“‘Tis sweet to stammer one letter,
From the Eternal’s language; on earth it is called Forgiveness.”
LONGFELLOW.
WITHOUT exactly fulfilling his threat of becoming to his only sister as a stranger or an enemy, John Wigton withdrew himself almost entirely from her society. He took up his quarters in a different lodging, and only came to see her upon two or three occasions for a short time. Nor were these visits productive of much enjoyment to either party; for controversy was sure to arise between them, and then the brother became violent, and the sister sorrowful though steadfast. It added to her grief that she could not help perceiving he was very unhappy, while she felt utterly unable either to aid or to comfort him. She tried once or twice to induce him to speak of himself, and to tell her where he had spent the past years, what he had been doing, and what he intended to do in future. But he repelled, in an irritable and impatient manner, every effort to win his confidence; until at last the poor girl, thus prohibited from inquiring into what might interest him, and dreading the mention of what interested herself for fear of raising a storm, was almost reduced to silence. Above all, she sedulously avoided any allusion to Wishart, as the name she most venerated seemed to awaken in his mind a fierce and bitter hatred that filled her with anguish and alarm. Thus it happened that she never told him of the minister’s seasonable visit to the Duncans. Nor was this perhaps to be greatly regretted. The circumstance that the man he intended to kill had saved his sister from perishing of want, would not probably have either softened the assassin’s feelings or altered his purpose. In his present temper of mind, John Wigton would have regarded the heretic’s good offices in the light of injuries and insults, intended to beguile and calculated to degrade those who accepted of them.
Upon one occasion, however, he himself opened the forbidden subject by asking abruptly, “Are ye bound for the heretic preaching the morn, Mary?”
She answered quietly, “Yes.”
“Dinna gang, lassie,” said John, in a tone rather of entreaty than of command.
The kindness of his manner touched her, and she answered, “I’m sair vexed ye dinna like it, John, but I maun gang whaur I hear o’ my Saviour Christ.”
“Ye hae gone aft and aft, can ye no bide at hame, just for aince!”
Mary shook her head; the matter was not only one of inclination but of principle with her. She did not think she would be doing the will of her Lord in forsaking the assembling together of those that loved his name, and forfeiting even one of her precious opportunities of hearing more about him. Who could tell how long those opportunities might be granted, since the sword of the pestilence was still suspended over the heads of both minister and people? She therefore steadily refused to grant her brother’s request, that only this once, for his sake, she would absent herself from the preaching. She expected a burst of passion, but this time John Wigton exercised unusual self control, merely saying, “Weel, gang yer ain gait. It’s naebut for yer quid I spoke the word. Guid nicht.” And as they parted he kissed her―a mark of affection he had not shown since their first bitter quarrel about the preaching.
Jamie being still unable to leave the house, Mary, Janet, and Archie, went together the next day to the East Port; taking their places of course amongst the congregation who worshipped outside the gate. They were unfortunate in the position into which they were forced by the pressure of the crowd. Without much will or design of their own, they were gradually pushed under the gateway, and quite close to the massive bars of the gate. In this situation they could hear very well, but were unable to see; a loss always considerable, but especially so where the earnest speaking countenance of the preacher lent additional weight to his words. Archie loudly deplored the privation, but Mary soon felt herself more than repaid for it. She could scarcely indeed believe the testimony of her eyes―there, within the gate, not a yard from her, stood her brother! He looked pale and haggard, but at this she did not marvel, since it must have been after a hard struggle with the prejudices and prepossessions of half a lifetime, that he prevailed on himself to take his place amongst the hearers of the great heretic. But was not this the dawn of a brighter day for both of them, and the earnest of an answer to her many fervent prayers on his behalf? Her heart went up silently in words of thanksgiving, and it must be owned that she was rather in danger of yielding to the subtle temptation of listening to the Word of God with the ears of those in whom we are interested rather than for our own edification. More fortunate, however, than the listeners without the gate, her brother soon succeeded in obtaining a better position, and passed on to where her eye could not follow him.
We must follow him thither. With the successful pertinacity of a man in a crowd who has a settled purpose, while those around him have only a vague desire to make themselves as comfortable as they can, he slowly pushed his way until he reached the very foot of the narrow stair by which the preacher always descended into the street from his elevated position on the top of the gate. Then, for the first time, John Wigton saw the man he purposed to slay. In spite of sleepless nights and weary days spent in prayer to all the saints in the Calendar for a strong and steady heart, a tremor ran through his frame at the moment. Wishart was kneeling for the prayer that preceded his sermon, but he soon rose and began to speak. Wigton however did not hear a word, he only saw the speaker. A morbid but most natural fancy that he was looking at him, at him alone in all that crowd, took possession of his mind. He could not endure the gaze of that dark, mournful, noble countenance. It was one thing to think of George Wishart as a kind of abstraction, the representative of those ideas which his heart most loathed and detested; another to stand and look him in the face, a living man, whom that sharp “whinger” beneath his gown, upon the hilt of which his hand was resting, must, in two hours at the most, change into a ghastly corpse. It was gruesome work at the best, ―why had he undertaken it?
But it had to be done. The interests of Holy Kirk, the salvation of his own soul, the rescue of many others from fearful peril, all demanded it. His heart was resolved, and he would not look at the man again; where was the use of it? But he did look again, in fact he neither looked, nor could look, away from him. A kind of fascination held his eyes fixed to the spot. With that curious minuteness of perception which is sometimes the result of intense excitement, his mind took in everything however trifling―his victim’s dress, simple in fashion and coarse in texture;* the long frieze mantle with the plain black “millian” doublet underneath, relieved by snow white cuffs and Geneva bands,―all such as a poor man might have worn, and yet so worn by him as to add to the impression which made every one instinctively describe him as “a brave gentleman.”
(*Not from affectation, but because It was his custom to wear nothing he might not suitably give away to the poor. In order to supply their necessities, he seems to have habitually practiced the most rigid self denial. “lie that is faithful in that which is least, is faithful also in much.”)
Then with a start Wigton tried to recall his wandering thoughts. But before he was aware of it, he actually found himself, in spite of all his previous resolutions, listening to the heretic preacher. The words so often repeated in his heart, “the forgiveness of sins,” struck on his ear, and beguiled him even into a few moments’ forgetfulness of his purpose. What he heard was so unlike all his anticipations that very wonder made him listen still for more. He expected to hear a torrent of coarse and scurrilous abuse poured upon the dogmas and ceremonies of the Church; not worse perhaps in point of good taste and good feeling than the average sermons of the Gray or Black Friars, but necessarily most offensive to a devout Catholic. He heard nothing of the kind. The preacher’s soul was intent on “this one thing,” to bring other souls to Christ; and he only stooped to notice error when it lay so directly in the way between the sinner and the Saviour that he must needs clear it thence and cast it forth. “To the pure word of God he gave his labooris.” Christ, in his person and his work, was the theme of his discourse.
“He only is our Mediator,” he said, “and maketh intercession for us to God his Father.
“He is the door, by which we must enter in.”
“He that entereth not in by this door, but climbed’ ane other way, is a thief and a murderer.”
“He is the Verity and Life.”
“He that goeth out of this way, there is no doubt but he shall fall into the mire; yea, verily he is fallen into it already.”
Then he “exhorted all men equally in his doctrine,” to put their trust in that Saviour, and to receive from him what he was exalted to God’s right hand on purpose to give, and that freely, repentance and remission of sins.
Had John Wigton heard these words twelve years ago, how different might all have been! Then indeed for him might the parched ground―the mirage of the desert―have become a pool, and the thirsty land springs of water. Too late now! And yet it might be that a few drops of that living water, poured so freely upon all around, forced their way through the hard crust of fanaticism to the human heart that still throbbed beneath it. For old feelings long forgotten, new feelings struggling for life, began to stir within him. There was a strange sweetness in all this, mingled with a kind of pain; as if those re-awakened longings, never satisfied before, scarcely hoping to be satisfied now, cried aloud in his heart, “Wherefore hast thou disquieted us to bring us up!” Glorious thought of forgiveness, of peace with God, once, oh how ardently desired! Might it even still be realized? Was it in this way, ―
Where was he? What was he doing? Was he dreaming? No; at least the hard hilt of the whinger, pressed by his right hand, was real enough. But he had actually been listening to the heretic; and so listening that he had forgotten himself, what he came to do, everything, except those wonderful words. Had he forgotten his faith? Was the numbing spell of heresy creeping over his senses, even over his? Horrible thought! “Holy Mother of God, aid and keep thy servant,” he said within himself. And then there came over him a great and sudden revulsion of feeling. The very fact that for a few moments his heart had been half won, made the strong rebound to his old hatred and fanaticism all the quicker and surer. How subtle must be that poison which, in spite of all his precautions, had well nigh stolen into his own viens! How fatally sweet the voice of that charmer to whom, trained and guarded as he was, he had almost been seduced into listening! They who listened should no doubt repent it where there was no more place for repentance, in the fire that is not quenched forever and ever. It was time all this were ended. The murderer of souls had earned his doom, and his blood should be upon his own head. Heart and hand were strong enough now, and ready for the work of vengeance. It was well they were; for the heretic’s sermon was over, and he was about to descend from the gate.
After the concluding prayer there was a “pause of solemn silence, then the people began soberly to disperse.” Wigton, who was fully aware of the hazard of the deed he had undertaken, had planned a quick escape through the startled crowd after its accomplishment. He now retained sufficient composure to look round and decide upon the way he should take. By the time this was done, the preacher was descending the narrow staircase. In a moment the two are face to face. Now―now! One blow for Holy Mother Church!
Before that blow could be struck, George Wishart calmly laid his hand on the assassin’s arm, saying, “Friend, what wad ye do?” Then, with a gesture at once gentle and commanding, he threw back his gown, and took the now useless whinger from his nerveless unresisting grasp.
John Wigton was the superstitious child of a superstitious age; and he had long been in that peculiar temper of mind from which the thought of the supernatural is never far removed. With nerves and brain stimulated to a pitch of intense excitement, it was most natural that he should take for a miracle what was in reality only an instance of wonderful quickness of perception and presence of mind. Clearly God was on this man’s side, and had interposed his own arm to protect and deliver him! Then had he been fighting even against God!
Overwhelmed by the thought, and conscience stricken, he threw himself at the feet of the man whose life he sought, confessing in broken accents what he had been about to do, and why. He even named the Lord Cardinal as the instigator of the crime. Beaton had indeed been guilty, not only of a crime but of a blunder, when he selected for so tough a piece of work an instrument at once too weak and too fine.
But in betraying his employer, the miserable man had also betrayed himself, and that to an instant and horrible death. He knew and felt this as he stood there like one turned to stone, with cheeks and lips of ashy whiteness, and eyes wild with terror. The revelation of his purpose, made by himself alone, and overheard by the bystanders, had transformed the quiet orderly assembly into a frantic mob, thirsting for his blood like one man, or rather like some fierce beast of prey springing with eyes of fire upon its terrified, palsied victim. All mobs have not had so fair an excuse for violence. Should a company of men who are treading in the dark some perilous path that skirts a precipice, arrest a stranger in the act of hurling their solitary light bearer down the rock, they would not probably be very scrupulous in their treatment of the criminal. Every man in the crowd who had a sword or whinger, drew it, and rushed towards the assassin, while the rest brandished staves or caught up stones from the street. And “the noyse rising, and coming to the ears of the sick (without the gate), they cried, Deliver the traitor unto us, or ellis we will tack him by force;’ and so they birst in at the gate.”*
Wigton tried hard to cry to God for the mercy he dared not hope from man; but no word would come to him, nor any thought except a fearful looking for of judgment and fiery indignation. His head dropped on his breast; his arms were folded in despair. A lifetime’s agony seemed compressed into those horrible moments. He must die, and unforgiven. All was lost―lost―lost―forever.
No; he is saved! In the tumult he had not heard the voice of one who pleaded for his life, nor perhaps could others hear it. But George Wishart did not trust to words alone when the life of an enemy was at stake. A moment more, and Wigton felt himself clasped in the minister’s arms, shielded thus with his own person from sword and stave and whinger. “Whosoever troubles him shall trouble me,” cried the noble hearted reformer.
“He has hurt me in nothing, but has done great comfort both to you and me, for he has letten us understand what we may fear. In times to come we will watch better.”
This was George Wishart’s only vengeance. Rarely, perhaps, have such an assemblage of qualities been displayed in so brief a moment of time. But the flash of lightning which, in the space of a second, illumines a whole landscape, creates nothing of what it reveals; all was there before. Thus the occasion proved the man; what he did was but the evidence of what he was. Through patient years of “the unremitting retention of simple and high sentiments in obscure duties,” had been trained the brave and loving heart, as well as the “maist scharp eye and judgment,” which saved, that day, two lives―his own and his intended murderer’s.
Our friends without the gate had their full share in the general excitement and confusion. Archie strove and pushed and shouted with the best; no man in the crowd more eager to be avenged upon the cowardly assassin.
“I’d hae dinged his skull in wi’ a muckle stane,” he boasted afterward, “but I daurna for quid Maister Wishart.”
Jamie told him in reply that he’d “better hae been caring the lasses,” which was true enough. For some minutes Janet and Mary, pressed as they were against the gate by those immediately behind them, were in actual peril. When at last it gave way, they were borne through it by the crowd, and swept onwards without any power of resistance. Still they clung together, sorely terrified, but unhurt, until in one unhappy moment Mary chanced to look up, and caught a glimpse of the two men on the staircase, locked together in that strange embrace.
Well did she recognize the white agonized face of her brother. At once the whole terrible truth flashed upon her mind. Her head sank on Janet’s shoulder; and had there been room to fall, she would have fallen senseless to the ground. Janet fortunately possessed a degree of muscular strength unusual in a girl; and she exerted herself to the utmost to drag her friend out of the throng. When the bystanders understood what was the matter, they made way for them as well as they could; and one or two men good naturedly volunteered their assistance. That a girl in the crowd should faint, in circumstances of such excitement, seemed to all the most natural thing in the world. At last she was carried to a quiet spot some distance down a neighboring wynd. Here, just as Archie and some others joined the group, she recovered consciousness, and looking round her, asked with a bewildered air, “Hae they killed him!”
Of course every one misunderstood the question.
Janet answered eagerly, ―
“Na, na! He’s as safe as you or I. God gied his angels charge over him!” she added, for once in her life kindling into enthusiasm, and even quoting Scripture.
“Eh, and what wad the saints hae got to do, gin they couldna tak’ care o’ him amang them a’!” cried Archie, his creed rather in confusion, but his heart glowing with the delicious passion of a boy’s first hero worship.
Mary’s pale face scarcely showed relief or pleasure.
She was bowed down beneath a weight of sorrow those around her could not comprehend. Too sick at heart to repeat her question, a little reflection sufficed to convince her it was scarcely a necessary one. She did not fear for her brother’s life; she had such absolute trust in him under whose protection she had seen him, that to doubt either his good will or his ability never occurred to her.
At length she turned to Janet and whispered, “Let me gang hame.”
Janet and Archie took her home, still feeling as one who dreamed. She hardly spoke to them; and she thought she dared not face Jamie then, or indeed ever again upon earth. Still she ought to tell them―she must tell them―all; but oh, not yet!
She went at once to the little room where she slept, shut the door, and threw herself on her knees. Only before her God could she pour forth the anguish of her soul. Her own―her only brother―bad raised his hand against the life of the man to whom she owed far more than life. For a while she must be left to the shame and the bitterness of that thought. By and by she will see comfort, rich comfort, in the mercy of Him who interposed to shield his servant from the malice of wicked men, to save her misguided brother from a fearful crime, and to give him still time for repentance.
But while Mary mourned, the men of Dundee rejoiced and gave thanks, each one as if for his own personal deliverance from terrible danger. For the cardinal’s mission had failed. Well was it for them, well for John Wigton, well for thousands who had yet to hear the word of truth from the lips he sought to silence. But was it well for George Wishart? That is not so clear. Little cause indeed had he to fear the assassin’s knife. Had the murderer done his worst, it would still have been―
“But one step for those victorious feet,
From their day’s walk into the golden street!”
Only a moment’s shock, a death pang scarcely felt, ―then a joyful waking in his Saviour’s presence. Were not this better far for him than the dark and painful path he was destined to tread? Yet no. “The righteous, and the wise, and their works, are in the hand of God,” and best in the end for them the ways He chooses are sure to prove. Those who, in all ages, have dared to resign themselves to his guidance, have borne triumphant witness to the Light that illumined and the Hand that led them throughout. Many doubtless there are on earth, who, bending wearily beneath the weight of the cross, wish that weight were lightened; but we may be sure that amongst the white robed choir before the throne there stands not one who would now be willing to have had his cross less heavy, or to have done or suffered the least fraction less for his Master’s sake.