Part 5

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!

IX. =How the Mission Sped.=

“’Tis sweet to stammer one letter, From the Eternal’s language; on earth it is called Forgiveness.” LONGFELLOW.

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.