“Oh! are not meetings in this world of change
Sadder than partings oft?”
Hemans
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 ’e asked Mary, with a bewildered look.
“Mary! “cried Archie,” I hae telled ye thae ten times — just Maister Wishart himsel! “
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 labors 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 neighbor 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 labor 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 neighborly inquiry from the street. Everyone 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 honored 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 skillfully 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 I Wishart told them in reply, that if anyone “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 I 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.! he 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 the’ 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 haud 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 Mali”, 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, someone knocked at the street door. Archie put down the book, and ran to open it, speedily returning with the tidings, “You’s a gentleman speiring after Mary Wigton.”
“Did ye tell him the sickness was here, callant?” asked Jamie.
“He had his een,” returned Archie, “sae he mrcht hae seen the mark. But he gaed richt into the first room or 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 curtsied, 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 I’ 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 very 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 pair 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 ed 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 clawed 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 awhile, 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 hafil 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 doestia look sae wed 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.
“Wed, 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.