry it across half Scotland ere I find
him.”
“Ye’ll na hae that to do, for it’s maist like he’s still at Montrose.”
“Then ye wadna think muckle o’ the journey, or be fear’t for the bairn,
Mary?”
Mary’s eyes shone very brightly through tears of grateful love as she
answered: “Is it to see _his_ face again, Jamie? That were weel worth it
a’. Forbye, he’d pray a bit prayer for our bairn that wad bring it a
blessing its haill life lang.”
“And ye ken, he’s sae kind and gentle, ane needna be fear’t to ask him.
Gin the morn’s clear and frosty like the day, I’ll just gang to Dundee
and talk the matter owre wi’ Maister Wilson.”
“Ay, and speir after Archie, puir lad. I jalouse he’s working owre hard
wi’ that Latin.”
The next day James Duncan put his resolve into practice. Nine or ten
miles and back on foot were a small matter to him now; but Mary, a
careful and tender wife, was grieved to see the day, which had begun in
frosty brightness, become overclouded at noon, and end in rain and
sleet. She exerted herself to make everything within the house present
as favourable a contrast as possible to the gloom and dreariness
without; and a brighter “inglenuik,” a warmer welcome, or a more
comfortable supper, were never prepared for any tired wayfarer than
those which awaited Jamie’s return that night. He was late, and Mary had
dismissed the farm-servants to their beds long before she heard the
well-known sound of his footsteps, and joyfully hastened to open the
door for him.
He scarcely answered her inquiries whether he was “wat through,” “owfre
forfoughten,” and similar subjects of wife-like anxiety. Having thrown
off his dripping cloak in the outer porch, he silently followed her into
the cheerful spence, bright with fire and candle light.
One glance at his pale agitated face made her exclaim, in tones faint
with terror, “What’s wrang wi’ ye, Jamie?”
“O Mary, they hae taken him at last!” was the sorrowful reply. No need
to ask _who_ he meant.
“Wae’s me!” said Mary, when she _could_ speak. “I thocht God wad hae
keppit him.”
“His way is in the sea, his path is in the great waters, and his
footsteps are no kent,” answered Jamie in a voice that showed how sorely
his own faith was tried by the mystery of God’s dealings with his
servant.
“_Wha_ has taken him, Jamie?”
“Alas, that’s weelnigh the waurst of a’. My lord Bothwell has gien him
up for gowd to the bluidy Cardinal. But he’ll wish sair that day’s wark
were undone, when he comes to stand before the judgment-seat o’ God.”
“Then, whaur is he noo?”
“In the cruel Cardinal’s dungeon at St. Andrew’s. God help and
strengthen him!”
“We can but pray. Oh, Jamie, do ye no mind wha answered prayer sae lang
ago, and sent his angel to open the prison-door and set the captive
free? I dinna misdoot he loves Maister Wishart just as weel as e’er he
loved St. Peter.”
“He doesna send his angels noo, Mary.”
“I dinna ken; I think they were no that far awa’ when he was saved sae
strangely from sic’ a dreadfu’ snare at Montrose.[15] But maist like the
Lord of angels himsel was by then. Ony gait, I’ll no gie up hope for
him, Jamie. He that saved Daniel in the lions’ den, and the three
children in the fiery furnace, can save his dear servant frae the cruel
hand o’ him that hates him.”
“He _can_, Mary. He’s the God o’ the haill earth. But I doot it’s na his
will to do it.”
“What gars ye say the like o’ that?”
“Unco hard it is to say it, God wot. Oh, Mary, I _hae_ prayed—I hae
warsled sair wi’ the Lord a’ the time sin’ I heard it, wi’ the bitter
sleet and rain driving in my face, and a waur storm in my heart. And I
could get nae licht or comfort ava’, God help me! But I ken by a sure
token Maister Wishart’s wark is done.”
With trembling lips Mary asked him what he meant.
“He kenned it weel himsel. But I maun tell ye frae the beginning what I
hae heard the day. Maister Wilson tald me the waefu’ tidings; and by and
by wha suld come in but Maister James Wedderburn himsel. Ane love and
ane sorrow brought us twa thegither, and I think neither minded that are
was puir and the ither rich. He sat down sae douce and kind, and tald me
a’ that happened sin’ the time Maister Wishart left Montrose.”
“Why did he leave it, Jamie?”
“The gentlemen o’ the Westland, wha were his friends, wrote to ask him
to come to Edinburgh, and they wad keep tryst wi’ him there, and gar the
bishops gie him leave to haud public disputation, and to preach the
gospel. Dauntless as he ever was in the cause of Christ’s evangel, ye
may weel guess he didna say them nay. Gin ither hearts had been as leal
and true, it might hae fared better wi’ him and wi’ us a’. There was
fearfu’ peril, for the cruel Cardinal was coming to Edinburgh; but this
didna move him, nor counted he his life dear to himsel. He passed thro’
Dundee”—
“I wish we had kenned that, Jamie.”
“Sae do I. For noo, I wot weel that they amang whom he has gone
preaching the word o’ God sall see his face nae mair.”
After a long pause he continued. “But he didna bide in the town. He
stayed the night at Invergowrie, wi’ Maister James Watson. It’s his
brither John wha hae tald Maister Wedderburn what happened there. In the
dark nicht, a wheen before the daybreak, Maister Wishart rose and gaed
forth o’ the house. Still and lane as it was that hour, the yard was no
lane enoo’ for him,—he maun gang to and fro till he fand a bit quiet
walk. Maist like he thocht nae closet wi’ the door steeked could be sae
siccar as _that_, in the chill silent autumn night. But John Watson, wi’
ane friend o’ his, followed and marked a’ he did.”
“Eh, but that was no richt, Jamie.”
“Owre true. Nae een but God’s suld hae watched the bitter struggle o’
that brave heart. For he fell upon his knees, and wept and groaned aloud
like ane that tholed an awfu’ agony. _He_, sae grand and calm, and aye
sae unmoved in trouble and danger! And at last he bowed e’en his vera
face to the earth, and prayed thus for nigh an hour, in a low voice sair
broken wi’ tears. But it seemed as tho’ God heard his prayer, for then
he rose calm and stilled, and sae he gaed in.
“The twa friends met him, as by chance, and askit him whaur he had been.
He wadna tell them; but in the morning they came again to him, and said:
‘Maister George, ye maun be plain wi’ us; for we hae seen ye, and heard
your bitter mourning, baith on yer knees and on yer face.’ They kenned
weel he was grieved at this, tho’ he wadna gie them an ungentle word. ‘I
had rather you had been in your beds; and it had been more profitable to
you,’ he said. But still they urged him to show them some comfort. Then
at last he answered them: ‘I will tell you. I am assured my travail is
nigh an end. Call to God for me that now I shrink not when the battle
waxes hot.’ But this gared them baith greet, and say to him, ‘that was
sma’ comfort unto them.’ ‘God shall send you comfort after me,’ Maister
Wishart said again. ‘This realm shall be illumined with the light of
Christ’s evangel, as clearly as ever was any realm since the days of the
Apostles. The house of God shall be built in it. Yea, it shall not lack
(whatsoever enemies shall devise to the contrary) the very copestone.
Neither shall this be long in doing. There shall not many suffer after
me, till that the glory of God shall evidently appear, and shall anes
triumph in despite of Satan.’—I hae gien ye word for word, Mary; a man
doesna forget sic’ words as thae.”
“Oh, Jamie,” said Mary, in tones full of awe and wonder, “did God
himsel’ tell him a’ that?”
“Is it that strange gin he did, Mary? Might he no tak’ his servant, like
Moses to the top o’ Pisgah, and gie him a glint of the guid land whaur
he means to bring his ain faithfu’ folk? Forbye, ye ken there’s a power
in the prayer o’ faith that passes thocht and comprehension. I canna
think that Maister Wishart’s sair warsling wi’ the Lord that hour, wi’
strong crying and tears, was a’, or maistly for himsel. Nae doot the
thocht o’ sic’ a death as he maun face is owre hard to flesh and bluid.
And that’s no the bravest heart that feels the least, Mary; but that
feels the _maist_, that kens a’ the bitter pain and dolor, and yet can
thole it for the Saviour’s sake. But I believe Christ’s wark in this
realm is mair a thousandfald to him than his ain life. I believe the
strongest cry of his heart gaed up to heaven for thae puir souls he
wared that life to teach and save. And wadna the guid Lord tell him,
‘See, I hae heard thee in this thing’—‘My righteousness is near, My
salvation is gone forth.’—‘But gae thou thy way till the end be, for
thou shalt rest, and stand in thy lot in the end o’ the days?’—Still,
it’s no for me to say muckle on’t; the place is owre holy, a man suld
tak’ his shoon frae his feet.[16]
“After that nicht’s agony and joy, he gaed forward, strong in the calm
trust that kens nae fear. But when he came to Leith there was nae word
frae the Westland gentlemen; and the peril being great, his friends were
feart for him, and gared him keep close a wee while. But he waxed
sorrowfu’ in spirit, and said: ‘What differ I from a dead man, except
that I eat and drink? To this time God has used my labours for the
instruction of others, and the disclosing of darkness; and now I lurk as
a man ashamed, and dare not show myself before men.’ Seeing that he
willed to preach, they answered him: ‘Maist comfortable were it unto us
to hear ye, but because we ken the danger wherein ye stand, we daurna
desire ye.’
“‘But daur you and others hear?’ said the brave preacher o’
righteousness,—‘then let my God provide for me as best pleaseth him.’
(It was aye _my_ God wi’ him.) Sae he preached in Leith, in Inveresk, in
Tranent; and God wrought for him, and blessed his ain Word. Amang thae
whase hearts he opened was Sir George Douglas, the Maister of Angus.
After the sermon at Inveresk he said publicly, ‘I ken that my lord
governor and my lord cardinal will hear I hae been at this preaching.
Say unto them that I will avow it, and that I will not only maintain the
doctrine I hae heard, but also the person o’ the preacher to the utmost
o’ my power.’
“But it was in Haddington he preached his last sermon. Ere he gaed to
the pulpit, they brought him a letter frae the Westland, to wit, that
the gentlemen couldna keep their tryst, or come to Edinburgh ava’;—maist
like they feared the Cardinal. He called unto him ane Sir John Knox”—
“Wha’s he?” asked Mary, little dreaming that the name so unfamiliar to
her ears was destined to become far more famous than that of her revered
pastor. Thus also perhaps was the word fulfilled, “One soweth and
another reapeth,”—if indeed this be worth noticing, now that for so many
years he that sowed and he that reaped have been rejoicing together in
their Saviour’s presence.
“He’s a guid priest,” said James Duncan, “wha was maister to Sir Hew
Douglas’s bairns. He has shown muckle love to Maister Wishart, waiting
on him wi’ a’ diligence, and blythe and proud to bear before him the
twa-handed sword his friends gared him tak’ wi’ him sin’ John Wigton—
“Well, I meant—I was saying he ca’ed for his friend Sir John Knox, and
tald him a’ his bitter grief at thae tidings. Nae thocht had he for
himsel, that they had led him into cruel peril, and then left him his
lane to dee; a’ his complaint was, that they were weary o’ God and his
cause.
“Then, after sermon,—whilk he ended thus, ‘Let these my last words as
concerning public preaching remain in your minds till God send you new
comfort,’—‘he took good night, as it were for ever, of all his
acquaintance.’ Sir John Knox begged sair to bide wi’ him, but he wadna.
He took frae him the twa-handed sword, and bade him gang his ways. Sir
John still entreating, he answered (aye thoughtfu’ as he was for a’body
but himsel), ‘Nay; go back to your bairns, and God bless you—_ane is
enough for a sacrifice_.’”
It was well for Scotland that the heart of George Wishart was thus “at
leisure from itself.” Had he granted Knox’s affectionate entreaty,
another name would probably have been added to the noble army of
martyrs, but the Reformation would have lacked its great leader, the one
man who could bend and sway the hearts of thousands. Little, however,
did the Duncans suspect all this; and very lightly would they have
esteemed the life of John Knox in comparison with _his_ over whose head
they saw the martyr’s crown suspended.
Jamie continued, “Sae he gaed wi’ the laird and a wheen ither gentlemen
to Ormistoun, whaur he was to sleep. It chanced they had to walk, by
reason o’ the muckle frost. After supper he talked happily wi’ his
friends o’ the death o’ God’s dear children; then, being weary, he said,
‘Methinks I desire earnestly to sleep. Will we sing a psalm?’ Near as he
lived to Christ, the lowliest words o’ penitence and prayer seemed best
to suit his heart’s need that nicht. Sae he waled the fifty-first, frae
the “gude and godly ballates,’—
“‘Have mercy on me now, good Lord,
After thy great mercy;
My sinful life does me remord,
Whilk sair has grievit thee;
But thy great grace has me restored,
Through grace to liberty:
To thy mercy with thee will I go.’
“Whilk being sung, he gaed to his chalmer, saying to his friends as they
parted, ‘God grant quiet rest.’ But na quiet rest was for God’s weary
servant that nicht. Ere midnicht Lord Bothwell, wi’ his men-at-arms, had
beset the house.[17] Sae soon as he kenned their purpose, Maister
Wishart said to the laird, ‘Open the gates, and let the blessed will of
my God be done.’ Sair grieved was the laird to do it, but it had to be.
Forbye, Lord Bothwell had gien express promise ‘that he should be safe,
and that it should pass the power o’ the Cardinal to do him scaith or
harm.’ And this said he owre again to Maister Wishart himsel, in the
presence o’ the lairds his friends. ‘Neither sall the Governor or the
Cardinal hae their will o’ ye, but I sall retain ye in my ain hands and
in my ain place, until that either I sall mak’ ye free, or else restore
ye in the same place where I receive ye.’
“And the lairds answered, ‘Gin ye do this, my lord, we will serve ye our
haill lives lang, wi’ a’ the men o’ Lothian wha profess Christ’s
evangel.’ Sae they a’ straik hands upon it, and made solemn promise as
in God’s presence.
“But sma’ thocht o’ God was in Lord Bothwell’s mind. Maist like he meant
fair at first; but the Cardinal gied muckle gowd, and the Queen’s
grace[18] gied guidly words, and sae—and sae—amang them a’ God’s servant
was bought and sold. First the Lord Governor had him in his keeping in
Edinburgh Castle. Wae’s me! but few days passed then, until he lichtly
gied him up into the hands o’ him that sought his life.”
“What say the Dundee folk to a’ this, Jamie?”
“It’s no that lang sin’ the tidings came for sure, that they had haled
him to St. Andrews. A’ the faithful make sair lamentation, but I needna
tell ye _that_, Mary” (and his own voice faltered)—“The cry is aye and
aye, ‘My father, my father, the chariot of Israel and the horsemen
thereof.’”
Mary shuddered. “Oh, Jamie, do ye no think what that minds me of? The
chariot—of _fire_!” The last word was rather breathed than spoken; yet
the loudest thunder-peal could not have sent such a thrill through both
those hearts.
James Duncan covered his face, and did not speak for a long time. At
last he said, “Young folk like Archie are weel nigh daft, because the
gentlemen and a’ the lave wha hae heard the blessed word o’ truth frae
his lips, sit still the noo in their quiet hames while the Cardinal pays
him for his message wi’—wi’ _that_. But they couldna save him. The haill
power o’ the realm is against them.”
“Archie, puir lad, ’ill be sair troubled.”
“Ay; but he’s had his arm broken.” What would at another time have been
considered a serious misfortune, now scarcely caused Mary a start. So
true it is that “a great grief kills all the rest.” She asked, however,
how it happened.
“A’ anent thae waefu’ tidings. There be some, of course, amang the
tounsfolk wha haud still by the Cardinal and the priests. The lads fecht
their forbears’ quarrels owre again, and whiles they dinna spare to use
waur weapons than their tongues. Our Archie wadna stint to gie as guid
as he got, ony gait. But it chanced he fell in wi’ a wheen silly
callants, wha had learned frae the priests to ca’ Maister Wishart a
heretic. He gied them back the word, that he was na heretic, but the
noblest man and the best Christian in a’ Scotland. That was unco weel;
but then he was sae far left to himsel, that he maun curse the bluidy
Cardinal in a loud voice, and pray God wad send him an evil end. Wi’
that somebody flang a muckle stane at him, and, lifting his arm to save
his head, he had it broken.”
“I’m wae for that, ilka gait,” said Mary. “Sic’ paivies couldna do God’s
servant ony guid.”
“True; but the broken arm willna do Archie muckle harm. It’s a kind o’
comfort to him to hae something to thole, and keeps him a bit quiet. I
gared Maister Wilson promise to send him here sae soon as he could.”
“Jamie,” said Mary after a pause, and rather hesitatingly, “will ye no
tak’ yer supper, man?”
Jamie drew forward towards the table, which had been spread by Mary with
such loving care. His eye rested on the little tokens of anxious thought
for his comfort, then wandered round the cheerful pleasant room, to
their store of treasured books—to the bright fireside—to the cot near it
where their infant slept. With a quick movement he turned away, and
veiled his face to hide the tears he could no longer restrain. “Oh,
Mary,” he said, “I’m fear’t it’s no sae cheery as this the nicht—in the
Sea Tower o’ St. Andrews!”
“But, Jamie, God can make the dark gruesome dungeon mair bright wi’ his
presence than the summer sky wi’ sunshine. Can we no trust our dear
father in Christ in the loving hands o’ the guid Maister he served sae
faithfu’? While yet he walked amang us God was his portion, why suld we
doot that even noo he can be his exceeding great reward?”
Mary Duncan’s words were true. No record indeed remains to us of the
month during which he lay, “straitly bound in irons,” in that “nook in
the bottom of the Sea Tower, a place where many of God’s children had
been imprisoned before,”[19]—unless the faith and love, shown so soon
afterwards by the captain of the castle, may be counted a record of work
done for Christ in that solemn interval. But it has well been said,
“There has been a joy in dungeons and on racks passing the joy of
harvest. A joy strange and solemn, mysterious even to its possessor. A
white stone dropped from that signet-ring, peace, which a dying Saviour
took from his own bosom, and bequeathed to those who endure the cross,
despising the shame.” If that white stone has been ever given (and most
assuredly it has), we may presume it was not withheld, in the hour of
loneliness and suffering, from Christ’s faithful soldier and servant,
George Wishart.
[Illustration]
XIII.
=“He giveth his beloved Sleep.”=
“I bless Thee for the quiet rest thy servant taketh now,
I bless Thee for his blessedness, and for his crownèd brow;
For every weary step he trod in faithful following Thee,
And for the good fight foughten well, and closed right valiantly.”
_Lays of the Kirk and Covenant._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
XIII.
=“He giveth his beloved Sleep.”=
Heavy was the cloud of sorrow that brooded now over the once cheerful
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.
George Wishart entered into rest at the comparatively early age of
thirty-three (as is supposed). His ministry, after his return to
Scotland, did not last more than two, or at the most, three years. But
both that ministry itself, and the martyrdom that crowned and
consecrated it, were very fruitful in results. In the strong words of
Burnet, “Not any one thing hastened forward the Reformation more than
this did.... And it was now so much opened by his preaching, and that
was so confirmed by his death, that the nation was generally possessed
by the love of it.”
It seems strange, however, that the story of one of Christ’s gentlest
servants should be so associated with a deed of blood and vengeance,
that the martyrdom of Wishart is seldom mentioned without recalling at
the same time the assassination of Cardinal Beaton. We may not account
for the gleam of prophetic vision that crossed the martyr’s spirit,
prompting those strange words, said to have been spoken from the midst
of the flames to that faithful friend who stood so near him that he was
himself actually injured by the fire, “Captain, God forgive yon man who
sits so proudly on that wall-head; but I know that he shall soon lie
there in greater shame than he now sits in glory.” But if life and death
have both their many mysteries, above all “dark with light of mysteries”
is the dim region between them. Who knows how God may then speak to the
soul? The real difficulty is, not that in that hour he was pleased to
reveal something to his servant, but that the thing revealed was not of
a nature to have given him joy or comfort.[24]
This much is certain, no one who has felt all the glory of that death,
so bright with courage and patience, and with the gentleness of Christ,
could regard the other death, in such dark sad contrast, with any
feelings but those of mournful pity. The scene was not without a sombre
grandeur of its own. The heart throbs yet at the solemn words of the
avenger of blood, spoken with his sword at the breast of his trembling
victim, “Repent thee of thy former wicked life, but especially of the
blood of that notable instrument of God, Master George Wishart, which
albeit the fire consumed before men, yet cries for vengeance upon thee,
and we are sent from God to avenge it. For here, before God, I protest
that neither the hatred of thy person, nor the love of thy riches, nor
the fear of any trouble thou couldst have done to me in particular,
moved or moves me to strike thee, but only because thou art an obstinate
enemy of Christ Jesus and his holy evangel.” And still we seem to hear
the echo of that “dismal cry, full of eternity’s despair,” with which
the guilty spirit passed.—“All is gone!” The retribution was complete.
That the townspeople might believe their Cardinal was really dead, the
assassins flung his body, with scorn and insult, upon that very “fore
tower” from which he beheld the martyr’s sufferings.
Perhaps other humble Christians may have felt as the Duncans did when
the news of this event reached the quiet home of Dunsinnane Brae. Archie
indeed could not help exclaiming, “‘Hell frae beneath is moved for thee
at thy coming, it stirreth up the dead for thee.’ Eh, and willna Herod,
and Pontius Pilate, and a’ the wicked heathen kings be blythe to see him
there?”
But James Duncan said, “Whisht, callant. It’s no for us to tak’ sic’
awfu’ words in our mouths. Nae mair than it was for _them_ to tak’ at
their ain hands that vengeance, of the whilk God has said, ‘It is mine.’
But Mary, woman, sure ye’re no greeting for him?”
“No for the Cardinal, Jamie. But for ane wha, had he been alive the day,
wadna hae let them touch a hair o’ his head. I amaist think,” added
Mary, her tears falling faster, “I amaist think he’d hae said, as he did
ainst before, ‘_He that troubles him troubles me._’”
“But, ye ken, it was to avenge him they did it, Mary.”
“They suld hae left that to the Lord he loved. His cause was unco safe
in his guid hand. Wae’s me! what gared them touch it ava’?”
And thus, without unseemly triumph or exultation, they left the cruel
Cardinal to the just award of his great Judge. They had once fought the
battle with anger and hatred, and having, by God’s grace, gained the
victory, it had not to be fought over again.
The quiet current of their own lives flowed on undisturbed by any
striking event. James Duncan did for his child what other Christian
laymen were at that time obliged to do for theirs. He baptized it
himself, in the name of the Father, Son, and Spirit, commending it to
the tender care of the Good Shepherd, and praying him earnestly to
suffer this little one to come unto him. And his prayer was heard.
George Duncan feared the God of his father from his youth upwards. There
rested indeed upon all the family that blessing of the Lord which maketh
rich, and he addeth no sorrow with it. James and Mary saw their
children’s children, and peace upon the Israel of their native land,
God’s faithful “congregation” in Scotland.
The minister’s martyr death was the message God sent home to Archie’s
young ardent soul. He lived to realise his boyish dream; for
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
He became himself a preacher of the gospel, a good steward of the
manifold grace of God. When, twelve years afterwards, his native town of
Dundee “began to erect the face of a publick churche reformed, in the
which the Worde was openlie preached, and Christ’s Sacramentis trewlie
ministrat,” he was amongst those “zealous men who did exhort their
brethren according to the gifts and graces granted unto them.” Thus the
lips silenced by fire at St. Andrews spoke on still, as well in the
living burning words which other lips caught up from theirs, as in the
voiceless eloquence of thousands of holy lives, extending and
transmitting their influence for good in wider and ever wider circles of
blessing.
Two years after the establishment of the Reformation in Dundee, the
faith for which George Wishart died became the recognised faith of
Scotland. “Nor was this long in doing, nor did many suffer after” him;
only two indeed—Adam Wallace, and brave old Walter Mill—were privileged
to lay down their lives at the stake, before “the kingdom of God
evidently appeared and triumphed in despite of Satan.”
“Round went the message, over rock and plain,
Like burning words from lips of prophet old;
Priest, lord, and king, opposed the voice in vain,—
It would not be controlled.
“Wide o’er the land went forth the new-born day,
Brightening alike the cot, the hall, the throne;
Long years of darkness vanish at its ray,
Ages of night have gone.
“The Christ has come, the breaker of all chains,
The giver of the heavenly liberty.
Peace, light, and freedom, to these hills and plains,—
The land—the land is free!”
And after three centuries, still the land is free, and peace and light
have their habitation there. Happy Scotland, land of Schools and Bibles,
land of God-fearing men and women! As we climb thy glorious hills, or
wander over thy peaceful plains, so rich in all that can please the eye
or stir the fancy, and hear the voice of prayer and praise arise from
hall and cottage, and behold the Sabbath esteemed a delight, the holy of
the Lord, honourable—there floats back upon the ear, like sweet music
from the distance, the echo of those words spoken so long ago by one of
thy noblest martyr sons,—
“THIS REALM SHALL BE ILLUMINED WITH THE LIGHT OF CHRIST’S EVANGEL, AS
CLEARLY AS ANY REALM EVER WAS SINCE THE DAYS OF THE APOSTLES. GOD’S
HOUSE SHALL BE BUILT IN IT; YEA, IT SHALL NOT LACK THE VERY COPESTONE.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE PRIOR]
[Illustration]
I.
=Tithing the Fish.=
“The boatie rows, the boatie rows,
The boatie rows fu’ weel;
And muckle luck attend the boat,
The merlin, and the creel.”
_Old Scotch Song._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
I.
=Tithing the Fish.=
“Tak’ guid counsel when ye get it, man,” said the Laird of Lauriston to
his brother David, who was pacing up and down the hall of Lauriston
Castle in a state of considerable excitement.
“Thole it, Davie, thole it—‘He that tholes overcomes.’ Forbye, ye suld
ken it’s ill fechting wi’ kirkmen.”
“Ay,” returned David Stratton between his teeth, “’ill fechting wi’
them, but waur tholing them. A pack o’ greedy loons they be, ilka ane o’
them, bishop, priest, monk, and friar; taking the bread frae the mouths
o’ widows and fatherless bairns to keep their ainsels in pride and
luxury, and a’ manner o’ sin. What wi’ the best cow, and the uppermost
cloth, and the teind o’ meal and maut, and a’ the lave, were we no
shaved close enoo’, but they maun come speiring after the vera fish o’
the sea, that we get by the guid help o’ God and the hard toil o’ our
ain hands? Say what ye may, brither, neither Prior Patrick Hepburn nor
Maister Robert Lawson sall hae the tenth fish o’ me.” And he confirmed
his declaration by an oath.
David Stratton was a man whom either priest or layman, in those stormy
days, might have preferred having as a friend than as a foe. Every
movement of his powerful well-knit frame, every glance of his keen blue
eye, bespoke energy and decision of character. A strong will and a brave
heart, a good share of common sense, and an iron constitution, had
hitherto enabled him, in whatever he undertook, to bear down opposition,
and to carry out his purposes with a high hand. Still he had a rough but
real sense of justice that might have disposed him to yield good
humouredly to a fair demand. It only quickened his opposition to one
that he considered obviously unjust and oppressive.
His case was this. He had shrewdly invested part of his moderate
resources (a younger brother’s portion) in the purchase of a
fishing-boat, which brought him in a considerable profit. Hearing of
this, the Prior of St. Andrews demanded the tithe of his gains,
employing as his agent in the business, Robert Lawson, vicar of
Ecclescreig.
The Laird of Lauriston, who did not equal his brother in courage and
determination, urged compliance with the demand; but David, although
well content to leave his soul, with all its weighty interests, to the
management of the kirkmen, had no disposition to permit their meddlesome
interference with his temporal possessions.
Lauriston therefore remonstrated in vain, and he did so in the
hesitating tone of one who foresees his remonstrance will be in vain.
“Gie him the teind, Davie, that ye may keep the nine siccar.”
“Haud yer clavers! I’ll keep the nine siccar, and nae thanks to you or
him.”
“Douce, man, douce. Do ye no ken the holy prior may curse ye wi’ the
muckle curse, and aiblins yer net ’ill break, or your boat ’ill gae down
in the sea, or Hugh Peters, yer best fisherman, that ye set sic’ store
by, ’ill fall frae the mast?”
For a moment David stared at his brother in surprise, then he burst into
a loud fit of laughter.
“The _holy_ prior! Heerd a man ever the like? Ye’ve been just taking a
willy-waucht o’ yer guid French wine, or ye wadna talk sic’ fooleries.
What wad gar me be fear’t for a kirkman’s curse, that aebody wha likes
may buy for a plack[25] ony day? Forbye, the blessed saints hae got mair
to do than to tak’ tent o’ Patrick Hepburn, when it’s his pleasure to
curse better men than himsel.”
“Weel, a wilfu’ man maun gang his gait. Gin it were but for my sake,
though, ye might speak him fair. Forbye that, ye’re a daft lad to be
making faes for yersel when it’s _friends_ ye suld be speiring after.
An’ ye want to win favour wi’ the Lindsays it’s ill fechting wi’ the
Hepburns, for they’re fast friends the noo.”
David threw himself into the nearest seat, and remained silent for some
minutes, during which a change passed gradually over his face, softening
its hard and keen expression. At last he said, “Alison Lindsay’s a brave
lass, and likes a man wi’ a will o’ his ain.”
“There be ways enoo’ to show thy will, but meddling wi’ the priests.”
“I canna thole to hae the gear minished when I’m gathering it for her,”
said David slowly, and in an altered tone.
“Hoot awa, man! There’ll be gear enoo’. I’ve nae but ane son”—
David stretched out his sinewy arm with a forbidding gesture. “Na, na,
David Stratton ’ill never sorn upon ony, be it his ain brither ten times
owre. Forbye,” he added with a laugh, “Maister Geordie ’ill need a’ the
gear ye can win for him, for I wad ye a plack it’s na muckle he’ll win
for himsel, wi’ his Latin and his logic, and a’ his ither fooleries,
that hae never filled aebody’s mouth, sae far’s I ken, wi’ onything
better than idle clavers.”
Lauriston looked annoyed, but controlled himself. “Atweel, David,” he
said, “we’re no like to agree upon _that_. But never heed the gear.
Alison’s father’ll gie her a braw tocher, never fear. She’s my wife’s
ain cousin, and forbye that, she’s a guid lass and a bonnie, sae I wish
thee guid luck wi’ her.”
A very perceptible flush mounted to David’s bronzed cheek. Not choosing
apparently to talk more of the matter, he turned his attention to the
“good French wine” on the table, of which he drank a cup. Then he said
with a smile, “Weel, Andrew, I’ll no stan’ against guid counsel. The
prior may tak’ his teind, I’se no hinder him.”
Lauriston looked keenly at his brother. He spoke fairly enough, but
there was a light in his eye, and a smile lurking about the corners of
his mouth, not pleasing in the sight of the prudent and peaceable laird.
But at that moment the young Master of Lauriston entered the room, his
usually open countenance wearing an expression of considerable
impatience and vexation. His father and uncle had in fact delegated to
him the very uncongenial task of entertaining the vicar of Ecclescreig,
whilst they deliberated upon the demand of which he was the bearer; and
the youth was both wearied and disgusted with his companion. Nor was he
perhaps too willing to sacrifice his own convenience to that of his
uncle David, whom he could not help regarding with the kind of contempt
a scholar usually entertains for the _wilfully_ ignorant. And David
repaid his contempt with interest, though upon different grounds. “He
despysed all reading, chiefly of those things that are godly;” he
regarded every scholar as a useless, effeminate character, but most of
all a scholar who, like George Stratton, had “drunk of St. Leonard’s
Well,”[26] and was even suspected of carrying about his person, for
private perusal, a copy of Tyndale’s New Testament. At the same time,
with considerable inconsistency, he also despised the clergy for their
shameful ignorance and their abandoned lives.
“Uncle,” said George, “yon priest wad needs be gone. I pray you stay him
not, but give him an answer straightway, yea or nay.”
“An answer, lad? That I will, and a better, I wad ye, than ye’d find in
yer books frae this to Yule.” And he rose to go.
“Tak’ tent,” said Lauriston, in a warning voice. “I jalouse ye’ll be
playing some of your tricks upon the priest.”
“I?” said Stratton, with a droll look of assumed simplicity, “what for
suld I play tricks upon Maister Robert? I’d as soon play them upon my
lord the prior himsel (which was probably quite true). Ye ken my boat
lies in the creek, twa mile and a bittock frae this. I’ll just ride sae
far wi’ the vicar, and he sall hear me tell my men to reserve my lord’s
teinds at their peril. Gin that’ll no content him, ’twill be an ill
case.”
With this assurance Lauriston was obliged to be satisfied; and a few
minutes later saw the energetic David Stratton and Master Robert Lawson
on their way together to the little harbour.
The sound of their master’s well-known whistle summoned the fishermen,
who were engaged in preparing their evening meal on board the little
vessel. They were a rough, wild-looking group; but they seemed warmly
attached to “Maister Davie,” who had often shared their toils and
dangers.
He addressed himself particularly to the two who stood foremost amongst
them: “Hark ye, my lads. The Prior o’ St. Andrews hath sent this holy
man unto me, speiring after the teind pairt o’ our fish. And we maun be
guid Christians, and gie the kirk her dues, ye ken. Sae I command ye,
gin ye be my true men, of a’ the fish ye tak’ frae this day
for’ard—_throw the teind pairt back into the sea_!” The men listened to
the first part of this address with ill-concealed annoyance and dislike.
But when, in conclusion, their master gave his singular command, the
expression of their countenances changed, first into surprise and
wonder, then into undisguised satisfaction. “Ay, ay, maister!” shouted
the two foremost heartily; and their shout was echoed by all the group,
from gray-haired Hugh Peters to the brace of bare-legged, shock-headed
boys, who stood at a respectful distance staring at the master and his
unwonted companion the priest.
To whom, as soon as the noise had subsided, Master David turned: “Gang
yer ways, sir, and tell my lord the prior that he may _come and tak’ his
teind frae the place whaur I get my stock_.”
To judge by their continued cheers and laughter, the joke was better
relished by the fishermen than it was by the priest. “That’s a dour
message, Maister David,” said he, “and ill to carry to a proud and
scornful man like my lord the prior.”
“Nae ither sall ye get frae me,” answered David briefly; and with a
slight and rather contemptuous salute, he turned his horse’s head and
rode quickly back to Lauriston.
Far indeed was he then from foreseeing all the sorrow his rude and
thoughtless jest was destined to occasion. Yet out of that sorrow were
to spring forth richer and purer blessings than as yet he could even
conceive. But for the covetous demand of the prior of St. Andrews, and
the reckless defiance it provoked, David Stratton would probably have
lived and died without God in the world. His fishing, his farm, his
field-sports, his family, would have engrossed his thoughts, and (as far
as these things can do it) have filled his heart. But He who is
“wonderful in counsel and excellent in working” was leading the blind by
a way that he knew not, which was yet for him “the right way, that he
might go unto a city of habitation.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
II.
=The Excommunication.=
“There is a forest where the din
Of iron branches sounds!
A mighty river roars between,
And whosoever looks therein
Sees the heavens all black with sin,—
Sees not its depths nor bounds.”
LONGFELLOW
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
II.
=The Excommunication.=
Whilst Patrick Hepburn, Prior of St. Andrews, was disputing about his
“teindis” with David Stratton, the corrupt hierarchy, of which he was a
most worthy member, was fast filling up the measure of its iniquity.
What that iniquity was—how deep, how dark, how terrible—may still be
read in the pages of contemporary history. But the heart turns sickening
from the record, feeling it “a vexation only to understand the report,”
a pain and a grief even to _know_ what these men dared to do “in the
face of the sun and the eye of light.”
Some, indeed, there were, who amidst all that unutterable pollution yet
“walked with Christ in white garments stainless.” For their names and
their memories we thank God; and none the less because such names have
oftenest come down to us surrounded by a mournful halo of martyr glory.
Strange to say, it is usually those stories that end with stake and
gibbet to which the student turns with relief and pleasure, and over
which he lingers gladly. Bright to the thoughtful eye is the dungeon’s
midnight gloom; dark with a horror of great darkness are the abodes of
pomp and luxury, where cardinal, priest, and bishop held ungodly
revelry.
For they held revelry, as those who neither feared God nor regarded man.
Like the nobles at Belshazzar’s feast, they drank wine, and praised
their gods of silver and gods of gold; they profaned to every vile,
degrading use “the vessels of the sanctuary,” those hallowed names and
symbols which Rome has borrowed, or rather stolen, from the true temple
of the Lord. But they saw not the writing of the man’s hand upon the
wall, they knew not that even then they were weighed in the balances and
found wanting, and that God had numbered their kingdom, and finished it.
Already, at the period of which we write, the light of the glorious
gospel of Christ was beginning to shine upon Scotland. Five years
before[27] young Patrick Hamilton, the protomartyr of the Scottish
Reformation, sealed his testimony at St. Andrews, and “the reek of his
burning infected all that it did blow upon.” Many copies of Tyndale’s
New Testament had found their way into the country, chiefly through the
instrumentality of the merchants of the sea-port towns; and these were
eagerly read by all classes of the people. Some of the principal
teachers at the university of St. Andrews were strongly inclined to the
reformed doctrines, and numbers of the young men who were educated there
had imbibed their opinions.
But to return to the true history of David Stratton. For a short time
after his bold message to the Prior of St. Andrews, all went on
prosperously with him. His land brought forth abundantly, his nets
gathered rich spoils from the sea. What was better still, Alison Lindsay
was disposed to look favourably on his suit; nor did her relatives, at
this time, seem to regard him with an unfriendly eye. But while he
“blessed his soul,” and promised himself years of peace and plenty, a
dark and threatening cloud had gathered unnoticed, and was about to
burst over his head.
The proud and covetous Prior of St. Andrews answered his rude taunt with
the thunders of a Romish excommunication. It might have been thought,
even by zealous Romanists, that the punishment exceeded the offence; and
that those thunders might better have been reserved for more important
occasions, and more desperate and wilful offenders. “For, indeed, the
man had _no_ religion,” as we are gravely told of another person, by way
of a sufficient reason for his full and triumphant acquittal from the
charge of heresy. It is light that darkness hates, and light alone:
Rome’s quarrel is not with ignorance and irreligion; though these may
sometimes provoke her bitter anger, when they lay their hands upon some
of her cherished interests. This was just what David Stratton had done:
striking blindly and recklessly, under the influence of momentary
irritation, he had chanced to strike a very tender part. “One that
shoulde have said that no tithes shoulde be payed” was a dangerous
member of society in the eyes of those who by means of these very
“teindis and rentis,” extracted from the fears or the superstitions of
the laity, were clothed in purple and fine linen, and fared sumptuously
every day.
It is not easy for us to understand what David Stratton felt when he
found himself cursed with bell, book, and candle, and “delivered into
the deville’s handes.” The lion’s roar has lost its terrors for us, who
have only seen him caged and powerless; it was very different with the
men who knew that the roar was but the prelude to the crouch and spring
of the deadly destroyer.
But apart from the temporal consequences of excommunication, which were
likely to be dreadful enough, other troubles, born of superstition,
could not fail to arise in the soul of the excommunicated. Every man who
is not religious in the highest sense of the word, must be in some way
or other superstitious. For though many men can dispense with a creed,
every man must of necessity have a faith; a belief in something of which
his senses cannot take cognizance, in some power greater than his own,
yet not without its influence upon his being. David Stratton had thrust
this belief away into the darkest corner of his soul—had smothered it
with the pursuits, the interests, the pleasures of life—had almost
become insensible to its existence. But the thunder of excommunication
awakened it within him, and every superstitious fear or fancy he had
felt or known since childhood nourished and gave it strength. Strange
things began to haunt and torture him; memories of warnings from the
lips of a dead mother; frightful stories of hell and purgatory from the
friars’ sermons he had occasionally listened to; legends of the terrible
punishments inflicted on those who despised holy Kirk, how their bodies
could not rest in their graves, nor their souls find relief from
anguish; all these mingled with recollections of his own sins since last
he had confessed, and indeed during his whole life—a very miscellaneous
catalogue, comprising such items as neglecting to hear mass, and running
some one through with his whinger in a drunken brawl. But on all these
points he was profoundly silent, covering a heart that ached and
trembled in secret by a dauntless, or rather a defiant bearing. He paid
the prior his Latin curses back with interest in good plain Saxon; and
he boasted everywhere that he “wadna gie a brass bodle for a’ his
cursing.”
He would, however, have given half his worldly possessions with a
cheerful heart to be well clear of the whole business, when he learned
in what light it was regarded by Alison Lindsay and by her relatives. A
cold message from her father, declining a proffered visit, stung him to
the quick, especially as it was hinted that her own wishes on the
subject entirely coincided with those of her family. About the same
time, an intimation reached him from another quarter, that his open
contempt of the sentence of excommunication was considered to savour of
heresy, and might probably involve him in temporal pains and penalties.
Upon hearing this, he went to Lauriston to seek his brother’s counsel
and countenance. The consolations the Laird administered to his wounded
feelings were of a very common, but very unsatisfactory kind. “This came
of rejecting good counsel—he had told him beforehand exactly what would
happen.” Such was the substance of Lauriston’s exhortations; nor was it
to be wondered at that under the circumstances he should look coldly on
his imprudent brother. Naturally both shrewd and timid, he was keenly
alive to the peril David incurred in provoking a prosecution for heresy,
and no less sensible that the danger would not be confined to his own
person, since the orthodoxy of other members of the family was by no
means above suspicion. But reasonable as his displeasure may have been,
David was not prepared to brook its expression. His anger was easily
kindled, and an open quarrel between the brothers, the first since their
childhood, followed. David at last strode out from the halls of
Lauriston with flushed cheek and burning brow, protesting that nothing
would induce him to remain, even for one single night, beneath the roof
of a brother who used him so unworthily. He had come on horseback, and
with a mounted servant, but he departed alone and on foot, leaving
orders at the porter’s lodge for his attendant to follow him next day to
his own dwelling with the horses.
It was late; but the month was August, and the long twilight lingered
still. Mechanically David went on, his mind too busy with its own bitter
thoughts, to take note of anything around him. The kirkmen, the
Lindsays, his brother, all were alike his enemies; and had either united
together for his ruin, or were determined to abandon him to those who
had. Every man’s hand was against him; but if he must die, he would die
hard. He would give them all trouble enough before he had done with
them, from Patrick Hepburn himself, villain that he was (and David
clenched his hand), to Alison Lindsay’s scapegrace brother, who had
delivered that bitter message with such a mocking smile. He wondered
what had kept him from giving the lad a taste of his whinger in return,
save indeed that he was but a “hafflins callant,” and slight and
pale-faced like “Maister Geordie,—wha’ll be owre blythe to ken a plain
man like me can make a muckle fool o’ himsel as weel as a body wha has
been driven daft wi’ logic, and Latin, and sic’.” He was just about to
retract the acknowledgment of his folly, when feeling a hand laid on his
shoulder, he turned quickly round, and at the same moment placed his own
on his sword, a very natural impulse in those rough uncertain times.
He was a good deal surprised to see the person who had just occupied his
thoughts, his nephew George. “I a’maist took ye for a robber, lad,” he
said, adding an expression that need not be chronicled. “Gang hame to
yer bed, and dinna stop folk at midnight on the king’s highway.” He
spoke however, all things considered, with tolerable good humour; for he
remembered that he had no personal quarrel with George, who had not even
been present during his stormy altercation with the Laird.
“The Laird of Lauriston’s brother,” answered the young scholar, “suld
not be found on the king’s highway at midnight within three mile of
Lauriston Castle.”
“That’s the Laird o’ Lauriston’s ain doing.”
“Not with his will.” And then the youth exerted himself to the utmost to
act the part of peace-maker. As might be guessed, his mission was not
exactly of his own choosing. His gentle mother, the Lady Isabel, had
been much distressed by the quarrel between the Laird and his brother.
This was not only because she liked David, and did justice to the
genuine qualities that lay beneath his rough exterior, but because she
was warmly interested in her young cousin Alison, and had set her heart
on the prosperous termination of a suit which, from the beginning, she
had furthered in every way in her power. No sooner, therefore, had she
heard the heavy tramp of David’s retreating footsteps, than she hastened
to her son, who was reading in his own chamber, and entreated him to
follow his uncle and prevent, if possible, the open and perhaps deadly
rupture that must ensue if he quitted Lauriston at such an hour and in
such a way. George hesitated, pleading the dislike and contempt with
which his uncle evidently regarded him. But his mother’s earnestness
overcame his reluctance, and he eventually consented to undertake the
difficult and distasteful task.
Though for some time his explanations and remonstrances seemed
unavailing, yet he was not discouraged, as he drew a favourable augury
from the fact that his uncle was willing to hear him patiently to the
end, which was much more than he expected at first.
At length he took the last arrow out of his quiver, and discharged it
with due care and deliberation. “His mother,” he said, “greatly
regretted his uncle’s departure, having a few days agone received a
letter from a gentlewoman, her friend or cousin, concerning which she
desired to hold purpose with Maister David.” Then, wisely changing the
subject, he added, “Gif ye depart thus, uncle, it will be a tale for all
the country side, that the Laird and his brother have quarrelled. But
come home with me, and bide till the morning breaks, and servants and
horses will haud themselves ready to do yer pleasure. So shall ye go,
gif ye maun go, as Stratton of Stratton suld frae the halls of Stratton
of Lauriston.”
“Atweel—aiblins—for the honour o’ the family,” said David, slowly
turning; “but I’ll keep my word, and no see Andrew’s face again.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
III.
=The First Prayer.=
“Oh, that I knew where I might find Him!”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
III.
=The First Prayer.=
When George Stratton returned with David to the Castle, he found that
his parents had already retired to rest. This was only what he expected
and wished; he therefore himself cheerfully accompanied his uncle to the
chamber which had been prepared for him; where he waited upon him with a
respect and attention that evidenced something more than the mere desire
to discharge the duties of hospitality towards a guest beneath his
father’s roof, and that guest his father’s brother. We usually conceive
a liking for any one for whom we exert ourselves to do a kindness; and
in this way, perhaps, it happened that George was disposed to regard his
uncle’s character from a more favourable point of view that night than
he had ever done before. Besides, the attitude of fearless independence
which David had assumed was not entirely without its charms in his eyes,
little as he found to admire in the feelings that had, in the first
instance, inspired his resistance to the prior’s covetous demand.
During their walk they had scarcely interchanged a word, but as they
stood together before parting for the night, David remarked, with a
laugh: “I doot but yon Sir William, the Capellan, ’ill come here sae
soon as I’m awa’, and sprinkle the chalmer[28] wi’ holy water, for fear
I might chance to leave the tail o’ the prior’s curse behind me.”
George laughed also as he answered, “Sir William maun just bide yer
presence, as he has to bide many a thing he likes scarce as weel.”
“Ye’re daffing, lad. I thocht ye were a’ good Christians.”
“But we’re not dumb; an’ if a chance word against the priests is to earn
a man the name of heretic, there’ll be mair in it than you, uncle.”
David turned, and gave George the benefit of one of the keenest glances
of his keen blue eyes. Had the lad more in him than he had ever given
him credit for? Was he, in spite of his “book lear,” neither coward nor
fool? Resolved at least to test him a little further, he told him his
opinion of the kirkmen in general, and of Patrick Hepburn in particular,
using language much too plain and forcible to be transferred to these
pages.
George listened in silence to his angry diatribe; and, when he had
finished, allowed a few moments to elapse before he attempted an answer.
Then he said, in tones unusually quiet and gentle, “When our blessed
Lord was here on earth, he said many things of the wicked priests and
Pharisees of his time, that to my thinking are owre true yet.”
“Ay, did he?” asked David, with a look of interest. He had the vaguest
possible ideas of the time of which his nephew spoke, and we fear we may
add, of the Person whom he named with such reverence; but he was glad to
hear that any one had told hard truths of “thae greedy loons, the
priests.”
“Wad ye like to hear what he said?” continued George.
“Unco weel,” answered David, eagerly enough.
George drew his New Testament from the sleeve of his doublet, opened it
at the 23rd of St. Matthew, and began to read. “Then spake Jesus to the
multitude, and to his disciples, saying, The scribes and Pharisees sit
in Moses’ seat: all therefore whatsoever they bid you observe, that
observe and do.”
“Eh, but that’s nae guid ava’,” interrupted David angrily.
“Bide a wee, uncle, and have patience,” said the reader, and he went on:
“But do not ye after their works, for they say and do not.”
David was all attention now, nor did he again interrupt until George
came to the words, “Ye devour widows’ houses, and for a pretence make
long prayers, therefore ye shall receive the greater damnation,” when he
could no longer contain his delight,—“Yon’s the brawest sermon I hae
heard in a’ my life,” he cried; “it’s a’ true, but the lang prayers. Our
priests dinna fash theirsels owre muckle wi’ _them_, I’m thinking.”
George was too intent upon another and very different object to waste
the precious moments in discussing this point; though he certainly
thought that the frequent masses, and many of the other services of the
Church, might be not inaptly described as “long prayers made for a
pretence.” He read on, therefore, without note or comment, to the close
of the chapter.
“Is that a’?” asked David, quickly. “Does he tell us naething o’ the
proud bishops and priors, and a’ the lave?—but aiblins they werena sae
bad in those times as they be the noo.”
“They did not use the same names to call them by,” said George; “but ye
see, uncle, they were bad enough, and to spare.”
“Did they curse honest folk, and drive them frae the kirk, naebut for
standing on their right, and no letting theirsels be fleeced like sae
mony puir feckless bits of sheep? and what did the Saint—I mean our
blessed Lord (and he crossed himself)—say to sic cantrips?”
“They did worse than all that, uncle; they cursed good and honest men,
cast them out of the kirk, ay and killed them an they could, gif they
dared to confess that Jesus was the Christ, or to say they believed in
him,”—and a dark shadow passed across young Lauriston’s face. Perhaps he
was thinking of a scene he had witnessed, not so many months before, at
St. Andrews,—the death by fire of “ane Henry Forrest, a young man born
in Linlithgow,” “for none other cause but because he had ane New
Testament in Englis,” and that he constantly affirmed “that Maister
Patrick Hamilton was a martyr, and that his articles were true, and not
hereticall.”
But he only said, “I can give you, from my book, a true history of one
they cast out.” And then he half read, half repeated, the story of the
man blind from his birth, whose eyes the Saviour opened, and who
afterwards confessed his name so boldly before the Pharisees.
David Stratton did not, by word or sign, evidence either interest or
impatience. He stood still, leaning against the casement, and looking
out upon the moonlit castle-yard, and the pasture-lands beyond, with
rows of stately trees. Ever afterwards with that scene was associated in
his mind the first hearing of those marvellous words, “I am the light of
the world,” and the vague awe, and wonder, and sense of mystery they
awoke within him.
At last George read, “Thou wast altogether born in sins, and dost thou
teach us? and they cast him out.”
“_That’s just like me_,” said David emphatically, turning towards him
again. “Na, na,” he added, in a lower voice, “they cast _him_ out
because he told them the truth anent our Lord’s wonderfu’ wark,—_I’ve_
nae done like that.”
George went on quietly: “Jesus heard that they had excommunicate him;
and as soon as he had found him, he said unto him, Dost thou believe on
the Son of God? He answered and said, And who is it, Lord, that I might
believe on him? And Jesus said unto him, Thou hast both seen him, and he
it is that talketh with thee. And he said, Lord, I believe. And
worshipped him.”[29] Then, without a word of comment, he closed the book
and restored it to its hiding-place.
David’s eyes followed it wistfully. “It’s a braw thing ye hae got book
lear, Geordie,” he said.
George was naturally not displeased at this unwonted admission on his
uncle’s part. “And there’s no book like this book,” he answered; “God’s
ain hand has written every line and letter in it.”
“But can ye mak’ the meaning out, callant? For I misdoot that’s unco
hard.”
“Whiles,” said the youth humbly; “and I pray God day by day to teach me
more and better. But the hour is late, and your foot is aye early in the
stirrup, uncle, so that I should not tarry.”
Good-nights were then exchanged, and without further conversation George
left the room.
David Stratton stood long at the lancet window—how long he never knew.
Strange new thoughts filled his mind, and for the first time for weeks
even the Prior of St. Andrews and the Vicar of Ecclescreig were
forgotten. For he did not, as might be imagined, amuse and gratify
himself by applying the fiery denunciations he had just heard to these
his personal enemies. They had indeed impressed and delighted him at the
time; but what he afterwards heard almost swept them from his memory.
Unaccustomed to abstract thought, though full of practical shrewdness, a
mere exposition of doctrine would perhaps hardly have left a clearer
impression on him, when delivered in his native tongue, than if it had
been couched in Latin; but his mind was quick to grasp and strong to
retain the circumstances of a story. Nor did he only retain them
passively: he was accustomed to reflect, after a fashion, upon his own
doings and those of other men; and to his imagination, the blind man of
the gospel was as real, and not more distant, than if he had lived or
was living then in Edinburgh or St. Andrews. For what did he know or
care about those fifteen long weary centuries that lay between? The
restoration of sight to the blind—that was very wonderful, to be sure.
He knew a blind man, who used to sit at the door of St. Mary’s Abbey
Kirk in Dundee, and to whom he had many a time given an alms as he
passed. He wondered what would old Simon think if some one were to come
one day and open _his_ eyes. And who was that _some one_ whose word,
whose touch, had such power? It was Jesus, the Son of God. How good it
was of him to do it—and to do it for a poor unknown man, a blind beggar,
no better than old Simon Hackett! And, moreover, he did not send one of
the holy apostles to him, though that would have been marvellously kind
and condescending—he did much more. He himself spoke to him, and touched
him.
Here it will be observed that the goodness of the act impressed David
far more than its greatness. There was a reason for this. It is the
tendency of all spurious imitations to lower the value of the thing
imitated in the popular mind. Thus, Rome’s lying legends had, as it
were, cheapened miracles in the eyes of men. They were accustomed to
hear, and to believe, stories of wonderful works, which, as mere
exhibitions of superhuman _power_, apart from wisdom or goodness, are to
the calm and dignified narratives of the gospel as the blaze of an
illuminated city to the pale and distant, but enduring, glories of the
starry heavens. A hundred blind men, or a thousand, restored to sight,
would not have astonished David beyond measure, or too sorely taxed his
faith. But the personal human kindness with which that awful Being, the
Son of God (of whom, when he thought at all, he thought with vague
terror as the Judge of mankind), stooped to deal with this one poor
blind man, surprised and touched him deeply. Little wonder, he thought,
that the man spoke up so bravely before the Pharisees (David called them
the _Bishops_) to bear witness to his goodness! And very like them to
cast him out for it!
But how did the poor man feel when he found himself an outcast, cursed
by the kirkmen, abandoned by all his friends, and in danger of worse
harm to follow, belike both to soul and body? Probably he was sore
perplexed and terrified. Ay, but then “Jesus found him.” Found him, was
it, or met him—which did Geordie say? _Found him_; he was sure of it.
“It wasna that he forgathered wi’ him by chance in the highway, but he
_speered after_ him, for he heard that they had excommunicated him.” And
he spoke to him so gently and kindly, and gave him, no doubt, a short
and clean shrift from all his sins, better than all the bishops in that
country could do. Would, oh would that he were alive now! However
distant he might be, David Stratton would go to him, were it twice as
far as the shrine of St. James of Compostella—twice as far even as that
Hierusalem whither Friar Scott had travelled lately—he cared not. Had he
to go the whole “gait” on foot, he cared not, if so be that at the end
he might throw himself at the feet of that great and good One, and say
to him, “Lord, I too am cast out of the Kirk by these wicked, covetous
bishops, wilt thou not let me confess my sins to thee, and give me thy
pardon?”
But the Lord Jesus was not to be found at Compostella, nor yet in
Hierusalem—he knew that. It would be a good thing, doubtless, for a man
to pray in these holy places, or to bring back relics of wonderful
virtue, as Friar Scott had done—fragments of stone from the pillar to
which Christ was bound, and such like; but to meet our Lord himself
personally, and to speak with him, that was another matter clearly.
Friar Scott, with all his bragging, had never bragged of _that_; nor
would he have believed him if he had. Yet nothing less would do for him,
in his present sore distress and difficulty—for such he now confessed it
to be. And then he remembered that the Lord was not on earth at all, in
any place—he was in heaven, at God’s right hand. Could he not pray to
him there?
This was the first glimmering perception of the real purpose and meaning
of prayer that dawned upon the mind of David Stratton. Hitherto he had
always thought of it as a meritorious action, by means of which good
things might be obtained and evil ones averted, through the assistance
and mediation of the Virgin and the saints, to whom by far the greater
part of the prayers he knew were addressed. Now he began to think it
might possibly be a way of communication between this world and the
other, by which he might actually succeed in conveying a request about
which he was very much in earnest to the ear of the great Son of God
himself.
His prayer, if prayer it may be called, was couched in words like these:
“Lord, they hae cast me out. I wad find thee an’ I could; but sin’ I
canna do that, I ask thee to find me. And gie me, thysel, shrift and
pardon for a’ my sins; for ye ken I canna get it frae the kirkmen, and
I’m a muckle sinner in thy sight the day—God help me. Amen.”
Such were some of the thoughts that filled the mind of David Stratton
during the silent hours of that night, to him for ever memorable. What
he felt cannot be traced so easily as what he thought. There is a
sanctuary in almost every soul into which no other human soul can
penetrate. None but He who has searched and knoweth the hearts he made,
could understand the strange new-born impulse which brought David
Stratton, in his trouble and danger, to the feet of the merciful
Saviour, of whose grace he had heard that night for the first time. “He
is great, he can help me—he is good, perhaps he will.” Thus much could
be expressed in words; but not so the strong sense of his goodness, and
the first dawnings of love and trust in the heart that was ignorantly
and half unconsciously, yet really, turning towards Him.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
IV.
=Dawnings of Light.=
“I bring my guilt to Jesus,
To wash my crimson stains,
White in his blood most precious,
Till not a spot remains.”
REV. H. BONAR.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
IV.
=Dawnings of Light.=
Other eyes were wakeful that night, and other minds were busy, upon
Master David Stratton’s account. The Lady of Lauriston, as we are
already aware, had set her heart upon bringing about a reconciliation
between him and her husband. She did not anticipate much difficulty with
the Laird, over whom she possessed almost unbounded influence. And even
without her interference, he would probably have speedily regretted his
quarrel with a brother to whom he was really attached; and the rather
because of the dangers and difficulties of David’s present position. His
wife’s persuasions, therefore, combined with his own relentings, soon
brought him to a state of mind to hear with much thankfulness of the
mission George had undertaken in the capacity of peace-maker.
“But it’s na use,” he answered, with a desponding shake of the head. “I
ken Davie unco weel; he’s that stubborn, a man might cut him in twa, and
no gar him turn frae his ain gait.”
“Leave him to me,” said the lady in reply. “I ken for sure he came back
with George last night, for I heard his foot as he gaed to his chalmer;
and ye’ve but to keep still, Andrew, and to speak him fair, when I bring
him into the hall to breakfast, as, the saints helping me, I’ll try to
do. Speak him fair anent his kine or his boat, or his braw new house
that he’s plenishing in Dundee—onything ye list but the kirkmen and the
cursing.”
“And yer bonnie cousin Alison, that he’s like to tyne[30] for his
foolery?” asked the Laird, with a smile.
“Ay, Laird, that were best left to me too. Weel as ye think ye ken
Maister David,” she added after a pause, “_I_ ken him better. He’s a
dour chield, and unco stubborn, but he’s manful; and it’s a lang gait he
wadna gang for the man or the woman he truly loves. And he loves Alison
Lindsay.”
“And she—what of her, Isabel?”
“Tut, Laird; ye mauna be speering owre mony questions. I’m not my
cousin’s father confessor.”
“Ye’ll be plainer with David, I hope.”
“No need for that. He that loves can understand what is but half
spoken.” And Lady Isabel could not be induced to explain herself
farther.
The Laird’s question, however, was a very natural one; nor was the fact
that Alison Lindsay had been promised by her father to David Stratton in
reality any answer to it, for every one knows that the sacrifice of a
girl’s inclinations to the interest or convenience of her kinsfolk was a
matter of daily occurrence in those rough times. David was ten years
older than his intended bride; he was neither very handsome nor very
rich, and he was greatly her inferior in refinement and cultivation—for
both Isabel and her young cousin had received their education in a
convent, where, besides the peculiarly feminine art of skilful
embroidery in its various branches, they were carefully initiated into
the mysteries of reading and writing; and were, in fact, for their time,
well educated if not accomplished women. Yet, in spite of all this,
Alison Lindsay _did_ return David Stratton’s affection. If a reason
should be asked, it may perhaps be rendered (strange as this may appear)
in the very words by which the Lady Isabel described her
brother-in-law’s character: “He’s a dour chield, and unco stubborn; but
he’s _manful_.” As men admire nothing so much in women as perfect
womanliness, so women, even the gentlest, usually admire manliness in
men more than any other characteristic. In Alison’s eyes, “Maister David
Stratton of Stratton” was a hero; nor need we pause to inquire whether
or not he was transfigured by her imagination into something essentially
different from what he really was; it is enough to have stated the fact,
that the life of this rude, obstinate, daring gentleman of Angus was far
more precious in the eyes of some one else than it was in his own.
Without a great deal of difficulty, George succeeded the next morning in
detaining his uncle until the Lady Isabel appeared. Purposely abstaining
from any allusion to what had passed the night before, he sought to wile
away the time by conversation upon indifferent subjects. Amongst other
things, he chanced to ask what had become of a favourite bay mare, which
he had been wont to ride when he came to Lauriston. David told him, with
some regret, that he had sold her before Pasche, being then anxious for
a sum of money to complete the purchase of his new house in Dundee.
George asked who had bought her; perhaps thinking the mare a safer
subject of conversation than the house, which he well knew had been
destined by his uncle for the reception of his bride.
“Wae’s me!” answered David; “wha suld buy her but John Erskine o’ Dune.
Mair’s the pity! Owre guid for him to hae sic a bonny beast to carry
him, wi’ a’ his outlandish nonsense.”
But George’s face brightened wonderfully at the mention of John
Erskine’s name.
“Then you’re acquaint with the Laird of Dune, uncle?” he asked.
“As weel as I’m like to be. Leeze me on a man wi’ a guid Scot’s tongue
in his head, forbye a guid Scot’s heart in his bosom, and tak a’ yer
newfangled outland folk.”
“There’s no truer Scottish heart in all the realm than that of John
Erskine of Dune!” cried George, unable any longer to keep silence.
“Uncle, you know him not. But I pledge ye my word there are few like
him. A learned, godly gentleman”—But here he stopped suddenly,
recollecting that the praise he was so liberally bestowing on his friend
would hardly sound well in his uncle’s ears.
“Oh ay, unco learned, nae doubt. I hae heard he’s gaun to set up a
schule at Montrose, to lear the puir bairns Greek, forsooth! Guid wark
that for a laird! He’d better hae them taught to put the stane and to
shoot at the popinjay, sae he’d hae a chance to make _men_ o’ them, at
least.”
George could not help laughing at this representation of the case; but
he admitted that the Laird of Dune was endeavouring to found an academy
at Montrose for the study of Greek, being anxious that the intelligent
youth of his native land should learn to read the word of God in the
language in which it is written. “For he loves the word of God with his
haill heart,” said George. “And I ken no one who understands it so weel.
He hath expounded mony things unto me.”
Here the entrance of the Lady Isabel put a stop to the conversation. It
will be easily seen that a woman like the Lady of Lauriston was sure to
come off victorious from any verbal encounter with a man like David
Stratton. But beside all other advantages, she had a powerful though
silent ally in the piece of folded paper she held in her hand. Alison
Lindsay’s letter was indeed no more than a quaint and rather formal
appeal to her “loving cousin,” asking her to entreat the Laird to take
into his service a certain old retainer of the Lindsays, “muckle Sawney
Gordon,” who had been so unfortunate as to displease one of her
hot-headed young brothers. But then there was a brief postscript, which
ran thus:—
“Shoulde Maister Stratton come unto Lauriston, it were as weall to tell
him that all his friendis, and they that were his friendis, merveille at
his temeritie, or rather proude rashnesse. For his soule’s wealle, no to
say for that of his temporall Estaite, entreate him to reconseille
himselfe to Holie Kirke, quhill as yett thare is tyme.”
Perhaps the words might have seemed cold and harsh, had not Isabel shown
David the paper upon which they were written. It was blotted with tears.
He took it in his hand, and held it there for one moment, his strong
fingers closing over it with a nervous grasp, and trembling as they
closed. Then he silently gave it back, rose from his seat, and strode
across the room.
When he reached the door, he paused, as if in doubt. Lady Isabel took
advantage of his momentary irresolution; she had something still to say
which he could not choose but hear. She told him quietly she had long
been desirous to receive a visit from her cousin Alison, as she knew the
motherless girl was often lonely in her father’s house; and that she
thought she could overrule any objection her relatives might make to her
coming to Lauriston. Should this plan succeed, Maister David would have
many opportunities of pleading his own cause, and it would be very much
his own fault if he did not turn them to good account. She did not
_say_, but she hinted, that in reality one thing, and only one, was
necessary in order to the accomplishment of all his desires—and that was
his reconciliation with the Church.
In the meantime, he could not but feel—and he did feel—that the Lady of
Lauriston was his warm and true friend. As might have been anticipated
under the circumstances, his quarrel with the Laird terminated speedily.
No formal reconciliation took place, nor did many words pass between
them; but both were willing to bury their last night’s altercation in
oblivion; and Isabel obtained her wish, and saw David seated by her side
at the table in the great hall, to partake of their substantial morning
meal.
The brothers spent the day in hunting, accompanied by a party of the
Laird’s retainers, and by George, whose studies did not indispose him
for manly sports and exercises.
On the following morning, however, David asked his nephew if he had not
some good falcons, and proposed that they two should go out hawking
together. George, who was not particularly fond of the pastime of
falconry, consented, at first rather unwillingly, then joyfully and
eagerly, as he began with trembling hope to guess the wish that prompted
his uncle’s request. They set out, with falcons on their wrists, but
declining the attendance of the Laird’s falconer or of his assistant.
And when they reached a quiet place in the fields, David, without a
word, hooded his falcon and sat down, motioning George to do the same.
Then he said, in a low but eager voice, “Hae ye brought yer book,
callant?”
George produced it.
“Read me mair o’ yon blind man the guid Lord Jesus speered after.”
“There’s no more told of him,” said George. “The last thing is this: ‘He
said, Lord, I believe. And he worshipped him.’”
“And does the Book no tell us gin the guid Lord gied him shrift or
pardon? For I mind weel the kirkmen cast him out, and wad hae naething
to do wi’ him. Not ane priest or friar amang them a’ wad hear his
confession, I wad ye.”
“What I hae read ye tells us all. He believed on the Lord Jesus Christ;
and he who thus believes _is_ pardoned, whether the priests say it or
no.”
“How do ye ken that?” asked David, with a wondering look.
By way of reply George read the 3rd of John, adding from time to time
such brief explanations as he thought necessary, and in particular
telling, very simply and clearly, the story of the brazen serpent.
So still and silent was the listener, that George almost feared he had
fallen asleep. He was undeceived, however, when, drawing a deep breath
and fixing his eyes upon him with a look of intense interest, David
asked, “But what can a man do wha has been a muckle sinner a’ his life?”
“I have told you, uncle. ‘Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ.’”
“That’s unco weel for douce honest folk. But I hae stuck Black Will o’
the Hirst wi’ my whinger.”
“Gif ye had done waur than that, uncle, still the Lord Jesus wad forgive
ye, and wad be blythe to do it. See, I will tell ye—” and he found the
23rd of Luke, intending only to read the story of the dying thief; but
he read instead the whole of the grand and touching narrative in which
it is set, like a gem in a diadem of gold. “And thus,” said George
Stratton, “He suffered for our sins, ‘the just for the unjust, that He
might bring us to God.’ For ‘He himself bare our sins in his own body on
the tree.’”
“Bare our sins?—I dinna just tak’ ye up, Geordie.”
“Though you stuck Black Will with yer whinger, the Lord Jesus’ll _pay
the wyte_.[31] On the Cross, with his ain bluid, he paid the wyte for
all our sins. And ye’ve nought to do, but just to plead what he has done
with the Lord Almighty, and to take the guid comfort of it to yer ain
heart.”
“Oh, Geordie—Geordie, lad—it’s owre guid—it canna be—” David’s voice was
trembling with emotion.
“But it’s _true_, uncle; I could find ye mony other places in God’s book
that tell the same.”
David was silent for a moment or two, then he said, very seriously,
“George, my lad, I’m right siccer ye wadna deceive me, for ye ken I
lippen[32] to ye. But I’m no that siccer ye mightna be misled yersel,
for ye’re but a haflins callant, wi’ a’ yer book lear. And I’d gie a’
the warld just to find the truth. But wae’s me! wha’s to tell it? The
priests are a pack o’ misleared carles themselves; they ken neither new
law nor auld, like the puir doited Bishop o’ Dunkeld.”
“The Lord himself will teach you, an’ ye ask him.”
“Wha has taught _you_?”
“I think He has,” said George reverently, and in a low voice. “But as
for men’s teaching,” he added, “it was some of the lectures of Maister
Gawin Logie gared me first think of these things, when I was a
determinant at St. Leonard’s College. Afterwards I forgathered with the
Laird of Dune, and he gave me this Testament, and told me mony things
whilk have helped me to understand it.”
Soon afterwards they returned to the castle.
David was unusually silent and thoughtful during the rest of the day;
and, to the surprise and regret of his brother, and still more of his
nephew, he announced his intention of leaving them the next morning.
Having remonstrated in vain against this decision, they asked him where
he intended to go.
He hesitated a little, then said: “Weel, to be plain, it’s a’ anent my
bonny bay mare—fool that I was to part wi’ her. I’m sair wirried wi’ yon
puir beastie, that’s nae mair fit for a gentleman than ony aver[33] ye’d
tak’ frae the pleugh. Sae I’ll just gang to Erskine o’ Dune, aiblins
he’ll gie me my ain back again.”
The Laird shook his head. “Ye’re no that wise, brother,” he said, “to
twine wi’ yer siller the noo.” And he kindly offered him the use of an
excellent horse of his own, saying that Geordie would show him the
animal, and could tell his merits from experience.
George, however, evidenced a decided want of alacrity in the business;
and being too keenly interested in the proposed visit to the Laird of
Dune to behave with his usual tact and readiness, he actually drew upon
himself a sharp reproof from his father for his unwillingness to
accommodate his uncle. “It sets ye weel,” he said, “wi’ twa guid horses
o’ yer ain, to grudge brown Rob to yer uncle. In my day, young folk
didna set sic’ store by themsels, and had mair thought for their
forbears.”
“Leave him his lane, Andrew,” said David, warmly. “He’s a guid lad, is
Geordie—nae better between this and the Solway.” A speech that surprised
the Laird a little, but pleased him considerably.
So the next morning they parted; David promising soon to revisit his
brother, and in the meantime to behave with as much circumspection as he
could, and to avoid any course of action calculated to increase the
hostility he had provoked. But he would promise no more than this; nor
did he express the slightest inclination to seek a reconciliation with
the Church.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
V.
=The Great Change.=
“He came to me in love—and my heart broke,
And from its inmost depths there rose a cry,
‘My Father, oh, my Father, smile on me!’
And the great Father smiled.”
_Night and the Soul._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
V.
=The Great Change.=
Some time elapsed before David Stratton fulfilled his promise of
revisiting his relatives at Lauriston; nor did they hear much about him
during his absence. One winter evening, however, they were all assembled
at supper in the great hall; the Laird and his Lady, with her young
Cousin Alison—then a guest at the castle, the Master of Lauriston, and
the Capellan, Sir William Ker, occupying the upper end of the board;
while “below the salt” the numerous retainers of the Laird took their
places according to their respective ranks. The sound of horse-hoofs,
and then the blast of a horn, gave intimation of the approach of a
visitor; and in a very short time David Stratton, followed by two or
three attendants, strode into the hall.
He was warmly welcomed by the Laird and Lady; and there were others
present who, although less demonstrative, were probably no less pleased
at his arrival. A seat was soon placed for him at the Lady’s right hand,
and the butler despatched for a stoup of the best wine in the laird’s
cellar, to improve the cheer and to celebrate his arrival.
All went merrily forward for some time, and every one present seemed in
high good humour. There was no lack of conversation; although David was
not communicative on the subject of his own proceedings since they
parted. He had always enough to say upon the usual country sports and
occupations; and, much to the surprise of his hearers, he added upon
this occasion several amusing stories of the manners and customs of
foreign nations, and particularly those of the French, in whom the
Scotchmen of that day took such a lively interest. He said they had been
lately told him by a friend, and he retailed them with great spirit, so
as to occasion a good deal of harmless merriment. But one thing George
particularly noticed, no oath or profane expression of any kind passed
his uncle’s lips. Did the presence of Alison Lindsay refine and soften
him, or was there any other influence at work?
“Seems to me there’s something no just canny about ye, Davie,” remarked
the Laird at last. “Ye couldna talk better, gin ye were as weel
travelled a gentleman as holy Friar Scott himsel.”
“Dinna tell _me_ o’ Friar Scott,” said David, with a strong expression
of disgust. “Hae ye heard of his cantrips in Edinburgh?”
“Oh, ay; I hae heard that he fasted frae meat and drink twa and thirty
days—gin it wasna for ane drink o’ cauld water.”
“Lees and clashes!” returned David, very unceremoniously.
Sir William Ker here thought it his duty to interpose; and ventured to
reprove Maister David for his scepticism, telling him that Friar Scott’s
miraculous fast was, as he himself stated in a sermon preached at the
Market Cross, “be helpe of the Virgin Mary,” and ought not therefore to
be spoken of lightly.
David answered, with a seriousness that took all present by surprise,
that he did not believe the blessed Virgin possessed the power to do
what Friar Scott attributed to her; but that if she did, he thought
better of her than to suppose she would exercise it for the purpose of
enabling a man of notoriously evil character to escape the payment of
his just debts.
Upon this Sir William, who had for a long time cordially disliked David,
lost his temper, and availing himself of the licence usually allowed to
those of his profession, even dared to tell the Laird’s brother to his
face that he was no better than a heretic and a reprobate.
The Laird fully expected to see David’s whinger spring from his belt,
and flash across the table. He looked helplessly towards Isabel, as
indeed he was accustomed to do in most of his difficulties, in the
expectation that her ready wit would find a way out of them.
In this case, however, her interposition was not necessary. David’s
cheek burned, but he answered quietly, “It’s no sae wonnerful _you_
should say that, sir priest.”
Perhaps there is no greater test of a gentle nature, or its opposite,
than the manner of meeting unexpected forbearance in an antagonist. A
gentleman is softened, and repays courtesy with courtesy; a man of
vulgar nature regards moderation as a sign of weakness, and presumes
accordingly. Sir William thought the usually rude and overbearing
Maister David must have some good reason for being afraid of him; he
therefore boldly followed up his fancied advantage by requiring him to
retract what he called his blasphemy against the blessed Virgin, saying
there were present unlearned persons who were scandalized, and might be
injured by what he had said.
This second impertinence was too much to bear. David relaxed his strong
guard over himself, and answered hastily: “That which I say I never
unsay, least of a’ at the bidding of a knave priest.”
“Thou hast thine answer, Sir William,” cried the Laird, with undisguised
satisfaction; “so eat thy supper, man, and haud thy tongue.”
But David looked very ill at ease. “Yon was na answer ava’,” he said at
length, and with an evident effort. “Sir William, I pray your pardon.”
The priest would have felt much less astonishment had he struck him in
the face. He stared at him in silence, unable to think of a suitable
reply, while the Laird muttered, “Hech, sirs!—what’s got into ye,
Davie?”
But Sir William had not tact or common sense enough to make some
courteous answer, and then quietly drop the subject. It should perhaps
be mentioned in his defence, that he entertained well-founded suspicions
of the orthodoxy of his patron’s son; and while a due regard for his
temporal interests had hitherto prevented his openly attacking the
Master of Lauriston, he compounded with his conscience by making as many
general demonstrations against heresy as he could in his presence.
Besides, Maister David being already excommunicated and under the ban of
the Church, it was both meritorious and comparatively safe to attack
him. He therefore attempted to “improve the occasion.” _His_ pardon for
any personal insult, he said, was granted before it was asked, as he
cherished no resentment except against the enemies of Holy Kirk; but he
trusted Maister David would ask the forgiveness of the blessed Virgin
for what he had presumed to say of her, which he again averred (crossing
himself while he spoke) to have been downright blasphemy, and near akin
to “the Englishmen’s opinions.” “Thae pestilent heretics,” he continued,
“hae even dared to say there’s na sic’ thing ava’ as purgatory.”
“That hae _I_ never said, nor shall I, wi’ the guid help o’ God,”
answered David, with a quick glance of his blue eye, but a quiet
thoughtful face.
“I’m blythe to hear it,” said the priest; and he cast an unmistakable
look of triumph upon George, who, like every one else at the table, was
watching his uncle with wonder and interest.
But David presently resumed: “I believe in ane purgatory, by the whilk
folk are cleansit frae a’ their sins—_the precious bluid of our Saviour
Christ_. Forbye,” he added in a lighter tone, “ye may ca’ the troubles
o’ this present evil warld a kind o’ purgatory, an’ ye list. But these
twa, I ken nae ither.”
George, who for months had thought the same, and yet never dared to
utter his thoughts with such boldness, now deeply felt the truth of our
Lord’s words, “The first shall be last, and the last shall be first.”
But he could not do less than come promptly to his uncle’s support, and
follow the example of his fearless confession.
“You have spoken truly,” he said, “for God himself doth testify in his
holy Word that the bluid of Jesus Christ, his Son, cleanseth us from
_all_ sin.”
If Lady Isabel had been slow to interpose between David and the priest,
she was prompt enough in stopping the discussion when she saw her son so
disposed to compromise himself. She begged there might be no more talk
of such “gruesome things” as heresy and purgatory and the like; and the
Laird followed up her efforts by pressing David to take more wine,
assuring him it was the part of a wise man to eat and drink, and to do
his duty by his family and his estate, leaving all these puzzling
questions to be settled for him by the priests and the doctors.
“Forbye,” he added with a laugh, “an’ the said priests catch us meddling
wi’ what doesna concern us, it’s like enough they’ll gie us, for our
sins, a taste o’ the kind o’ purgatory _you_ talk of, Davie—to wit, a
hantle grief and dolour in this life.”
“Aiblins,” answered David; “but _he that saves his life shall lose it_.”
As soon as George could find an opportunity of speaking to his uncle
alone, he warned him against Sir William Ker, saying that their opinions
were by no means safe with him.
“I ken that, lad,” answered David; “but I maun speak the truth.”
“Uncle,” said the young man humbly and sorrowfully, “your courage shames
my weakness.”
“I havena sae muckle to twine as you,” replied David; “forbye, I hae had
muckle mair forgien me. Oh, Geordie lad, I dinna mind that the guid Lord
hae ever done sic’ wonnerfu’ things for ony puir sinner! Think on’t
yersel. I had nae thocht o’ him; I cared for naething but thae puir bits
o’ gear, and—and the hopes and pleasures o’ this life. But then, first,
he gied me a kind o’ start anent my ain foolishness, fechting wi’ the
prior for the teinds. He let them cast me out o’ the Kirk (that’s nae
God’s Kirk ava’, but the synagogue o’ Satan); and when my heart was sair
vexed, and I didna ken whilk gait to gang, and a’ was black as
midnight—na shrift nor pardon for me, and I just beginning to think I
was the maist awfu’ sinner in a’ Scotland—_then_, lad, He speered after
me. He sought me his ainsel, he showed me how a’ my sins were clean
forgiven, naebut because he deed on the Cross to tak’ them awa’. And noo
I hae naething mair to do but to love him, and to witness for him, and
to tell ither folk ilka day how guid he is.”
George’s eyes were dim with tears of joy and thankfulness. “Blessed art
thou,” he could not help saying, “for flesh and blood hath not revealed
it unto thee, but our Father in heaven.”
“That’s owre true,” answered David. “Yersel, or the Laird o’ Dune, or
ony man, might hae tald me thae things twa hundert times, and I wadna
hae minded ane word. But the guid Lord has gien me—I canna find the name
for’t, gin it’s no a new eye to see, a new ear to hear, and a new heart
to feel. It’s like as I hae been a dead man a’ my days, and I’ve naebut
wakened up and begun to live the noo. Eh, but, Geordie, its wonnerfu’!”
Wonderful it certainly was, as all who came in contact with David
Stratton could not fail to acknowledge. We who are accustomed to breathe
an atmosphere pervaded by Christian sentiment and opinion, may find it
hard to realize the greatness of the change—even the outward
change—which was wrought in him. The entrance of God’s word had indeed
given light, and given understanding to the simple. But love as well as
light was shed abroad in his heart, and that richly. He who had once
been overbearing, rude, violent, ready to offer offence and quick to
take it, was now “ane vehement exhortar of all men to concord, to
quietness, and to the contempt of the warld.”[34] Nor did he fail to
practise that to which, with the “vehemence” that belonged to his
character, he thus exhorted others. He was noways inclined to hide his
light under a bushel; it was too real, too marvellous for that. Like the
little child who, seeing the first star appear in the shaded evening
sky, cried out in wonder and delight, “God has just made a new star in
heaven;” so, when the light which had been shining from the beginning of
the world first reached his soul, David felt as if for him God had “made
a new thing in the earth;” and he could not but tell the marvel to all
those around him.
He had therefore scarcely been three days at Lauriston ere more of
Scripture truth was heard from his lips than there had been in two years
from those of the cautious and thoughtful George. He avowed his
convictions openly, for he was a stranger to fear. He spoke to his
brother, to the Lady Isabel, to many of the retainers; and above all, he
was eager to communicate to Alison Lindsay the knowledge he esteemed so
precious. For with him faith was _knowledge_. That which he had seen and
heard he declared to others. He was totally untroubled by doubts, either
of any of the doctrines of Scripture or of his own interest and
acceptance in Christ. His natural character contributed to this: in his
mind there were no half lights and shadows; all lay in clear sunshine or
in utter darkness, all was positive, welldefined, certain.
Though David’s knowledge of the Word of God often surprised his nephew,
he was still dependent upon others for all he acquired, being himself
unable to read. It was his special delight, during his stay at
Lauriston, to induce George to accompany him to some quiet place in the
fields, and to make him read for him chapter after chapter from the New
Testament. George loved this occupation as much as his uncle did; and
found the readings, and the conversation that always followed them, very
profitable to his own soul. Their positions were strangely reversed. He
who had once been the pupil was now himself so deeply taught of the
Spirit that he became in his turn the teacher; and many were the
passages in the Word of God upon which he was able to throw the light of
experience.
George and David often talked together of their friend and instructor,
the Laird of Dune. From this remarkable man, whom Knox tells us “God had
in those days marvellously illuminated,” David received nearly all the
human teaching he ever had. He consequently so loved and revered John
Erskine, that he even came to regard his favourite project of the Greek
Academy at Montrose not only with approval, but with enthusiasm. There
was indeed something touching in the desire this unlearned man evinced
to secure to others the best fruits of learning. “Wha cares a bodle,”
said he to George, “whether the bairns get the lear in Greek or in
Latin, or in our ain guid Scot’s tongue, sae’s they _do_ learn that the
blessed Lord loved them, and deed for a’ their sins?”
“Then you think, uncle, that the Greek school will prosper?”
“Nae doot o’ that. There’s ane young man has begun to teach the bairns
the New Testament—_vera_ young, but by-ordinar learned, and o’ guid
family, brither or brither’s son to the Laird of Pitarrow—ane _George
Wishart_. He’ll do something, gin the bishops dinna burn or banish him,
as they’re like enough to do to ony man wha reads the Word o’ God,
either in Greek or English.”
George often wondered at the apparent coolness with which David alluded
to such terrible probabilities, and tried to exhort him to caution and
prudence. But he was not so indifferent as his nephew supposed to the
dangers that menaced every one who dared to profess “the new Faith;” and
if he received his well-meant warnings in silence, it was only because
he could not argue, while he felt at the same time that but one course
of conduct was possible to him, and that he must pursue it, lead where
it might.
Perhaps this day his heart was softened by the recollection of a promise
which only the night before he had obtained from Alison Lindsay; for a
look of pain, almost of perplexity, stole over his face, and it was some
time before he spoke again.
But at last he said, quietly, “Whaur’s the Book, Geordie? We’ll hae tint
a’ our reading time.”
“What shall I read ye?” asked George; for David nearly always selected
the portions they read together.
He said at once, “The tenth o’ Matthew;” and George read the precious
words of comfort addressed by the Saviour to those whom he sent forth as
sheep in the midst of wolves. His double command, “_fear not_,” and
“_fear_”—fear not them which kill the body, fear Him who is able to
destroy both soul and body—sounded very full of meaning in the ears of
men who knew that those who could kill the body were not far off. And
very precious was his assurance that, notwithstanding every danger that
menaced them, “the hairs of their head were numbered” by that Father who
loved and would protect them.
But when George read, “Whosoever shall deny me before men, him will I
also deny before my Father which is in heaven,” David Stratton could no
longer control his emotion. Rising from his seat on the trunk of a
fallen tree, he threw himself suddenly on his knees, and lifted up his
eyes and hands to heaven as one in an ecstasy of prayer. For some
moments he was silent, but at length he spoke aloud, or rather “burst
forth in these words:” “O Lord, I hae been vera wicked, and justly
mightest thou take thy grace frae me. But, Lord, for thy mercy’s sake,
let me never deny thee, or thy truth, for the fear of death or corporal
pain.”[35]
George said “Amen” to his prayer, but he felt awed, as well as touched
and solemnized. And it may be that his heart shrank in terror from the
prospect that prayer unveiled before him. For his uncle had become very
dear to him, “both in the flesh and in the Lord.” And still,
“Howe’er assured be faith,
To say farewell is fraught with gloom;”
and “death and corporal pain” are fearful realities to contemplate. Far
more fearful for those we love than for ourselves! For who does not know
how hard it sometimes is to acquiesce in God’s dealings with our beloved
ones, and by what agonizing lessons the heart is taught that for them
“it was good to suffer _here_, that they might reign _hereafter_; to
bear the cross _below_, that they might wear the crown _above_;” and
that it was that they might be made like unto Him, that “He had placed
them in the furnace, sitting by as a refiner of silver, until they
should reflect his image.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
VI.
=Entering into the Cloud.=
“Know then, my soul, God’s will controls
Whate’er thou fearest:
Round him in calmest music rolls
Whate’er thou hearest.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
VI.
=Entering into the Cloud.=
Mistress Alison Lindsay sat alone in one of the smaller apartments of
Lauriston Castle. She had scarcely moved since Lady Isabel quitted the
room, more than an hour before; the cunning “stitch-work,” with which
she had been occupied, lay unheeded on the table; her fair face was
clouded with care and anxiety, and her large dark eyes, which so often
sparkled with merriment, were full of thoughtful sadness, and now and
then dimmed with tears.
Alison’s heart was indeed sorely troubled and cast down within her; but
why was this? The answer is easy; the same Word that had brought peace
and joy to the heart dearest to her on earth, had brought bitter sorrow
and perplexity to hers. For the present life, fear and anguish where all
had been bright before; for the future, light indeed, but light that
disturbed and dazzled, without guiding or cheering the bewildered soul.
It perplexed and troubled her that the peace of her little world should
have been invaded by these “new doctrines.” The old faith was good
enough for her, good enough for her kindred and her friends, and
certainly good enough for Maister David Stratton. She knew him ere this
strange spell had fallen upon him; she thought him then as brave and
bold a gentleman as ever claimed a lady’s hand; and she would not
willingly have had him changed. She had been so happy, so content with
her lot, envying no one, desiring nothing beyond what she had either in
possession or in prospect, when the consequences of David’s perverse
quarrel with the Prior fell like a thunderbolt upon her, causing her the
first real sorrow she had ever known. Yet even while she blamed, in her
heart she half admired his reckless courage and daring. And she never
ceased to anticipate a satisfactory termination of the dispute, through
the mediation of his friends, and the slow but sure actings of his own
good sense.
Great, therefore, was her horror when, upon his late arrival at
Lauriston, he committed himself openly to sentiments which put a more
formidable obstacle in the way of his reconciliation with the Kirk, than
personal quarrels with half the kirkmen in Scotland would have done.
Naturally intelligent and thoughtful, she had more definite ideas on the
subject of heresy than any one in the castle, except Sir William Ker. It
would not have been possible for her to become, without knowing it, more
than half a Protestant, as her less reflective cousin Isabel had already
done. She was too well informed upon the tenets of her own faith for
this; and besides, she did not possess one of those illogical, though
perhaps in some respects happily constituted minds, in which opinions
actually inconsistent with each other can remain together as peaceably
as the leopard and the lamb will do in the future millennium. She knew
only too well that David’s words were heresy; and she believed that
heresy meant _ruin_, both to soul and body. And for life or death, for
good or evil, his fate and hers were bound together. She had never loved
him half so well, and yet she had never felt half so indignant with him.
Nor was her anger unreasonable; since, as she then supposed, it was
solely in the pride of his heart, and in his unreasoning wrath against
the kirkmen, that he threw himself into that yawning gulf of heresy,
thus very nearly committing an actual as well as a spiritual suicide.
She did not think that any form of doctrine, as such, could possess much
interest or significance for David Stratton. She supposed that in his
eyes the errors of the Catholic Faith consisted in its being upheld by
such men as the Prior of St. Andrews; and that the charm of the new
doctrines might be found in the fact that, if they prevailed, neither
priories nor parishes, nor the rents and tithes accruing therefrom,
would be left to Patrick Hepburn and Robert Lawson.
But after her first interview with him, she began to feel she had done
him an injustice. She could not fail to perceive how marvellously these
new doctrines had quickened both his mind and his heart. The earnestness
with which he explained and enforced them first surprised, then touched
her. She thought it only fair and generous not to condemn him unheard,
but to allow him a full opportunity of stating his convictions.
Otherwise, how could she combat them successfully? And she was resolved
upon making the attempt; though less from any abstract zeal for the
conversion of heretics in general, than from her intense and personal
interest in the fate of this one particular heretic. On the other hand,
he was as anxious for her conversion as she could possibly be for his;
so that their conversations on the subject of religion were naturally
neither few nor passing.
The consequences soon became apparent to those around them, and very
painfully so to Alison herself. The faith of her childhood was first
shaken, then actually overthrown. In any sensitive mind, this process
must necessarily be attended with great suffering; but especially so if
nothing be accepted as a substitute for that which is displaced. This in
a sense, though only in a sense, was the case with Alison Lindsay. David
had indeed presented her with the jewel of Truth, and she had taken it
from his hand, and laid it up amongst her treasures; still it might be
said that she knew nothing of its beauty or value. For her no ray of
light from above had fallen upon it, calling forth its brilliancy and
lustre; it was a diamond, but a diamond unillumined by the sunshine;
clear indeed and pure, but cold and colourless. How could such a
possession as this repay her for all she must surrender for it—for the
sparkling brilliant of earthly happiness, as well as for her early
faith—once accounted a precious gem, though now discovered to be only a
clever, beautiful imitation?
To drop the metaphor, she had received a creed, but she had not yet
received life. And something more than a creed is necessary to enable a
man—that we say not, a woman—to abandon all that the heart holds dear,
whether of association with the past, or of hope for the future. Such
sacrifices she felt might now be demanded from her, and her heart shrank
back in terror from the demand. It was no wonder, therefore, that as she
sat alone that morning her thoughts were very mournful ones.
But the sound of an approaching footstep made her start, and brought a
deeper colour to her cheek. She hastily took up her work; but had not
added a single stitch to the “pearling” she was embroidering, ere David
Stratton stood beside her.
“Mistress Alison, I hae twa or three things to say to ye; hae ye time to
hear me?” he asked, in tones which showed that the gentleness and
deference with which he always addressed her were mingled in this
instance with a shade of embarrassment.
“There’s nothing to hinder, that I ken,” said Alison, glancing at her
work. “Isabel’s in the wool-room, sorting wool for the lasses to spin.”
David drew nearer the carved oak chair in which Alison sat. They formed
rather a striking contrast. Alison wore a kirtle of fine taffetas of a
deep full blue; a silken snood of the same colour edged with silver
confined her rich dark hair; and seldom did the bright cold sunshine of
March rest on a more graceful form or a fairer face than hers. David was
dressed in a maud, or rough gray overcoat, and buskins of untanned
leather, which were splashed here and there with mud. The wind had been
dealing rather rudely with his brown hair, and his honest and manly,
though not handsome face, was flushed with exercise. Thus much the eye
could take in at a glance; there were other things, not so apparent, but
of deeper significance. In _her_ countenance there was a kind of surface
quiet and repose, but underneath this all was restless, and fear and
anxiety flowed on in dark waves; in _his_ there was momentary agitation,
as if he had just heard some disturbing tidings, but beneath the
disturbance there was a settled calm, telling that his soul dwelt
habitually in a peace no outward agitation could destroy.
“I hae ridden hame this morn, and I’m but just back again,” he began, in
his rather abrupt way.
“Nae need to tell that,” Alison could not help saying, with a quick
glance at the mud on his boots. Little heed would she have given to such
trifles, had she guessed the thoughts that were occupying his mind.
“I fand there ane young man, familiar to the Laird o’ Dune, wha was
speiring after me.”
“Weel?” said Alison, rather wondering what this would come to.
“He brought me tidings;—Mistress Alison, I maun gang my ways, I daur
bide here nae langer.”
Alison’s colour changed rapidly from red to pale, and from pale again to
red. “But what danger threatens you?” she asked quickly.
“Ye ken that unco weel yersel,” answered David.
“Oh, but they darena touch a gentleman, a laird’s brother”—yet the lips
that uttered these confident words were growing white with terror.
“Na, na, Mistress Alice,” said David gently, but with great earnestness,
“ye mauna stay yersel on what’s no _true_. Maister Patrick Hamilton was
better than a laird’s brither, he was Abbot o’ Ferne; and forbye that,
he had the best bluid o’ Scotland in his veins; yet ye ken they brent
him to ashes at the stake. But the guid Lord is aboon them a’; gin it’s
his will to save me alive, a’ the kirkmen in Scotland canna touch a hair
o’ my head; gin it’s his will I suld dee, his holy will be done!”
“But why do ye say sic’ awful things?”
“Because I’m _warned_, Mistress Alice; Erskine sent his servant to warn
me. He hath had certain tidings that the Prior and the Bishop o’ Ross
(God forgie them) ’ill no rest till they finish their wark. Sae I maun
just gang awa’.”
“Do no such thing,” interrupted Alison hastily. “Bide here, Maister
David. There’s no place in Scotland sae safe for ye as the laird yer
brither’s castle.”
“Ay, but then there’s Geordie. Gin folk begin to speir after heretics at
Lauriston Castle, it’s like they wadna end wi’ David Stratton. And
that’s why I darena quit the country, lest the blame might fall whaur it
suldna, and better men pay the wyte for me.”
“Ye’re no right there,” said Alison eagerly, almost sharply. “Ilka man
should fend for himself. Forbye, there are others as deep or deeper than
you in it, David. What have ye done mair than John Erskine o’ Dune? Yet
he bides safe and siccar—”
“And God keep him safe and siccar, for the sake of a’ that love his name
in this puir country. Mistress Alice, when first I kenned the Lord, I
was sair fashed wi’ mysel for a’ my foolery anent the Prior’s tithe. But
noo I’m richt sure it was God himsel let a’ that be. Gin it hadna been
for that, I might hae never learned his truth ava’; and forbye, it’s
unco weel the bishops suld misdoot a simple man like me, and hunt me
down for a thing like that, or wha kens but they might be doing
waur?—Aiblins speiring after Geordie, or Erskine o’ Dune, or that braw
young scholar—”
“O David, dinna say such words!”
But her tones, though just a little reproachful, were very low and
quiet; and he did not see her face—she had veiled it with her hand. Else
surely he would not have gone on—“For the folk wha hae got lear can do
sae muckle for the Lord. He canna spare sic’ as thae. He has sair need
o’ them to speed his wark here, and to tell ither folk about him. But
I’m aye unco slow wi’ my tongue; sae I think, an’ the guid Lord wad let
me suffer for him, it wad be just the best—Wae’s me! what hae I done?
Alice—_dear_ Alice!”
For Alison could no longer either restrain or conceal the anguish his
words inflicted. Did David know _what_ he was doing? There he stood,
cold and calm, reasoning about that, to her, dim abstraction he called
“the Truth,” and the best way in which its interests might be forwarded,
while his own life—his precious life—was an item in the calculation. A
mere figure, a something to be carried to this side or that, to be
preserved or blotted out, as best might help to produce the wished-for
result! To her this indifference seemed horrible. If, in her bitter
pain, she could have found words at all, those words would have been,
“You care not for yourself, but care you nothing for me?” But words
would not come, only tears, and low choking sobs.
David Stratton soothed her with a tenderness of which few would have
believed him capable. Not now indeed, but often during the long after
years, Alison confessed to herself that it was worth while to have shed
some tears and suffered some pain, in order to be comforted thus, and to
win such words and looks from that silent, undemonstrative nature.
When she grew calmer, he said remorsefully, “I hae done wrang to say
sic’ things. For ye ken, a’s no tint that’s in danger. The king’s aboon
the bishops, and our King Jamie makes na muckle count o’ kirkmen. But I
lippen a’ to the guid Lord, and Alice, ye maun just do the same.”
“But I canna, David. I’m no like you.”
“Ye haud the Truth, Alice?—ye love the guid Lord Jesus?” The two
questions were asked in a quick, eager whisper, and without any pause
between, as if they were indeed but one.
Alice answered slowly and sadly, perhaps reluctantly, “I haud what you
taught me, David. I dinna pray to saints, I dinna believe in purgatory,
I dinna think our ain works can save our souls. But all that doesna make
it an easy thing to dee, or—whilk is waur—to see ithers dee.”
What David Stratton felt at that moment came nearer the bitterness of
death than anything he had ever known before. “Alice”—he began; but his
broad chest heaved with emotion, and for some time the words struggled
in vain for utterance. “Alice,” he said at length, stretching out his
hand to her—“Alice, forgie me; for I misdoot sair I hae done an ill
pairt by ye. I suld hae bided awa’. I suld hae never seen yer face again
(though it’s dearer, God wot, than heaven’s ain licht to me!)—that were
better far than to drag ye down into a’ this grief and dole. No that
it’s dole to me, but for the thocht o’ _you_, Alice. But is it owre late
yet to say good-bye—God speed ye—forget a’ that’s been between us?”
Alison rose calm and pale, and put her small hand into his. There was a
light in her dark eyes, and her voice, though low and quiet, had no
trembling in its tones. “David Stratton,” she said, “it _is_ owre late.
There be some gifts that can never be taken back; and of such I hae
given you. No that I’m wae for that. Gif I could, I would not be again
the merry lass I was ere I kenned you, David. I—I—canna say mair on’t,
but take that thought with you through all that may happen to us baith.
Whatever God sends, you shall hear no murmur frae my lips. But pray for
me, for I wot weel I havena your faith.”
David Stratton did not exaggerate his own danger. But the fear of
involving others in the same peril made him deaf to his brother’s
affectionate, and under the circumstances really generous entreaties
that he would still remain a guest at the castle. On the following
morning he returned to his own secluded residence on the sea-coast,
intending to live there, in as private a manner as he could, until the
storm either broke or blew over.
Isabel tried hard to console her young cousin, and to persuade her that
all would yet end happily. David had powerful friends, she said; the
Strattons stood well with the king, and he would never allow the kirkmen
to proceed to extremities against one of the name. “It was not to be
denied,” she added, “that David had advanced very strange opinions, and
been very imprudent in his conduct; but yet—”
Here Alison indignantly interrupted her. “Ye’ve no right to say that,
Isabel. Gif Maister David makes sma’ count of this world, it’s because
he’ll hae a better portion in the world to come than you or I, or aebody
else. His faith in God is just wonnerful; it’s nigh the grandest and
noblest thing I hae ever seen. But wae’s me!” she added, in an altered
tone, “why might we no have been left to live and die in peace like
other folk? Wherein have we offended, that all this should come upon
us?—I wot weel _he_ would say, ‘God’s will be done.’ But oh, Isabel, _my
heart_ willna say it!—at least, no yet.”
[Illustration]
VII.
=Voices in the Cloud.=
“Thanks for the little spring of love,
That gives me strength to say,
If they will leave me part in Him,
Let all things pass away.”
A. L. WARING.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
VII.
=Voices in the Cloud.=
Three months after that sunny March morning, the young Master of
Lauriston rode one day to the gate of his uncle’s dwelling, usually
called Stratton House. This was a rude building, half castle, half
farmstead, erected by some Stratton of a former generation, who having
quarrelled with the laird of his time, chose to lead a life of
independence in his own abode. It was situated on a hill, and close to
the sea-shore; and many a time from the narrow windows had David watched
his little ship as it struggled with the breakers; oftener still, in the
gray morning light, had he trod the rough footway to the beach, prepared
for a cruise along the coast of Angus, half for business and half for
pleasure. Or after such an expedition, he had landed there, bringing
with him his troop of swarthy, sunburnt fishermen, to drink huge flagons
of double ale, and to fill the gloomy hall with their rough merriment.
But these days were passed now, passed for ever. At the time of George’s
visit, all within the house was still and silent. David was busy
superintending the concerns of his little farm, and the servants were
assisting him in the field work. He perceived, however, the approach of
his guest, and quickly came to meet him, soiled and heated, but with a
face beaming with pleasure.
“Eh, but I’m unco blythe ye’ve come, lad: guid day to ye. Here, Jock,”
addressing a boy who had followed him from the field, “tak’ young
Maister’s horse.”
George warmly grasped his uncle’s extended hand, and then followed him
into the hall, which presented a rather bare and comfortless appearance,
having scarcely any furniture but a long table and some benches and
settles by the wall. He was pressed to take a cup of sack, a draught of
French wine (his father’s present), or even a horn of ale, with other
more substantial refreshments, but he declined, promising to wait for
the evening meal.
After some little conversation on indifferent subjects, he drew out his
precious New Testament, saying, “I think ye wad scarce give me a welcome
without this, uncle.”
David’s blue eyes kindled with eagerness; then a shade of sorrow crossed
his face, and he said mournfully, “Gin I had to live owre again, I wad
tak’ tent, and get book lear while I might, and no be like yon puir
cripple at the pool o’ Bethesda, wha had to lie there his lane the haill
day lang, and see ither folk gang in and get the blessing, a’ because he
couldna fend for himsel, and there was naebody by that wad fend for him,
for the love o’ God.”
“But then, uncle, ye ken the Lord Jesus did the wark _himsel_, with ane
word of his mouth. It was He wha gave the waters their power to heal,
sending his angel to trouble them. An’ if he pleased, he could heal just
as well without them.”
“Oh ay, Geordie, I ken what ye’re ettling after.[36] Folk might read yer
wee book frae ane end to the ither, and no be the wiser, gin the guid
Lord didna speak himsel to their ane hearts the while. When it’s his
will to speak, he can do it, an’ he pleases, but book, or priest, or
sacrament. For he’s the Lord.”
“That’s owre true, uncle.”
“Ay, but ye’ve no a chance to learn _how_ true, sin’ ye dinna stan’ as I
do, like a wrecked seaman on a bit rock, between life and death as a man
might say.”
George looked at his uncle in some surprise. Never from the lips of
David Stratton had friend or foe heard words of complaint before. He had
always made light of danger; almost too light, George had often thought.
He answered, with a smile, “It’s time I suld come to speir after you,
uncle. I think ye have bided your lane owre lang.”
“Na, it’s no that, Geordie. No that I wadna be blythe to see ye ony day,
lad; for yer ain sake, and for the book ye aye bring wi’ ye. But I’m no
my lane here ava’. What wi’ the lads and the lasses, and the fisherfolk,
there’s enoo to tell the Lord’s love to, and mony’s the hour I spend in
the house or the field, or by the sea-shore, just talking wi’ Him.
Geordie lad, I kenned him first as the Saviour—the guid Lord that deed
for me. But forbye that, I hae come to ken him noo as my ain, anely
friend, wha can read off ilka bit thocht or trouble in the heart as easy
as you can read thae wee crooked marks in your book.”
“But for a’ that, uncle, are ye no cast down and sorrowfu’ whiles?”
“No that sorrowfu’ Geordie. This life’s no sae lang, nor sae guid
either, that a man suld sit down and greet for it, like a bairn wha hae
tint a play-toy.”
“But methinks ye’ve no tint all yet, even for this life?”
David’s brow was mournful, though his blue eyes were full of light, as
he answered, “Do ye no mind the story ye hae tald me ainst o’ the great
King and the puir man, Geordie? The king (David mixed the allegory and
its application together)—the king had graith and plenishing and gear
enoo, and braw flocks and kye, the puir man had naebut ane wee lambie.”
Here his voice failed, and a few moments passed before he was able to
resume. “I hae never cared for onything as I care for _her_. And noo,
it’s no like I’ll ever see her face again, till we stand thegither at
the judgment-seat o’ Christ. But that’s no the waurst to bear. Aft and
aft hae I cried shame on mysel for a feckless tentless coof. Why could I
no haud my peace and bide my time? What gared me turn my face to
Lauriston ava’, quhill that she was there? Gin trouble suld come to me,
its nae wonner, I hae done enoo to earn it, owre and owre again. And I
thank the Lord I can thole it, thro’ his guid grace. But God help me! I
canna thole the thocht o’ her sorrow.” David’s head was bowed upon his
hands, and his face was hidden from sight.
“God will help thee, uncle. He hears prayer,” George said
compassionately, almost tenderly.
“Hears prayer! I wad ye, lad, he does, or I’d hae gane clean daft ere
this. But it’s ill to ken what a man suld pray for whiles. When it’s
naebut mysel that’s in it, it’s a’ plain enoo.” His head was raised now,
and his eyes shone through the tears that had gathered in them. “Sma’
matter what he gies, or what he taks awa’, sin’ he has gien me his
ainsel. And his ‘loving-kindness is better than the life itself; my lips
shall praise him.’ Gin I could, I wadna wale to turn ane step frae the
gait he has markit for me. For weel I wot, that I’d tyne mair than I’d
win by that. I’m just in his guid hand, and there’s nae better place to
be in a’ the muckle warld.”
“And Alison?” asked George gently, “is not she there too, in the same
guid care and keeping?”
“Nae doot of it,” answered David, who, fortunately for himself, was too
simple-minded to doubt that Alison’s clear intellectual perception of
the truth was accompanied by genuine faith and love. “Still I canna just
mak’ it out. It’s no that easy to trust the Lord wi’ her. Mony’s the
time I pray that he wad gie her a bit portion _here_, as weel as in the
guid hame aboon—a wee bit joy or comfort, ye ken, even for this puir
life. But it’s a’ dark; I canna see ane glint before me, or bring to my
mind what he thinks to do wi’ her ava’.”
“Uncle,” said George, slowly and reverently, “he loves her mair than you
do.”
Wonder and incredulity mingled in the gaze David bent on him; but after
a time these passed away, changing gradually into a full content, calmer
than common joy and deeper than earthly gladness. His silence was long;
ere he spoke again his ear had caught the sound of footsteps and voices
outside, but he heard them as one in a dream, a happy dream, from which
he would not willingly be awakened.
“Ye’re richt, lad,” he said at length. “Unco hard it seemed to me to
think there _could_ be love mair deep and true than mine. Fule that I
was for that! For I ken in my ain heart, just a wee bit, what his love
is and can be; and kenning that, whaur I trust my ain soul I can trust
my soul’s treasure too, God helping me.” And he stopped, overcome by the
fear and shame that so often seizes upon reserved natures when betrayed
by strong emotion into unwonted self-utterance.
It was only too easy for George to turn the conversation. Not quite so
absorbed as his uncle, outward things had been making rather more
impression upon him. “Is it your wont, uncle, to have guests at Stratton
House?” he asked, with a glance towards the little window.
“Aiblins it’s the fisher folk,” answered David. “Tho’ that’s no like to
be; the boatie suld be unco far by this, maist awa’ to Arbroath.” But he
rose and walked quickly towards the door, followed by George, whose
curiosity was excited by the arrival of strangers in a place so remote
and difficult of access.
Both involuntarily recoiled for a moment from the scene that met their
view. The yard seemed filled with armed men, dressed in “jacks” or stout
buff leather jerkins, and with steel caps on their heads and spears in
their hands. They had entered unchallenged, for the servants were all
absent at their work in the fields, and had left wide open the
substantial “yetts,” which, if closed, might have been defended for a
considerable time even against overwhelming odds. But no one dreamed of
danger then. No one knew, that while David Stratton walked quietly by
the sea-shore, holding sweet communion with Him whom having not seen he
loved, or spoke of Him in simple strong words to his poor farm-servants
and fishermen, two such important personages as the Prior of St. Andrews
and the Bishop of Ross, assisted by other Churchmen of less degree, had
been taking grave counsel together as to the best means of apprehending
so dangerous a heretic. They had come to the conclusion that the
business required careful management, as a desperate resistance might be
looked for from the reckless and daring Stratton of Stratton. Like other
great Churchmen of the day, the Prior maintained a number of armed men
at his own expense and on his own account. A troop of these “jackmen,”
as they were called, were accordingly destined to this service, supposed
to be one of danger; and they were purposely placed under the command of
a certain Halbert of the Hirst, cousin to that “black Will” whom David
once stabbed in a quarrel in Dundee. It was with this man that he now
stood face to face, with an instant consciousness of his errand and of
all its terrible import. How often do the great moments of our lives
steal upon us thus with noiseless footsteps! We may have been watching
long for some great joy or sorrow with strained eyes and parted lips;
but at last there comes an unguarded hour, when weary lids close
unconsciously, and mind and body are at rest, and then, just then,
expectation becomes reality, and the very event for which we watched and
waited takes us by surprise.
Thus it was that, while a man might count twenty, David stood amazed and
silent before Halbert of the Hirst, who briefly and rudely explained his
errand, at the same time showing his warrant for the apprehension of the
excommunicated heretic. But in another moment Stratton of Stratton was
himself again. Not in vain, after all, had he anticipated this solemn
hour.
“I’m fain to gang wi’ ye,” he answered, calmly and simply; “and I thank
my God I’m no feart to answer for his truth the day.”
Here George interposed impetuously; entreating Halbert to come with him
to Lauriston Castle, and promising that, if he did so, his father the
Laird would give ample securities for his uncle.
But Halbert shook his head. His orders were precise, he said: he was to
bring Maister David Stratton, dead or alive, to St. Andrews, and he
would not be found wanting in his duty to those that sent him for all
the lairds in Scotland, be they who they might.
George would have pleaded further, but David silenced him, saying, “Na,
na, Geordie; dinna fash yersel, it’s a’ richt.” Then turning to Halbert,
“Ye’ll bait yer horse and tak a drink? Yon puir lads’ll no be laith for
that, seeing the day’s unco het, and it’s a lang gait up the hill.”
Halbert, however, declined the proffered hospitality, which he feared
might cover some snare. His impatience to set out on his way was
extreme. He could scarcely believe his own good fortune, in having so
easily secured his captive, and every moment’s delay seemed to him
fraught with unknown perils of rescue, flight, or evasion.
The farm-servants, as yet surprised and curious rather than alarmed, now
came running in from all directions.
One of them was immediately desired to saddle a horse for his master,
but on no account would Halbert lose sight of the prisoner even for a
minute. Perceiving this, David asked George to bring him a little money
and a few other necessaries for his journey, giving his directions with
a calmness that contrasted strongly with his nephew’s ill-concealed
agitation.
When George returned, David was already taking a hasty but kind farewell
of the perplexed and terrified servants. Halbert of the Hirst stood a
little apart, leaning upon his spear; perhaps he was beginning, in spite
of himself, to feel a sort of respect for his captive. George turned
towards him, and in a few words bespoke his courtesy and good offices
for Maister David, making very free use of the name and influence of the
Laird of Lauriston. This was little, certainly, to do for a relative so
dear to him, but it was all he could under the circumstances. Then came
the parting moment.
David lowered his voice, “Geordie, lad, will ye do me ane kindness the
day, for auld lang syne?”
“Onything ye list, uncle.”
“Then stay not—ride quick to Edzell (the family-seat of the Lindsays),
and tell the tale o’ what has chanced wi’ me. For I’m feart the country
folk’ll hae a phrase about it, and mak’ it waur than it is, ten times
owre. But I lippen a’ to you, Geordie. Ye’ll do the best ye can, and
help and comfort _her_, for my sake. Tell her God is wi’ me, and he’ll
no leave nor forsake me, even to the end. And I’ll pray day and nicht
for her, for thy guid faither and mither, and for thee, Geordie. God
bless thee, lad!”
It was no shame to that brave man that he took his young kinsman in his
arms, strained him to his heart, and pressed his lips to his. Nor to
George that his tears fell fast, and his voice was not calm enough to
return his uncle’s blessing. For they were parting beside the grave, and
they knew it.
A few minutes afterwards George stood alone, watching the soldiers as
they marched down the hills, with the sun flashing upon their steel caps
and spears. The blow had fallen so suddenly that he could scarcely
realize it; yet its very suddenness was, in some respects, a merciful
provision. Had there been time and opportunity, the habits of his
previous life might so far have prevailed with David Stratton as to
induce him to offer some resistance. The manners of the age, and the
lawless state of the country would have excused such a course; and,
moreover, David might well have felt that, though he owed loyal
obedience to “the king as supreme,” he owed none to proud and
domineering Churchmen, who, according to their too frequent practice,
were taking justice—or injustice—“at their own hand.”
Yet, natural and excusable as a violent resistance might have been,
David would have forfeited much thereby. There is great dignity in
submission; dignity which the heart feels, even when the reason cannot
analyze it. No rebuke is so crushing as that which the apostle addressed
to the persecutors of his day, “Ye have condemned and killed the just,
and _he doth not resist you_.”
And “he who suffers conquers;” that is, he who suffers willingly,
patiently, bravely. Victories thus won, silent and often unnoticed
though they be, are the best and noblest earth’s trampled battle-field
has ever witnessed; nor, however times may change, shall they wholly
cease, until He comes who shall bring peace to the nations.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
VIII.
=The Cloud Breaks.=
“God’s Spirit sweet,
Still thou the heat
Of our passionate hearts when they rave and beat.
Quiet their swell,
And gently tell
That his right hand doth all things well.”
C. F. ALEXANDER.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
VIII.
=The Cloud Breaks.=
David Stratton’s heart was not likely to sink when the trial he had
anticipated actually came. He was constitutionally brave; gifted indeed
with
“A spirit that would dare
The deadliest form that death could take,
And dare it for the daring’s sake.”
Not that his fortitude was of the very highest and noblest kind; of such
fortitude, strange as it may seem, that nature is only capable which is
also capable of the intensest agony of fear. It is the heart sensitive
enough to apprehend and to feel in its utmost bitterness every pang that
can be inflicted, that will rise, by God’s grace, to the loftiest height
of gentle, self-forgetting heroism in the hour of anguish. But even if
David Stratton’s courage was not, like one of Solomon’s targets, of
beaten gold pure and precious, it was at least “a right good shield of
hides untanned,” strong and serviceable in the day of battle.
When, therefore, he was apprehended and brought a prisoner to Edinburgh,
he was probably not by any means the greatest sufferer himself. Other
hearts trembled more than his, when at last he was “produced in judgment
in the Abbey of Holy rood House, the king himself (all clad in red)
being present.” A priest named Norman Gourlay was his companion in faith
and suffering. The priest was accused of having said “that there was no
such thing as purgatory, and that the Pope was not a bishop, but
Antichrist, and had no jurisdiction in Scotland.”
Against David the old accusation was revived. Robert Lawson, vicar of
Ecclescreig, deposed to his unmannerly refusal of the tithes demanded by
him on behalf of the Prior of St. Andrews. To this was added an offence
more recently committed—“that he said there was no purgatory but the
passion of Christ and the tribulations of this world.”
The king, most anxious to save him, earnestly entreated him to recant,
and to “burn his bill.” But in vain. “I have offended in nothing,” said
brave, honest David Stratton.
His was not the tongue of the learned; he had no words of burning
eloquence wherewith to explain and defend the faith so precious to his
heart; yet, as was once said by another of Christ’s true disciples, he
“could not speak for him, but he could die for him.” No threats—no
persuasions could turn him from his simple strong adherence to the cause
of truth and right. He “stood ever at his defence,” maintaining that he
had done no wrong, and therefore refusing to retract.
Then, before all that awe-struck assembly, the terrible sentence was
pronounced—_death by fire_.
David heard it with undaunted courage. Death had no terrors for him, for
he knew in whom he had believed, and was persuaded that He was able to
keep that which he committed to him against that day. Still, for the
sake of one far away whose heart would bleed, he desired to live, if
life might be preserved without unfaithfulness to his God. He made,
therefore, one last effort to save himself by appealing to the king and
asking his grace.
The king’s heart was touched, and words of mercy and pardon trembled on
his lips. But the Bishop of Ross, who managed the prosecution upon this
occasion, proudly interposed. “Your hands are bound in this case,” said
he. “You have no grace to give to such as are condemned by the Church’s
law.” So little did a king’s compassion avail the victims of priestly
cruelty.
There is no need to linger over the rest of the story; a few brief words
may suffice to tell it. On the 27th of August 1534, Norman Gourlay and
David Stratton sealed their testimony with their lives. They were
strangled, and their bodies burned at a place “besydis the rood of
Greenside;” probably near the road that now leads from the Calton Hill
to Leith. It is recorded that David Stratton consoled and encouraged his
fellow-sufferer to the last. We know not why a less painful death was
granted these two than that which in those days usually fell to the lot
of the witnesses for Christ. But after all, it mattered little through
what gate they passed from earth, with its sin and sorrow, to the
brightness of their Saviour’s presence. In that presence it was well
with them—nay, it _is_ well—for years and centuries make no change in
the blessedness of those who, absent from the body, are present with the
Lord, and “await their perfect consummation and bliss, both in body and
soul, in his eternal and everlasting glory.”
But how was it with the inmates of Lauriston Castle when these sad
tidings reached them? How the Laird mourned his brother, or George his
uncle—rather his loved and valued friend—might indeed easily be told.
But Alison Lindsay, in the restlessness of her anxious and sorrowful
heart, had once again sought the shelter of that roof, only to learn the
terrible truth from the lips of her cousin Isabel—and who shall paint
anguish such as hers?
We know, alas!—
“What bitter words we speak,
When God speaks of resigning;”
though it is his own voice that asks us to give up our treasure, and his
own loving hand, not the cruel violence of men, that takes it gently
from our arms. We know how hard it is to bury our dead out of our sight,
even when, as oft as we will, our tears may water the seed sown in
“God’s acre” against the harvest of the resurrection. What would it be
if, without farewell, without last look or parting word, that to which
our hearts cling so fondly were snatched from us; and even the lifeless
form—still so precious—denied a grave, burned to ashes, and scattered to
the winds of heaven? Yet all this many women have borne, and borne
bravely and meekly, not cursing God or man, but learning day by day to
love and pray through all, and to possess their souls in patience.
Surely, besides that written here below, there is another “Book of
Martyrs”—a book in which He who himself wept over the dead, has recorded
those tears and agonies, worse than stake or gibbet, shed in secret and
endured in silence, for his name’s sake.
But if it be only the willing sacrifice He accepts, Alison could not yet
receive the joy of that sacrifice to compensate for her bitter pain.
While hope remained she had prayed for David’s life, if indeed the cry
sent up from her agonized heart to him who was as yet to her the unknown
God, could be called prayer. ‘Surely’ (she thought), ‘the God whom he
served continually could and would deliver his faithful witness from the
hands of his enemies. He would never suffer the bad to triumph, and the
good to perish thus. He would take care of his own cause.’ So, even to
the last, she sought to reason herself into trustful hope, if not into
confidence. And then the blow came. Her life was desolate; earth was
dark—dark for ever; nor did any light from Heaven shine in upon its
midnight gloom. For had not her hope deceived her? was not her prayer
given back into her own bosom? And yet she could not say, “It was a
chance that happened us.” She could not forget God—there are situations
in which this is impossible; she recognized his mighty hand, and bowed
beneath it—alas! not in resignation, but in despair. The language of her
heart was not, “It is the Lord, let him do what seemeth him good;” but
rather, “O Lord, take, I beseech thee, my life from me, for it is better
for me to die than to live.”
Those around her, though they longed to comfort, yet had to stand apart,
for it is God’s ordinance that through all deep waters the soul must
pass alone. In the great silence that he makes around the mourner, every
human voice dies away that his, and his alone, may be heard. It is a
fearful thing when _He_ is silent! Then to the tried and tortured heart
come the whispers of the tempter, the “adversary” of God and man. Such
whispers came to Alison. First, they said to her, “There is no God;” but
well she knew that was false. Then came the more subtle suggestion,
“There is a God, but he cares not for you. He does what he pleases in
heaven and upon earth, heedless of the happiness or the misery of the
creatures his hand has made.” And Alison said in her heart, “It is so in
truth;”—thus from despair she passed into rebellion, and again rebellion
engendered despair.
All this time she did not weep, or wept but seldom. Nor would she speak
of the past even to her cousin Isabel, after having once heard, with a
calmness that seemed terrible to those who told it, the tale of David’s
trial, condemnation, and martyrdom. But George took care frequently to
leave in her way the Testament from which David had so loved to hear the
words of truth. Remembering how earnestly he had urged its study upon
her, she took it to her own apartment, and there read it, often for
hours together. At first her attention wandered, and she scarcely tried
to fix it, believing herself already sufficiently familiar both with the
history and the doctrines of the book. But gradually she became
interested in what she read. Now and then a passage would arrest and
touch her; some parable or narrative it might be, which she had heard in
David’s presence, or he had spoken of to her. And then tears would come,
welcome tears, that relieved the heart of some of its heavy burden. She
began to grow humbler in her sorrow, to take sympathy gently if not
thankfully, and to long to hear of him she had lost from those who knew
and loved him.
Thus it happened that George told her one day of his last interview with
David. She heard all in silence, determined to restrain her emotion, at
least in George’s presence; with Isabel it might have been different.
But when she heard that David had been willing to trust her where he
trusted his own soul, because he knew by experience even a little of
that love passing knowledge, wherewith he had been loved, so strong was
the rush of feeling, that in spite of all self-restraint, there were
heavy sobs and tears, though they were not wholly for sorrow.
George would willingly have consoled her, but he knew not what to say or
do. He was about to leave the room, when the thought occurred to him
that if he did not finish his story now he might probably never have
another opportunity. Before the conversation began, he had been reading
the Testament to his mother and Alison; but Lady Isabel having been
called away, he had laid the book aside. He now quietly resumed where he
had left off; and these were the words that fell upon the ear of Alison:
“And when even was now come, his disciples went down unto the sea, and
entered into a ship, and went over the sea toward Capernaum. And it was
now dark, and Jesus was not come to them. And the sea arose, by reason
of a great wind that blew. So when they had rowed about five and twenty
or thirty furlongs, they see Jesus walking on the sea, and drawing nigh
unto the ship: and they were afraid. But he saith unto them, It is I; be
not afraid. Then they willingly received him into the ship: and
immediately the ship was at the land whither they went.”
No words she ever heard had been to Alison what those words were then.
To her sorrowful but softened heart they seemed an image of her own
condition. Was she not alone—as it were—on a stormy sea, amidst wild and
tossing breakers? “And it was now dark, and Jesus was not come.” Was it
because he cared not? Oh, no; his heart was full of love. Whatever else
she doubted, henceforward she would not doubt of this. But would he come
to her? Surely she would “receive him willingly.” Would he but say to
her: “It is I; be not afraid?” Would he but reveal himself as he had
done to one she loved? Then all might yet be well, and a bright and
blessed morning dawn upon her night of weeping.
She thanked George calmly enough, and then withdrew to the welcome
refuge of her own room. As her heart had known its own bitterness, so
with this newly awakened hope no stranger might intermeddle. Thus it is,
almost always, with deep natures. Whether we lose or win, we must fight
our great battles alone. Alone! but if once we have learned to “cry to
the strong for strength”—because we know that the strong is also the
loving One, and therefore will surely hear us—it is no longer doubtful
whether victory will be ours or no. Weary and heavy laden heart, be
comforted; “thou wouldst not be seeking him, if he had not already found
thee.”[37]
Very soon Alison’s prayer was answered, and the desire of her heart was
given her. She found rest in Christ; and though still she wept for the
earthly treasure his hand had taken, she wept like a child sobbing out
its grief in its mother’s arms; not like one standing outside in the
cold and dark, knocking in vain at a closed door. Christ had revealed
himself to her as her Saviour, her Redeemer, her ever-living Friend. And
having seen him, she had seen the Father also; she knew him as her
Father who loved and cared for her. Once she could not say: “It is the
Lord, let him do what seemeth him good;” _now_, “Even so, Father, for so
it seemeth good in thy sight,” was the voice of her resigned and
grateful heart.
The great sorrow of her life had come to her in midsummer, when skies,
and leaves, and flowers were brightest, and all nature seemed to
rejoice. Peace and comfort came when the November winds were whistling
through the leafless trees, and the first snows of winter were whitening
the ground.
And even then she arose and went to her own home. When God visited her
and gave her peace, he taught her that she had a work to do for him, and
that the command, “Occupy till I come,” was as truly addressed to her as
though her life had been filled with earthly ties and earthly happiness.
Nay, perhaps it is addressed to her and to those like her, for their
comfort and blessing, in a sense peculiarly full of meaning; for was she
not called and set apart, even more than others, to care for the things
of the Lord, that she might be holy both in body and in spirit?
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
IX.
=Left Alone.=
“Thy love
Shall chant itself its own beatitudes
After its own life-working. A child-kiss
Set on thy sighing lips shall make thee glad;
A poor man, served by thee, shall make thee rich;
A sick man, helped by thee, shall make thee strong;
Thou shalt be served thyself by every sense
Of service which thou renderest.”
E. B. BROWNING.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
IX.
=Left Alone.=
Alison Lindsay found her father and her brothers full of sympathy for
her, and of indignation at the fate of Stratton. As so often happens,
death had proved a great peace-maker. David’s punishment had so vastly
exceeded his offence, that the offence itself was altogether consigned
to oblivion. Nothing more was heard of the petulance and obstinacy with
which he had involved himself in the quarrel which provoked the Lindsays
of Edzell to deny him the honour of their alliance; only his dauntless
courage and fortitude were remembered now. Even young Gavin, who had
once been so glad to bring David his father’s hostile message, was upon
more than one occasion heard to call him “a martyr.”
Knowing something of Alison’s strong affections and of the determination
of her character, and not knowing the change that had taken place in her
views, they half expected her to evidence her grief for David by bidding
the world farewell and retiring to a convent. Great was their relief to
find that the only daughter of their house had formed no such intention;
greater still their wondering admiration of the quiet fortitude and
resignation with which she bore her heavy sorrow. They had always known
that “our Alison was a brave lass, and had a great spirit,” but they
never thought so highly of her as when they saw her resuming with
energy, and even with apparent cheerfulness, the occupations (though not
the amusements) suitable to her age and position. Into all their
interests and their harmless pleasures she entered fully, giving them a
sympathy and a toleration which they in turn learned to extend to her.
It was a signal mark of this toleration that when, in the course of
time, other offers were made for her hand, and amongst them more than
one which, if accepted, would greatly have advanced family interests;
her indulgent father only said, “Please yerself, my lass;” and her
brothers refused to interfere, on the plea that “our Alice will aye gang
her ain gait.”
To her religion they were gradually led to extend something more than
toleration; and to win their hearts to it became the great interest,
because the great duty, of her life. The impression made by David’s
martyrdom was not suffered to die out. The precious season of natural
re-action against priestly tyranny was eagerly, yet wisely, spent in
leavening their minds with as much of Scripture truth as they were
willing to hear from her lips. During the five or six following years
nearly all the members of her family were won, at different intervals
and more or less gradually, to the cause of the Reformation. In some,
indeed, the change was merely outward, but in others it was deeper and
more real; and more than once or twice was Alison given to taste the
full blessedness of leading those she loved to her Saviour’s feet. Nor
was her quiet but effectual work for him limited to her immediate
family. The servants, the retainers of the household, the poor of the
neighbourhood, all felt her sweet influence for good; she was unwearied
in ministering to their bodily necessities, but still more anxious to
bear to their thirsting souls the living waters of the Word of God.
Yet it must not be concluded that Alison’s life, whilst thus rich in
blessing for others, was for herself either a perfectly happy or a
perfectly healthful one. In a sense, indeed, the wound of her heart was
healed; but “what deep wound ever healed without a scar?” and to tell
where _that_ wound had been, a broad deep scar remained. There was an
incompleteness in her life, a sense of want, a hunger in her heart; and
this was felt not so much during the first year after David’s martyrdom,
as during those that followed it. For when, in that hour of deepest need
and sorrow, God had revealed himself as the strength of her life and her
portion for ever, it seemed as though want or woe could never again come
near the heart he had satisfied with his own fulness. Had he not made
the wilderness to rejoice and blossom as the rose? Had he not given her
songs in the night, as when a holy solemnity is kept; and with these
upon her lips, should she not come to Zion with everlasting joy, and
sorrow and sighing flee away?
But weeks and months and years rolled on in slow monotonous succession.
Life, with its cares and struggles and dull every-day realities, drew
its meshes around her again. The brilliant hues and colours of the
morning—“the gold, the crimson, and the scarlet, like the curtain of
God’s tabernacle”—which had heralded the shining of the sun of
righteousness upon her soul, faded from her, and passed into the light
of common day. True, it was light still and not darkness,—light to live
in, light to work by, light to be thankful for as heaven’s best gift;
and yet sometimes, in spite of all this, tears would start,—tears not of
rebellion, scarcely even of sorrow, but rather of weariness and
loneliness. She wanted something, she knew not what; and she often felt
that if it were not very wrong, it would be very sweet to think that the
time of her rest in heaven was not far away.
Those around her understood but little of her inner life, else, perhaps,
they might not inaptly have described her in the poet’s words,—
“You never heard her speak in haste;
Her tones were sweet,
And modulated just so much
As it was meet.
Her heart sate silent through the noise
And concourse of the street;
There was no hurry in her hands,
No hurry in her feet;
No joy drew ever near to her,
That she should run to greet.”
One thought indeed there was that came to her with something like a
thrill of rapturous hope. As she indulged it, it returned again and
again, and with such force, that in process of time it became the
strongest temptation of her quiet secluded life. She had early learned
contented acquiescence in God’s dealings with him she loved, as far as
he himself was concerned. She thought of David Stratton not with
resignation only, but with deep and solemn joy. For she rightly
considered his fate as the most glorious possible to the sons of men.
None of the diadems of earth appeared to her imagination half so bright
as the martyr’s crown. Was it then so strange, if she gazed on that
crown until she began to long that it might be hers also? Or if she
looked upon the bright pathway by which the martyr had gone to his rest,
until her eyes were so dazzled that the common beaten road in which God
appointed her to tread seemed dark and void of beauty and interest? That
longing for martyrdom,—is it hard to comprehend, even for us; knowing as
we do, that there are many things worse than death, and sometimes
dreaming, as we may, of the strange sweetness of proving by some great
sacrifice our love to him whose love to us was so great? Does it seem a
thing incredible to us that the men and women of other days should have
rushed unsummoned before the heathen tribunals, stretching out rash
hands to grasp the fiery cross, and even sinning that they might attain
what so many through the weakness of nature have sinned that they might
avoid? Surely we can sympathize with Alison Lindsay if, in the loosening
of earthly ties, and the daily strengthening of those that bound her to
the unseen, the thought of such a fate often presented itself to her
mind as a consummation devoutly to be wished for. Why could not she have
died as David Stratton did?—“for the word of God and for the testimony
of Jesus Christ.” It would have been so easy and so blessed to give up
life in such a cause. That would be indeed to serve and glorify her Lord
and Saviour; and to enter in joyfully, and with an “abundant entrance,”
within the veil, where her longing heart desired to be. But her desire
was not given her. There was indeed little fear, or as perhaps she would
have phrased it, little hope, that a life so retired as hers, and so
carefully guarded by loving hearts and hands, should be cut short by
martyrdom.
With an intensity of sympathy and interest which it is difficult for us
to realize, Alison watched the fate of those brave sufferers who—after
David Stratton and Norman Gourlay—sealed their faith with their blood in
Scotland. It almost seemed as if she went with each one of them in
spirit to the very gate of heaven, hoping that, as it opened to admit
the new comer, some gleam of the glory within might fall on the solitary
watcher outside; and then, when all was over, many a quiet tear was
shed, and many a prayer was whispered,—“How long, O Lord? Is it not yet
enough? Wilt thou not soon make an end of this tyranny, and give peace
and freedom to thy people in this realm?”
Those for whom she wept thus were not too many to be briefly enumerated
here. Four years after the martyrdom of Stratton and Gourlay, several
persons were burned in one fire on the Castle Hill, Edinburgh, “when
they that were first bound to the stake godly and marvellously did
comfort them that came behind.” Of four of these brave and faithful
witnesses—Kyllour, Beverage, Sympson, and Forrester—little is known to
us; but the fifth, Dean Thomas Forrest, stands before us in striking and
interesting individuality; his story may be read in Fox’s “Book of
Martyrs.”
Alison’s heart thrilled at Forrest’s dying challenge to one who sought
to persuade him to retract—“Before I deny a word which I have spoken,
you shall see this body of mine blow away with the wind in ashes.” But
she gave perhaps a tenderer sympathy to the two Glasgow martyrs who
suffered shortly afterwards. Russell’s gentle disposition, and Kennedy’s
extreme youth (he was only eighteen), seemed to have softened the hearts
of some of their persecutors; and even the Archbishop of Glasgow would
have allowed them to escape, but for the ferocious zeal of Cardinal
Beaton’s emissaries. Kennedy “at first was faint, and gladly would have
recanted;” but God so wonderfully revealed himself to him, raising
himself above all fear, and filling his heart with joy and peace, that
he met his doom triumphantly. Nor was Russell less steadfast. “Brother,
fear not,” he said to his young companion. “More potent is He that is
with us than he that is in the world. The pain that we shall suffer is
short, and shall be light; but our joy and consolation shall never have
an end. And, therefore, let us contend to enter in unto our Master and
Saviour by the same straight way that he has trod before us. Death
cannot destroy us, for it is destroyed already by him for whose sake we
suffer.”
Four years passed ere there were martyr-deaths again in Scotland. During
that interval King James died, and the Earl of Arran, who succeeded to
the principal authority under the title of Governor, favoured at first
the cause of the Reformation. But this gleam of prosperity soon faded
away, no doubt to the bitter sorrow and disappointment of many a waiting
heart.
That of Alison Lindsay was still beating high with hope for her country
and her faith, when a friend of her father’s, newly arrived from Perth
(or, as it was then called, St. Johnstone), told a tale that awoke
deeper and sadder feelings within her than any she had heard for the
last nine years. Four burghers of that city had been tried, condemned,
and executed, for heresy. They were humble and simple men, but
God-fearing and intelligent, able to give a reason for the hope that was
in them, and willing to die rather than surrender it. But the
martyr-band also included a woman. Helen Stirk, the wife of the most
advanced and fearless of the “heretics,” was accused of heresy, and
condemned to die because she refused to pray to the Virgin Mary. “She
desired earnestly to die with her husband, but she was not suffered;
yet, following him to the place of execution, she gave him comfort,
exhorting him to perseverance and patience for Christ’s sake, and,
parting from him with a kiss, said in this manner: ‘Husband, rejoice,
for we have lived together many joyful days; but this day in which we
must die ought to be most joyful to us both, because we must have joy
for ever. Therefore I will not bid you good night, for we shall suddenly
meet with joy in the kingdom of heaven.’ The woman after was taken to a
place to be drowned, and albeit she had a child on her breast, yet this
moved nothing the unmerciful hearts of the enemies. So, after she had
commended her children to the neighbours of the town for God’s sake, and
the sucking bairn was given to the nurse, she sealed up the truth by her
death.”
Bitterly did the Lindsays execrate this cruelty, exceptional even in
that cruel age, and many were their invectives against him by whose
authority it was perpetrated; “curses not loud but deep” added to those
already “waiting in calm shadow around” the wicked Cardinal, until the
memorable day when he filled up the measure of his iniquity, and the
land was no longer able to bear him.
But Alison heard the tale in silence; not until she had entered into her
chamber, and shut the door, did the torrent of mingled feelings it
awakened find vent in tears. How she envied that unknown sister in
Christ, to whom he had given this great joy and glory of suffering for
his name’s sake. How blessed seemed _her_ lot, to go with him she loved
not only to the gate, but within it. Not to turn back to earth, weary
and sorrowful, to tread that long, long path of life alone,—
“With aching heart, and weeping eyes,
And silent lips;”
but neither by life nor by death to be divided from him, the pain of the
brief parting to be swallowed up in the joy of the near and certain
re-union, and for all farewell only those sweet words, “I will not bid
you good night, for we shall suddenly meet with joy in the kingdom of
heaven.”
“Father, Father!” sobbed Alice on her knees, “thou hast been very
gracious to thy poor, weak, sinful child. And thou knowest I would not
murmur. Righteous art thou in all thy ways, and holy in all thy works,
_yet_ let me talk with thee of thy judgments. Wouldst thou but grant me
a portion like to _hers_? None ever raised such a triumphant song of
praise for life restored as I would do for that death—better and
brighter than any other lot on earth.”
Thus she prayed, if these words can be called a prayer. But she rose
uncomforted, because in part at least unsubmissive. “Happy, happy Helen
Stirk!” were the words on her lips; and in spite of her resolves,
perhaps the contrast her heart drew the while was more than half a
murmur.
But as she lay awake through the long silent hours of the winter night,
other thoughts came to her—visions of little lonely orphan children,
fatherless and motherless, wandering desolate and uncared for, or tended
only by the unloving hands of strangers. Had such thoughts saddened the
last hours of the martyr-mother? Had she dreamed, as she pressed that
last kiss on the lips of her babe, that perhaps in after years those
lips would be taught to lisp the “Aves” _she_ died rather than repeat?
Or was it given her to see the untwining of those tender ties without a
pang? Could she part from all in full unfaltering reliance on his
promise who has said, “Leave thy fatherless children, and I will
preserve them alive?”
Alison felt very sure that He would make that promise good. But by and
by it occurred to her that he usually worked by means, and that when he
wanted the lambs of his flock fed and cared for, it was his way to say
to some one, “Feed my lambs.” What if he said it that hour, even unto
her? Why not? There was meal enough in their “girnels” to feed twenty
orphan children, wool enough in their stores to clothe them, and little
danger that her liberal and kind-hearted father would object to any use
she pleased to make of either. Every detail of her plan was soon
settled. It was simple, natural, easy; requiring no romantic effort, no
heroic sacrifice; only some forethought, and a little daily self-denial.
She felt it would be so sweet to do this work of love for her martyred
sister, and for Him for whom she gave her life. And thus she learned
that it might be as blessed a thing to do as to suffer his will, to live
unto him as to die unto him. For living or dying, she was his. Her
morning prayer began as her evening prayer should have ended. “Not my
will, but thine be done, O my Father. I see thy will is the best, and I
know now thou carest as tenderly for her thou leavest here to work and
pray, as for her thou calledst up yonder to rejoice and praise.”
It seemed as if the orphan children that Alison brought from St.
Johnstone to her home at Edzell, brought with them a kind of completion,
as well as manifold comfort and blessing to her own life. Their
love—childhood’s love, so easily won, so freely expressed—was a joy to
her lonely heart; and the task of training them for Christ, an
ever-fresh interest and occupation. And besides, this work, undertaken
directly for her Lord, helped her to feel that all her other work was
for him also. Thus quietly and peacefully her days glided on, like
waters that fertilize where they flow. No praise she sought from man,
and but little she received; but he that hath “his eyes like a flame of
fire” to search the hidden things of darkness, would surely have said of
her, “I know thy works, and charity, and service, and faith, and thy
patience, and thy works; and the last to be more than the first.”
She lived to see the morning of the Reformation—which had dawned upon
Scotland amidst cloud and storm—settle into the noonday of gospel light
and liberty. Although by that time her dark hair was mixed with gray,
her heart was still fresh and young. A joyful day it was for her, when
being on a visit with George Stratton, Laird of Lauriston, who both as a
youth and a man was a zealous and consistent friend of the Reformation,
she accompanied him and part of his family to the house of Erskine of
Dune, to hear John Knox preach the word of God, and to receive the
sacrament from his hands. And when a young David Stratton (so named by
the Laird in affectionate remembrance of his martyred uncle) asked her
on their return if she had been happy, adding significantly, “but I mind
_you’re_ aye happy, Mistress Alison,” she did not contradict him, but
answered simply, “Yes, my bairn; and why should I not? Loving-kindness
and mercy have followed me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in
the house of the Lord for ever.”
Nothing more remains to be told. Short and simple, as it has come down
to us, is the true story of David Stratton; and we have purposely
avoided obscuring its few salient features by any redundancy of
ornament. The Reformation martyrs of Scotland were not numerous, in
comparison with those that suffered in other countries. But they were in
many ways fitting representatives of their nation, its true
“first-fruits” offered up to God. Every age was there: WALTER MILL, who
had passed the fourscore years allotted to man, and might have laid his
hoary head in the grave in peace, but that, as he said, he was “corn and
no chaff, and would not be blown away with the wind nor burst with the
flail, but would abide both;” NINIAN KENNEDY, who had scarcely reached
the age of manhood, but yet had lived long enough, since he found his
Saviour owned him and died for him. Every rank was there: young PATRICK
HAMILTON, with his royal blood and brilliant prospects; ADAM WALLACE,
“in appearance a simple, poor man,” but deeply taught of God, and
moreover, “having read the Bible and Word of God in three tongues, and
understood them so far as God gave him grace.” In GEORGE WISHART
profound learning, deep thoughtfulness, and winning sweetness and
nobleness of natural character, had their representative: DAVID
STRATTON, on the other hand, was remarkable for none of these—he held
the treasure in an earthen vessel, that the excellency of the power
might be of God.
Yet this very fact imparts peculiar significance to his history. We are
prone to look upon the noble army of martyrs through the haze of a vague
admiration, that on the one hand magnifies their forms to something
larger than human, but on the other robs their outlines of individual
distinctness. That they were, in the fullest sense of the word, good
men, scarcely any one, even amongst those who regard the truths for
which they suffered with indifference, will think of denying. But we
have a tendency also to regard them as great men; the chosen of their
age for thoughtfulness, for nobleness, for all the intellectual and
moral qualities by which man differs from his fellow. No doubt some of
them were such. But as in the Church of Christ itself, so amongst those
“white-robed warriors” who form its honoured vanguard—all classes, all
grades, all types of character are represented. They were men of like
passions with us, and of like temptations, faults, and weaknesses. That
which made them to differ was nothing in or from themselves; it was the
sublime power of that faith of which the great Head of the Church is
himself the Author and the Finisher, and of that love which his Spirit
alone can shed abroad in the heart of man.
[Illustration: FINIS]
-----
Footnote 1:
Baker.
Footnote 2:
Without.
Footnote 3:
A doctor.
Footnote 4:
That is, cautiously.
Footnote 5:
That is, lost.
Footnote 6:
That is, endure.
Footnote 7:
Increase or diminish.
Footnote 8:
As it is intended that the reader should understand that whatever is
told of George Wishart throughout is pure history, a word of
explanation, perhaps of apology, may be necessary here. It does not
seem any deviation from the rule thus laid down, to suppose his doing
for the personages of the story what, at this time, he did for so
many. Knox tells us “he spared not to visit thame that lay in the
verray extreamitie; he comforted thame as that he might in such a
multitude; he caused minister all things necessarie to those that
might use meat and drink.” And Emery Tilney, who, during the year that
he taught at Cambridge, was his affectionate and admiring pupil,
writes of him, “His charity had never an end, night, noon, nor day;”
and again, “If I should declare his love to me and all men, his
charity to the poor, in giving, relieving, caring, helping, providing,
yea, infinitely studying how to do good to all and hurt to none, I
should sooner want words than just cause to commend him.”
Footnote 9:
Eyes.
Footnote 10:
Not from affectation, but because it was his custom to wear nothing he
might not suitably give away to the poor. In order to supply their
necessities, he seems to have habitually practised the most rigid
self-denial. “_He that is faithful in that which is least, is faithful
also in much._”
Footnote 11:
Knox.
Footnote 12:
Outlawed.
Footnote 13:
Present, gift.
Footnote 14:
Parlour.
Footnote 15:
The following is the circumstance alluded to above. During Wishart’s
stay at Montrose, the Cardinal, whom Knox may be excused for calling
the “devill’s awin sone,” again attempted his life. “He caused to
write unto him a letter, as it had been from his most familiar friend,
the Laird of Kinneyre, ‘desiring him with all possible diligence to
come unto him, for he was stricken with a sudden sickness.’ In the
meantime had the traitor provided three score men, with jacks and
spears, to lie in wait within a mile and a half of the town of
Montrose, for his despatch. The letter coming to his hand, he made
haste at the first (for the boy had brought a horse); and so, with
some honest men, he passes forth of the town. But suddenly he stayed,
and musing a space, returned back; whereat they wondering, he said, ‘I
will not go; I am forbidden of God. I am assured there is treason. Let
some of you go to yonder place, and tell me what ye find.’ Diligence
made, they found the treason as it was; which being shown with
expedition to Maister George, he answered, ‘I know that I shall end my
life in the hands of that blood-thirsty man; but it will not be of
this manner.’”—KNOX.
Footnote 16:
In connection with this narrative, there naturally recurs to the mind
the suggestive remark of Pascal upon “the qualities of a perfectly
heroic soul:” “Capable of fear before the necessity to die is actually
present, then altogether fearless.... Troubled when he troubles
himself; when other men trouble him altogether strong.”
Footnote 17:
The Earl of Bothwell, “made for money bucheour to the Cardinall,” was
at this time High Sheriff of Haddington.
Footnote 18:
The Queen Mother, Mary of Guise.
Footnote 19:
This dungeon may still be seen, and is thus described by one who has
recently visited it: “It is in shape like a champagne bottle, the neck
or narrow part might be nine feet deep, and the whole depth
twenty-four feet. It is six feet wide at the top, but widens into
about eighteen below. Prisoners were let down into it by means of a
chain, which was fastened to an iron bar placed across the mouth of
it. There are no doors or windows.”
Footnote 20:
That is, building.
Footnote 21:
By and by.
Footnote 22:
Servant.
Footnote 23:
That is, executioner.
Footnote 24:
Nor was this, as it is well known, the only instance in which Wishart
was believed by his contemporaries to have spoken under the influence
of prophetic inspiration. John Knox says (and his testimony is
remarkable as that of one who had an intimate personal acquaintance
with him): “He was not only singularly learned, as well in godly
knowledge as in all honest human science, but also he was so clearly
illumined with the spirit of prophecy, that he saw not only things
pertaining to himself, but also such things as some towns and the
whole realm afterwards felt, which he forspake not in secret, but in
the audience of many.” But may not the instances of this strange
foresight which Knox adduces be resolved into the results of deep
thoughtfulness, intense prayerfulness, and very close walking with
God?
Footnote 25:
Knox, in his “History of his own Times,” quotes from a sermon of Friar
William Arth, in which a poor man is made to say, “Know ye not how the
Bishops and their officials serve us husband men? Will they not give
to us a letter of cursing for a plack, to last for a year, to curse
all that look owre our dyke, and that keeps our corn better than the
sleeping boy, that will have three shillings of fee, a sark, and pair
of shoon in the year?”
Footnote 26:
“Gawin Logie, Rector of St. Leonard’s College, was so successful in
instilling them (the Reformed opinions) into the minds of the
students, that it became proverbial to say of any one suspected of
Lutheranism, that he had ‘drunk of St. Leonard’s Well.’”—_M‘Crie’s
Life of Knox._
Footnote 27:
1527.
Footnote 28:
Chamber.
Footnote 29:
Tyndale’s New Testament.
Footnote 30:
Lose.
Footnote 31:
Penalty, fine.
Footnote 32:
Trust.
Footnote 33:
Horse used in farm work.
Footnote 34:
Knox.
Footnote 35:
Knox.
Footnote 36:
Trying to say.
Footnote 37:
Pascal.
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