Part 4

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.

VII. =New Friends and Old.=

“Oh! are not meetings in this world of change Sadder than partings oft?” HEMANS.

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.

VIII. =The Cardinal’s Missionary.=

“The blood-thirsty hate the upright; but the just seek his soul.”

VIII. =The Cardinal’s Missionary.=