Part 7

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.

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.

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.”