“Oh, if before thy death, our God
Will thee reclaim and own;
No dearer face than thine I’ll hail,
Around his judgment throne.”
Rev. R. S. Brook.
It was late in the afternoon, but Mary had not yet left her room, nor would she admit even Janet. To the anxious inquiries of her friends she only answered that she was not ill, and that she would come to them by and by, but she needed rest and wished to be alone. In the meantime Archie told his brother all that had happened; and it may well be guessed the story did not lose any of its striking features by his telling.
Jamie, who was considerably better, was amusing himself by walking up and down the hall and passages of the house, when someone knocked gently at the street door. Being near at the moment, he had it opened before Archie, the usual porter, could bound down the stairs for the purpose. But had Mary heard that knock, she would at once have recognized it, and with her will no hand save her own should have opened the door.
A gentlemanly person, unknown to Jamie, stepped inside. He had just asked the stranger what he wanted, when, to his, equal surprise and horror, Archie sprang at the man’s throat like a wild cat, his fair boyish face darkened by a scowl of positive hatred.
“Hae ye tint yer senses, callant?” cried Jamie, exerting all his strength, which at the time was not great, to drag them asunder.
“Haud yer hand aff!” shouted Archie. “Yon’s the loon wha hae tried to kill Maister Wishart.”
Jamie, however, succeeded in separating them, but only in time to save Wigton (who seemed to lack the spirit to resist his youthful assailant) from a severe fall “Is that true, sir?” he demanded then, much in the tone of a judge interrogating a prisoner.
The unfortunate man raised his eyes for a moment to those of his questioner, then dropped them again as if unable to bear his gaze, and after making an ineffectual effort to speak, turned quickly towards the door. But Archie, either from accident or design, was standing directly between him and it.
“Let him pass, brither,” cried Jamie; then turning to Wigton with a manner expressive of the most bitter contempt and loathing, “Nae hand o’ ours sail be upon ye, traitor the’ ye are, for his sake wha askit yer life; but tak’ yer foot frae an honest man’s threshold.”
John Wigton hesitated, and, to do him justice, his thoughts at the moment were not selfish ones. His natural impulse would have been to say, “Where’s Mazy Wigton? She is my sister.” He had counted upon her affection, sorely as it had been tried, for the shelter or the disguise which might yet be necessary to save his life. But were it well done to betray their relationship, and thus perhaps to deprive her of the only friends now remaining to her on earth. For he himself; as friend or foe, must henceforward count as nothing.
Archie eagerly flung the door wide open, Jamie sternly watched to see him go, but still he stood irresolute. At last, looking full in the young man’s honest though angry face, he said boldly, “Gin ye fear God, and pity the unfortunate, let me bide here the nicht.”
Jamie’s eyes flashed, “An’ I do I’ll be — ,” and there he stopped abruptly, and bit his lip until the blood came; for an evil word had well-nigh escaped him unawares. But presently his anger changed to disdain. “What hae ye got to fear, gin it’s no yer ain ill conscience, ye puir spirited loon I The law ‘ill no touch a hair o’ yer head, sin’ (God forgie the wicked men wha hae done it) Maister Wishart’s been put to the horn. Ye kenned that unco weel, ye dastard, when ye thocht to raise yer hand against his life.”
Wigton unconsciously answered him almost in the very words of the first murderer. “But aebody wha finds me ‘ill kill me.”
“Ye suld hae thocht o’ that afore ye took sic’ a bluidy trade in hand,” said Jamie scornfully.
“Dinna fash yersel wi’ his clavers,” cried Archie. “Fling him across the stree.”
“Whisht, Archie! — Gin ye’re sae fear’t for yersel” —
“I do fear,”said Wigton, in a low voice.” I darena dee — no just yet.”
Jamie looked at him steadily, and the hard expression of his face began to soften a little. “Be you a Dundee man I” he asked.
“Na.”
“God be thankit for the same I I couldna thole the thooht that he had come amang us, sae brave and kind, to do us a’ the guid he might for soul and body, and that we had sought to pay him — wi’ the murderer’s knife! I was aye proud to be a Dundee man, but I thocht to-day I maun be shamed of it. Weel, that’s bye. What for can ye no gang hame? The sooner ye free the toon o’ the presence of a traitor carl, the better.”
“Daur I pass the gate in this gear I” asked John Wigton.
Jamie had no answer to this question ready, It had now became clear to him that the unhappy man was really in danger, and that either a change of clothing or a night’s lodging was absolutely necessary to give him a reasonable change of safety, But what was that to him? For one short moment he was glad — glad to think that, without overt act of his, the man who had raised his cruel hand against the life so dear to them all should pay the just forfeit of his crime. But then another thought came to him, — and he stood irresolute, gazing on the, pale troubled face before him.
After a short pause, he turned abruptly and opened the door of the room where Wigton once before had passed the night. “Gang in there,” he said; “I moan think,” About to walk hastily upstairs, he fortunately recollected Archie, and mindful of the explosion that would certainly follow if he were left with that man, he seized the boy by his collar, and marched him before him with little ceremony and much decision, Whilst Archie told the astonished Janet who was in the house, Jamie walked silently to the window and stood there, his head resting on his hands. Not long since had his heart’s choice been made to serve and follow his Master Christ; and this was the first time his faith had been put to the proof by the solemn question, “Shall I do in this matter the thing that please, or shall I deny myself, and do the will of Christ my Savior?” What that will was, he wild not doubt, He from whose lips he had learned “the mercies of God,” was very earnest and explicit in beseeching those who tasted them to yield themselves living sacrifices, holy, acceptable ante him. “If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink;” — Jamie well knew the words, and felt them at that moment directly addressed to him. But his eyes were resting on the spot where so lately Wishart had knelt by his sick-bed in prayer; the Book he had given lay near him on the table; and all the blessed words of help and healing, all the noble deeds of Christian love, which he and others owed to him, came crowding on his memory. A personal wrong would have been, oh how easy to pardon! But to attempt his life — his! That was too cruel; it was beyond all pardon. He had yet to learn the last and hardest lesson of Christian charity (witness any who have tried it) — to forgive the injuries’ done to those we love and reverence. But then, who possessed, after all, the right to decide the question, and o dispose of the man’s life? And had not he, in the plainest possible manner, already made known his’ decision! This thought softened him; his lip trembled, and a mist came over his dark eye.
At last he spoke aloud, but as if addressing himself: “I’ll do it, sin’ Maister Wishart willed it thus.”
“Oh, Jamie!” cried Janet, who for some moments had been watching him earnestly, “dinna do it for Maister Wishart’s sake, but for the guid Lord Jesus, wha prayed on the cross for his murderers!”
Jamie was surprised at this burst of feeling from the Ordinarily reserved and silent Janet. But not the less had the arrow she sped winged its way to his heart.
“Ye’re richt, lass,” he said, in an altered tone. Then, turning to the large “kist” which did duty as the family wardrobe, he began to ransack its contents with a hasty hand.
“What gars ye make sic’ a litter I” asked Janet, sub siding in a moment into her ordinary sphere of common life and practical activity. “Tell me what ye’re seeking, an’ I’ll find it for ye without turning aething topside down.”
But Jamie silently held up the object of his search — a suit of coarse clothing which he had been accustomed to wear when about his daily work.
Just then Mary entered the room, looking very pale. She had heard the loud voices in the passage, and at once the idea occurred to her that her brother might have’ ventured to the house. As hitherto, in compliance with his own request, she had always been careful to watch for his knock and to admit him herself, he would naturally calculate upon this. ‘Alarmed at the thought of his being recognized by any one else, she was going down to meet him, when, in passing by the open door of the Duncans’ room, she overheard part of their conversation.
“Jamie,” she said, in a low but tolerably calm voice, “you man is my brither, John Wigton.”
Janet and Archie uttered exclamations of surprise, perhaps of horror. Jamie remained silent, but drew his hand across his face.
Mary’s soft eyes were fixed on that shaded face with a wistful inquiring gaze, very touching in its sorrowful earnestness. “Do you indeed despise me?” they seemed to ask.
At length Jamie spoke, and in that peculiarly gentle tone which a keen observer might have noticed he never used except in addressing her: “A Mary, lass,” he said,
“wad ye rather see him again or no?”
“I maun see him, Jamie.”
“Then bring him thae bit claes; an’ he wants meat or drink, ye ken whaur to get it.”
“God bless ye,” answered Mary; and taking the clothes with her, she left the room.
Mere courage, or the absence of it, is not always a fair test of a man’s moral condition. That morning John Wigton had been ready enough to brave a violent death; that evening, he was willing to do or suffer almost anything in order to retain for a little longer.
“The poor common privilege of breathing.”
But in the meantime a revolution had passed over him; and the man who shrank from death was in some respects better and wiser than the man who faced it fearlessly. His daring had been the offspring of ignorance and superstition; his fears were at least reasonable. A weight of conscious guilt was on his soul, how then could he venture to enter his Maker’ presence?
He was sitting at the table, his head bowed dowr between his hands, when Mary entered the room, came towards him, and said softly, “Brither.”
He started and looked up, but in an instant afterwards his head sank and he covered his face again.
“I’ll no reproach ye,” said Mary, her voice trembling, but gin it’s no wrang to think it, I could wish God wad hae taken me hame afore this bitter day. Brither, brither — what Bared ye dream o’ sic’ a deed I”
“I hae nae will to blame him that bade me do the wark, my ain guilt is owre heavy for that,” he answered and Mary saw that his heart was crushed within him.
“Thank God it was nae waur,” she said gently; “it gars me grue to think what micht hae been the day,”
“Sister, ye were richt. Maister Wishart preaches the true Word o’ God. Miserable sinner that I am, I hae bcht against God himsel!”
“God can pardon, brither.”
“Oh ay, he can, but I sair misdoot, — atweel, Mary, we maun part the noo for aye and aye. Ye ken yersel it’s better sac.”
Mary did not deny it. Tearless, but with a look more ad than many tears, she answered, “ Wither, I’ll pray or ye night, noon, and morn — I’ll hae mair forget yei lame than I could his whase life ye sought. And I hope in God’s mercy we’ll meet ainst again at his right hand.”
“Then we part friends, Mary I” said Wigton, extending his hand.
“Oh ay,” replied Mary quickly; but a sudden thought of the deed that hand had been about to do overcame her at the moment, and she hesitated to take it.
“Ye willna touch me,” said her brother. “He took me in his arms.”
Overpowered by the recollection, he buried his face once more in his hands and wept aloud. George Wishart’s forgiving love had conquered. All the ice of fanaticism, that for years had been gathering around the heart of Wigton, melted beneath its beams in a single hour. Since he left his father’s home he had scarcely known what it was to weep; for men who harden their hearts as he did, do not often yield to the softening thoughts that bring tears. But now he was sobbing like a child; not for sorrow, not for shame, not even for the sense of sin, but only at the memory of those arms clasped around him — that voice pleading for him — “Whosoever shall trouble him troubles me.” And he had hated the man so bitterly, had believed so firmly that by killing him he should do God service I Truly, as Martin Luther said, “Satan cannot cast out Satan,” nor hate vanquish hate, “but the finger of God, which is love, will do it.”
When men weep thus they do not soon grow calm again. Mary saw that every nerve in her brother’s frame was quivering with emotion. She came very close to him now, wound her arms about his neck and pressed her lips to his. “God will pardon thee,” she said again.
“God’s servant pardoned,” murmured Wigton.
“An’ I dinna think the Maister’s ain heart ‘ill be less full o’ love than the servant’s. Whaur but frae the blessed Lord himsel did Maister Wishart learn to forgie like that’? Gin he, wha ye thocht to kill, could shield ye wi’ his ain body frae them that sought yer life, ye may ken for sure that the guid Lord ‘ill no refuse, an’ ye turn to him, to tak’ ye in his arms and keep ye safe frae scathe and harm.”
“O Mary, what a refuge for the like o’ me! Na — na — it’s owre guid.” And he shook his head despondingly.
“He saves to the uttermost, he forgies e’en the chief o’ sinners,” answered Mary.
“But I maun gang,” said Wigton, rising. “It’s wearing late, and they’ll hae shut the gates.”
Mary gave him the clothes she brought, and proffered food, which he declined. He changed his dress in a small adjacent room where Mary used herself to sleep before her father’s death; and then returning to her, said, “I dinna think aebody’s like to ken me noo, forbye it’s weel nigh dark.”
“Could ye no bide here the nicht, John?”
“I daurna; an’ what guid wad it do?”
“Will ye no tell me whaur ye’re gaun?”
“I dinna just ken mysel. But I ken uneo wed vhaur I’m no like to gang, and that’s to St. Andrews, kebody’s hand ‘ill be again me noo; and my lord the ardinal wad gie me sharp thanks for this morn’s wark.”
Mary shuddered. “He maun be a bluidy black-’warted man, God forgie him,” she said. “What gars aim hate guid Maister Wishart, wha never did him or any man harm?”
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 waist like ye willna.”
“Blither! — ”
“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 I”
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; putt 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 I 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 remake 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 someone 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 I” 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 dishonor 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 center. 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.