Part 3

“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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.”