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diff --git a/77324-0.txt b/77324-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b5353d6 --- /dev/null +++ b/77324-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7867 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77324 *** + +[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. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + =T. 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