“The brood-thirsty hate the upright; but the just seek his soul.”
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 honored 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, since 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 sauna 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 slavers!” 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 teeing, 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’! I But there’s ane comfort, yell no hear the like aft again, I wad ye.”
Mary now looked not only distressed but alarmed. “What gars ye say that e 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 town-folk’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 yerseli”
‘Mel 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 yell 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 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 hat 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 pair soul, gin ye put the word o’ God frae ye. Dinna mind what silly folk hae telled ye, but use yet 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 I’ And did ye ever see sic’ fruit as that grow on ony tree He hasna planted?”
“Satan himsel can tale 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, men 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 honors 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 wart, 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!