“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.
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 recognized 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. “I’on’s the loon wha hae tried to kill Mister 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 I” 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 Janie; then turning to Wigton with a manner expressive of the most bitter contempt and loathing, “Nae hand o’ ours sall be upon ye, traitor the’ 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 I’ll 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.* 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 I’ll 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 claviers,” cried Archie. “Fling him across the street!”
“Whisht, Archie! Gin ye’re se 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, se 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 today I maun be shamed of it. Neel, that’s bye. What for can ye no gang hame? The sooner ye free the toon o’ the presence of a traitor earl, 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 “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 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 lad 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 afterward 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 deed1”
“I hae nac will to blame him that bade me do the wark, my ain guilt is ower 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 se.”
Mary did not deny it. ‘Tearless, but with a look more sad than many tears, she answered, “Brither, Ill pray for ye night, noon, and morn―I’ll nae mair forget yer name than I could his Mine 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 flow, 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 I’ll 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 ower 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 gaup?”
“I dinna just ken mysel. But I kvu unco weel whaur I’m no like to gang, and that’s to St. Andrews. Aebody’s hand I’ll 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 black hearted 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 remake 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 dolor 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 dishonor ne’er came to our house till the day.
It has come noo, God help me to bear it! Na Wigton I’ll 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 center. 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 favor 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.