Part 9

“Wha’s he?” asked Mary, little dreaming that the name so unfamiliar to her ears was destined to become far more famous than that of her revered pastor. Thus also perhaps was the word fulfilled, “One soweth and another reapeth,”—if indeed this be worth noticing, now that for so many years he that sowed and he that reaped have been rejoicing together in their Saviour’s presence.

“He’s a guid priest,” said James Duncan, “wha was maister to Sir Hew Douglas’s bairns. He has shown muckle love to Maister Wishart, waiting on him wi’ a’ diligence, and blythe and proud to bear before him the twa-handed sword his friends gared him tak’ wi’ him sin’ John Wigton—

“Well, I meant—I was saying he ca’ed for his friend Sir John Knox, and tald him a’ his bitter grief at thae tidings. Nae thocht had he for himsel, that they had led him into cruel peril, and then left him his lane to dee; a’ his complaint was, that they were weary o’ God and his cause.

“Then, after sermon,—whilk he ended thus, ‘Let these my last words as concerning public preaching remain in your minds till God send you new comfort,’—‘he took good night, as it were for ever, of all his acquaintance.’ Sir John Knox begged sair to bide wi’ him, but he wadna. He took frae him the twa-handed sword, and bade him gang his ways. Sir John still entreating, he answered (aye thoughtfu’ as he was for a’body but himsel), ‘Nay; go back to your bairns, and God bless you—_ane is enough for a sacrifice_.’”

It was well for Scotland that the heart of George Wishart was thus “at leisure from itself.” Had he granted Knox’s affectionate entreaty, another name would probably have been added to the noble army of martyrs, but the Reformation would have lacked its great leader, the one man who could bend and sway the hearts of thousands. Little, however, did the Duncans suspect all this; and very lightly would they have esteemed the life of John Knox in comparison with _his_ over whose head they saw the martyr’s crown suspended.

Jamie continued, “Sae he gaed wi’ the laird and a wheen ither gentlemen to Ormistoun, whaur he was to sleep. It chanced they had to walk, by reason o’ the muckle frost. After supper he talked happily wi’ his friends o’ the death o’ God’s dear children; then, being weary, he said, ‘Methinks I desire earnestly to sleep. Will we sing a psalm?’ Near as he lived to Christ, the lowliest words o’ penitence and prayer seemed best to suit his heart’s need that nicht. Sae he waled the fifty-first, frae the “gude and godly ballates,’—

“‘Have mercy on me now, good Lord, After thy great mercy; My sinful life does me remord, Whilk sair has grievit thee; But thy great grace has me restored, Through grace to liberty: To thy mercy with thee will I go.’

“Whilk being sung, he gaed to his chalmer, saying to his friends as they parted, ‘God grant quiet rest.’ But na quiet rest was for God’s weary servant that nicht. Ere midnicht Lord Bothwell, wi’ his men-at-arms, had beset the house.[17] Sae soon as he kenned their purpose, Maister Wishart said to the laird, ‘Open the gates, and let the blessed will of my God be done.’ Sair grieved was the laird to do it, but it had to be. Forbye, Lord Bothwell had gien express promise ‘that he should be safe, and that it should pass the power o’ the Cardinal to do him scaith or harm.’ And this said he owre again to Maister Wishart himsel, in the presence o’ the lairds his friends. ‘Neither sall the Governor or the Cardinal hae their will o’ ye, but I sall retain ye in my ain hands and in my ain place, until that either I sall mak’ ye free, or else restore ye in the same place where I receive ye.’

“And the lairds answered, ‘Gin ye do this, my lord, we will serve ye our haill lives lang, wi’ a’ the men o’ Lothian wha profess Christ’s evangel.’ Sae they a’ straik hands upon it, and made solemn promise as in God’s presence.

“But sma’ thocht o’ God was in Lord Bothwell’s mind. Maist like he meant fair at first; but the Cardinal gied muckle gowd, and the Queen’s grace[18] gied guidly words, and sae—and sae—amang them a’ God’s servant was bought and sold. First the Lord Governor had him in his keeping in Edinburgh Castle. Wae’s me! but few days passed then, until he lichtly gied him up into the hands o’ him that sought his life.”

“What say the Dundee folk to a’ this, Jamie?”

“It’s no that lang sin’ the tidings came for sure, that they had haled him to St. Andrews. A’ the faithful make sair lamentation, but I needna tell ye _that_, Mary” (and his own voice faltered)—“The cry is aye and aye, ‘My father, my father, the chariot of Israel and the horsemen thereof.’”

Mary shuddered. “Oh, Jamie, do ye no think what that minds me of? The chariot—of _fire_!” The last word was rather breathed than spoken; yet the loudest thunder-peal could not have sent such a thrill through both those hearts.

James Duncan covered his face, and did not speak for a long time. At last he said, “Young folk like Archie are weel nigh daft, because the gentlemen and a’ the lave wha hae heard the blessed word o’ truth frae his lips, sit still the noo in their quiet hames while the Cardinal pays him for his message wi’—wi’ _that_. But they couldna save him. The haill power o’ the realm is against them.”

“Archie, puir lad, ’ill be sair troubled.”

“Ay; but he’s had his arm broken.” What would at another time have been considered a serious misfortune, now scarcely caused Mary a start. So true it is that “a great grief kills all the rest.” She asked, however, how it happened.

“A’ anent thae waefu’ tidings. There be some, of course, amang the tounsfolk wha haud still by the Cardinal and the priests. The lads fecht their forbears’ quarrels owre again, and whiles they dinna spare to use waur weapons than their tongues. Our Archie wadna stint to gie as guid as he got, ony gait. But it chanced he fell in wi’ a wheen silly callants, wha had learned frae the priests to ca’ Maister Wishart a heretic. He gied them back the word, that he was na heretic, but the noblest man and the best Christian in a’ Scotland. That was unco weel; but then he was sae far left to himsel, that he maun curse the bluidy Cardinal in a loud voice, and pray God wad send him an evil end. Wi’ that somebody flang a muckle stane at him, and, lifting his arm to save his head, he had it broken.”

“I’m wae for that, ilka gait,” said Mary. “Sic’ paivies couldna do God’s servant ony guid.”

“True; but the broken arm willna do Archie muckle harm. It’s a kind o’ comfort to him to hae something to thole, and keeps him a bit quiet. I gared Maister Wilson promise to send him here sae soon as he could.”

“Jamie,” said Mary after a pause, and rather hesitatingly, “will ye no tak’ yer supper, man?”

Jamie drew forward towards the table, which had been spread by Mary with such loving care. His eye rested on the little tokens of anxious thought for his comfort, then wandered round the cheerful pleasant room, to their store of treasured books—to the bright fireside—to the cot near it where their infant slept. With a quick movement he turned away, and veiled his face to hide the tears he could no longer restrain. “Oh, Mary,” he said, “I’m fear’t it’s no sae cheery as this the nicht—in the Sea Tower o’ St. Andrews!”

“But, Jamie, God can make the dark gruesome dungeon mair bright wi’ his presence than the summer sky wi’ sunshine. Can we no trust our dear father in Christ in the loving hands o’ the guid Maister he served sae faithfu’? While yet he walked amang us God was his portion, why suld we doot that even noo he can be his exceeding great reward?”

Mary Duncan’s words were true. No record indeed remains to us of the month during which he lay, “straitly bound in irons,” in that “nook in the bottom of the Sea Tower, a place where many of God’s children had been imprisoned before,”[19]—unless the faith and love, shown so soon afterwards by the captain of the castle, may be counted a record of work done for Christ in that solemn interval. But it has well been said, “There has been a joy in dungeons and on racks passing the joy of harvest. A joy strange and solemn, mysterious even to its possessor. A white stone dropped from that signet-ring, peace, which a dying Saviour took from his own bosom, and bequeathed to those who endure the cross, despising the shame.” If that white stone has been ever given (and most assuredly it has), we may presume it was not withheld, in the hour of loneliness and suffering, from Christ’s faithful soldier and servant, George Wishart.

XIII. =“He giveth his beloved Sleep.”=

“I bless Thee for the quiet rest thy servant taketh now, I bless Thee for his blessedness, and for his crownèd brow; For every weary step he trod in faithful following Thee, And for the good fight foughten well, and closed right valiantly.” _Lays of the Kirk and Covenant._

XIII. =“He giveth his beloved Sleep.”=

Heavy was the cloud of sorrow that brooded now over the once cheerful home at Dunsinnane Brae. “All joy was darkened, the mirth of the land was gone.” Mary moved with hushed footsteps about her household duties, speaking little, but praying much. Many a quiet tear dropped over her baby’s cradle; many a time the psalm she tried to sing died away in low sobs; nor could she even recall the precious words of Scripture for her own comfort, without too vividly recalling with them the thought of him who was suffering for the crime of having brought to her and to others that living water. Jamie’s grief was less resigned and patient than hers. Certain very old perplexities about the works of God and his ways with the children of men sorely haunted and troubled him. With these came thoughts of anger and bitterness, only too natural under the circumstances. Mary often heard him murmur, “How long, O Lord, holy and true, dost thou not judge and avenge?”—But he could never bear to complete the sentence.

Soon afterwards Archie, who was now wonderfully subdued and quiet, joined their party. He brought with him from Dundee the tidings that the Cardinal had asked the Governor for a temporal judge to pronounce sentence upon the heretic; but that it was hoped and expected he would refuse the request, which indeed he did, telling the Cardinal that “he would not meddle with the blood of that good man.”

Further than this, for three slow and sorrowful weeks they heard nothing. One evening they had just concluded their wonted family worship, in which the prayer was never omitted, that God would hear his servant in the day of trouble, send him help from the sanctuary, and strengthen him out of Zion. Jamie’s voice faltered sorely as he offered it; and, on rising from his knees, he drew Mary aside and said to her, “It’s na use. I canna bide here ony langer. I maun gang to St. Andrews.”

Mary started at this announcement.

“To St. Andrews, Jamie! What gars ye think o’ that?”

“I wad learn a’ there, and—and—aiblins see his face again.”

“Eh, but that’s no like to be,—God wot,” she added very earnestly, “gin you could bring him but sae muckle comfort as a cup o’ cauld water, I wadna haud ye back, an’ ye were to set your ain life in the bawk to do it. But ye couldna. Think on’t yersel; ye ken weel they wadna let you see him. It’s naebut a fule thocht, Jamie.”

“No just that. We canna get the bit news our hearts are aching for, but I maun gang a’ the gait to Dundee. St. Andrews is no sae muckle farther.”

“Ay is it, owre twice as far. But it’s no the distance. It’s that I canna see the guid on’t. Forbye, Jamie, St. Andrews is the Cardinal’s ain town.”

“Weel, what matters that to a puir simple man like me, wha naebody kens?”

“Ye might be owre gleg wi’ yer tongue.”

Jamie shook his head impatiently, was silent for a few moments, and then wisely shifted his ground. He had made a mistake, in attempting to reason at all about what was not a matter of reason, but of feeling.

“It’s a’ true what ye say, Mary. But ye maunna keep me back, for it’s _borne in on me_ I suld gang. Fule thocht or no, I canna rest till I do it.”

The woman’s nature responded to this appeal. She answered immediately, “Then do a’ that’s in thine heart, Jamie. But oh,” she added, “for the sake o’ yon bit bairn in the cradle, be prudent, man, and dinna be thinkin’ out loud!”

“Ne’er fear for me. I havena done sae muckle for my Lord that he suld honour me to suffer for him. But it’s my thought aye and aye, an’ I gae to St. Andrews, aiblins he’ll gie me an answer here to the question that’s rackin’ my heart baith day and nicht, ‘Thou art o’ purer eyes than to behold evil, an’ canst not look on iniquity, wharefore lookest thou on them that deal treacherously, and haudest thy tongue when the wicked devoureth the man that is mair righteous than he?”

James Duncan acted on his impulse. It may be the highest wisdom of a wise man to do this occasionally; for “the heart has its reasons, which the reason cannot comprehend.” He was enough of a Scotchman, however, to be prudent in his way of doing even what might be considered an imprudent action. In order to cover his real purpose, he found a plausible business errand to a brother of Janet’s husband, one Walter Graham, who resided at St. Andrews. And being well aware how little Archie’s discretion could be counted upon, he steadily refused his passionate entreaties to be permitted to accompany him. It was perhaps fortunate that he had another very sufficient reason for this refusal, as the boy was still weak and suffering from the effects of his accident. Janet volunteered to remain with Mary and the invalided Archie at the farm during the few days of the master’s absence; and he set out on foot, intending to cross the Firth of Tay, and in this manner to accomplish the journey in a single day. Thus the man, as man ever will, found relief for his sorrow in action, in motion, in excitement; while the woman, as woman so often must, sat at home, and suffered and kept silence.

Three anxious days passed heavily by at Dunsinnane Brae. But on the evening of the third, a little after sunset, James Duncan returned home. So calm, it might almost be said so radiant, was his countenance, that at the first glance his impetuous young brother could not help exclaiming, “Is he saved, Jamie—tell us, is he saved?”

“Saved—ay, that he is! Ane day and nicht (but there’s nae nicht there) has he been in his Saviour’s presence, and is no that enoo to pay for a’ he suffered here?”

“Oh but, Jamie—did God let them do their waurst?”

“Nae doot he kens noo that the _waurst_ cruel men could do was just the _best_ his Lord could appoint for him. And I’m amaist come to that mysel. What I hae seen is wonnerfu’.”

“Let my God provide for me as best pleaseth him,” had George Wishart said; and God had not denied him the request of his lips. But truly man’s worst is often His best for his chosen. Our love is timid, shrinking, more fearful even of inflicting than of enduring pain; His is broad, and strong, and far-seeing, as well as tender. Could we have our will with the dark tragedies of earth’s history, should we not be often tempted to find for them some softer termination? But,—

“God himself is the true poet, And the real is his song.”

And with deep meaning has it been said, that “he whom the poet loves he allows to suffer.” For the heart attuned to comprehend its beauty, no sweeter poem was ever sung than the life that ended at St. Andrews, upon that 1st of March 1546.

As soon as the others were calm enough to hear it, James Duncan told his tale:—“I hae tint my gait,” he said, “after I crossed Tay Frith, and I fand mysel at Cupar—no that a’ that matters noo; but in sae far that it gared me bide there the nicht. Neist morn (and no sae early either, for I was owre forfoughten) I walked the sax mile to St. Andrews. Being come there, straight I ken’d that something by-ordinar was on hand. Castle and town were full o’ spearmen and jackmen, wi’ knapscall splent and axe; and folk were busy loading the muckle guns in the Towers. I thocht first it was for fechting, and that there maun hae been a stour in the town, but soon I changed my mind. Passing the East Tower, I saw nigh the Abbey, at the foot o’ Castle Wynd, men biggin’[20] _something_, I ken’d na what. But ainst I looked up at the castle, I had it a’ fixed: the folk were naebut making holiday, and they were biggin’ a stage for a clerk-play, or sic like. For the hail fore tower was decked out wi’ braw gear,—velvet cushions, tapestry curtains, and the lave,—as for the Cardinal and the kirkmen to look on and tak’ their ease. By-an’-by, I askit ane o’ the jackmen wha stood on guard what a’ this suld mean. He answered me cold and careless,—‘They’re gaun to burn Maister Wishart, and yon’s naebut for my lord and the bishops to see the ploy.’”

“_Curse them!_” cried Archie.

“Whisht, callant!—I cursed them ainst mysel, and that bitterly,—but I hae done wi’ cursing noo. Weel, I just said, ‘The Lord require it,’ and leaned back against the wa’. Na for a’ the muckle warld wad I fecht thro’ sic’ an hour again! I thocht my heart maun break, no just wi’ grief for _him_, but wi’ rage an’ bitter hate. Christ’s gentle, loving servant, wha had wared his haill life doing guid, to dee in cruel torture,—and thae fiends to sit yonder, in their hatefu’ pomp an’ pride, to _enjoy_ the sight o’ his agony! ‘Serpents, generation o’ vipers, how wad they escape the damnation o’ hell?’ I was blythe to think they wadna escape it. Wi’ an awfu’ thirl o’ joy the thocht gaed thro’ and thro’ me, that the smoke o’ their torment wad gang up for aye and aye in the presence o’ the holy angels. It’s nae word to say I wad hae slain the bluidy Cardinal wi’ my ain hand; I’d hae deemed a quick death like that owre muckle guid for him—it was no to _that_ death he doomed his victim. Sae I gied him up in my heart to God’s ain fearfu’ vengeance, and I lifted my hand to heaven to curse him in his holy name.

“But when I thocht upon God I was troubled. For I minded that _he saw a’ this_. He beheld, frae his dwelling-place, the cruel triumph of his enemies, the bitter suffering of his dear, faithfu’ servant. Yet he bided still, and gied nae sign. The sky was clear and blue;—he sent nae thunnerstorm to smite the guilty town. Had he indeed forsaken him? Did he no care what happened? Were the murderer and the martyr alike to him? Ye may weel look fear’t, Mary, thae were gruesome wicked thochts—but God had mercy on me.

“Belyve[21] a braw gentleman, wi’ sword and broidered doublet, passed quick by us. The man wha had spoken wi’ me made him a salute, and said, ‘Yon’s our captain.’ Unkenning what I did, I gied ane glint at his face. Sadder face hae I never seen upon living man! He looked as he’d hae gien the haill warld just to greet like a bit bairn, but daredna do it _then_. I couldna help mysel, I gaed richt up to him, and said, ‘Sir, in God’s name, tell me gin this thing be true?’

“He didna answer me sae quick; but he peered in my face as he’d hae read the vera thochts o’ my heart. Indeed, I trow ilka ane of us read the ither’s heart, for the een whiles can say mair than the tongue. At last he speired o’ me, ‘Be you a friend o’ his?’

“I said, ‘Nae mair than thousands wha hae heard the Word o’ Life frae his lips, and wad be blythe to dee for him the day, gin that might be.’

“‘Ye haud his faith?’

“‘Dearer than my heart’s bluid.’

“‘Follow me then,’ sayeth he, ‘in the name o’ our Lord Jesus Christ.’

“Muckle wonnerin’, I did as he bade. As we passed alang to a postern o’ the castle, he spake but ane word mair to me,—‘He sall hae his last wish the day, despite a’ the bishops in Scotland.’ Then a familiar[22] having opened to us, he gied me in his charge, and we parted. I was led to a quiet, pleasant room, and left there my lane. Like ane in a dream I looked around me, and felt a kind o’ wonner at seeing ilka thing sae still and hame-like. As tho’ that day were like ither days, and folk could eat and drink, there was a fair white cloth laid on the table, wi’ bread and wine, and sic’, upon’t. Belyve, there dropped in quietly ane, an’ anither, an’ anither. Aiblins the maist part were the captain’s ain househald, but I ken there were mair by than that. Ane thing was sure, they a’ feared the Lord. Strange it seemed to me to meet God’s children _there_, in the vera seat o’ Satan. But I soon learned frae their talk what had happened. It was but that morn they had tried and condemned him.”

“Their feet were swift to shed bluid,” said Archie. “What need to try him ava’?”

“It was naebut for fear the folk suld say he was unjustly slain, as indeed they spared not to avow.” James Duncan paused for a moment, and suppressed a bitter sigh. “I canna just tell a’ they tald me o’ that trial as calm as I ought. Tho’ it’s a’ by noo, the heart maun burn still at the cruel insults heaped on Christ’s servant. They gied him to drink verra deep of his Maister’s cup; he was mocked, reviled,—even spit upon. But he tholed a’ wi’ grand and sweet patience; not ainst, they say, did e’en a change come owre his face. Sae calmly and bravely he defended God’s truth, that the folk wha filled the Abbey Kirk—”

“Auld wives and doited carles they maun hae been to bide it. They suld hae torn the Cardinal in pieces and saved him!” Archie burst forth impetuously, every nerve in his frame quivering with passion. Mary and Janet were weeping quietly.

“Callant, what could they do? I hae said the town was filled wi’ soldiers; and the gunners stood ready at the muckle guns till a’ was done. Ane hundert jackmen, wi’ spear, splent, and axe, guarded the prisoner. But the folk gied him what they could. Ainst, a priest wha said the devil was in him, had the word gien back to him quick by ‘ane young scholar boy’ in the crowd, ‘It’s a devilish tale to say that. The devil never moved to speak as yon man speaks.’ Again, as he spake o’ the priesthood of a’ God’s children, the bishops drowned his voice wi’ a shout of insulting laughter. Sae soon as he might be heard, he said gently, ‘Do ye laugh, my lords? Though these sayings appear to your lordships scornful and worthy of derision, yet they are very weighty to me, and of great value, for they stand not only upon my life, but also upon the honour and glory of God.’ When folk’s hearts are owre full, a sma’ thing’ll gar them greet; many wha were present brake forth into tears at this, nor did they even fear to make lamentation for him aloud. And at last, ere their wark was done, the bishops were fain to put the people forth, for they daredna trust them mair.

“Ane that came in later than the lave, tald us that Dean John Wynram, the sub-prior o’ the Abbey, wha preached the sermon in the kirk that morn before them a’, having spoken afterwards wi’ Maister Wishart, was moved to the vera heart; sae that he gaed, weeping bitterly, to the bluidy Cardinal himsel, wi’ a’ his priests and bishops, and tald him plainly, that ‘Maister Wishart was an innocent man, and that he said this, not to intercede for his life, but to make known his innocency unto all men, as it was known already unto God.’ May God remember that man for guid, and bring him, in his grace, to a clear knowledge o’ the Truth, for the whilk his servant suffered!