VI.

=The Darkest Hour.=

On the following morning, the Duncans and Mary Wigton sat together in the desolate stillness that succeeds bereavement. Already their dead had been buried out of their sight,—buried hastily, by cold, unloving hands. Nor might they even hope to visit the spot where she lay, for a common and unhonoured grave must receive the victims of the pestilence. This was one of the lesser sorrows in their cup. For the most part they sat silent, neither weeping nor speaking, but thinking sadly of what they had lost, and trembling for what still remained to them. For now that one link in the chain was broken, it seemed as if all were loosened and ready to fall asunder.

They were very helpless in their time of trouble. If they could have prayed together, if they had possessed a copy of the Scriptures, it would have fared better with them. But the Duncans were groping after comfort in the dark; and even Mary, who knew more herself, was hardly able to explain her own convictions to others, and shrank from the attempt.

Archie was the first to suggest a thought of consolation. “Effie ’ill no be hungry ony mair,” he said.

“True, callant,” answered Jamie; “and what for suld we greet? It’s better far wi’ her than wi’ us the day.”

“But, Jamie,” said Janet, looking up with a puzzled, half-frightened air, “what do you think about—purgatory?”

“Hoot! Is it that wee bairn, and she to dee as she did? I tell ye, I’d gie a hantle siller, gin I had the same, for the lassie’s simple faith. Na, na, my mind is clear; she’s wi’ the blessed saints this minute.”

“Nay, but wi’ the guid Saviour she loved sae weel,” said Mary. “Forbye, I’m unco sure there’s nae sic place ava’ as purgatory. Gin the Lord were to send his messenger for you or me the day, Janet (sae’s we believed his Word), we’d gae right up to him; and neither sin, nor death, nor Satan himsel, could keep us ane minute from his presence.”

“Eh, but that’s guid tidings,” said Janet.

“Ower guid to be true,” added Jamie. “At least, I’m no that certain yet. Though,” he continued after a pause, “Maister Wishart does say, he has ‘oft and divers times read ower the Bible, yet such a term fand he never, nor yet any place of Scripture applicable thereunto.’”

“And do ye no mind the braw words he tells us about the rest of God’s children, and the guid hame Christ is keeping for them up in heaven?” said Mary. “It’s enoo to make us lang to gae there oursels, and feel like kneeling down to thank God for taking ane we love frae this sad warld to that better place.”

There was a long silence, which Jamie broke. “It’s a’maist time for the preaching.”

Every one looked surprised, and Janet said, “Ye’re no gaun the day, Jamie?”

“Why suld we bide awa’? God’s hand is on us (his voice trembled), we’re in sair trouble—is that a reason we’re no to gang to the ane place on airth whaur we’re like to get comfort?”

“I’d a hantle rather gang than bide,” said Archie; and as the rest appeared to agree with him, they began to prepare.

All were soon ready except Jamie himself. After rising to fetch his gown and bonnet, he sat down again, looking very pale.

“What’s wrang wi’ ye?” asked Janet, in a frightened voice.

“Hoots! naething but a kind o’ dizziness. Dinna look sae fear’t, lass.”

“Aiblins it’s the hunger. Ye havena broken fast the day,” said Janet, having recourse to Mary’s loaf.

But he rejected the food, and asked for water instead. Archie ran to fetch it, and Jamie presently added, “Gang to the preaching, and dinna mind me. I’ll try to sleep.”

But no one went to the preaching that day. Instead of listening to the words of life, they sat in the chamber of sickness, soon perhaps to be again the chamber of death. For the fiery arrow of the pestilence had struck down their best and noblest, the prop and stay of the household. The morning had risen in gloom upon the empty place of their youngest, the child Effie, but that gloom seemed brightness itself compared with the horror of the night.

Their hearts sank within them; from his first seizure they gave him up for lost. Nor did he himself take a more cheerful view of his condition. The attack differed considerably from those they had witnessed before; though it still presented certain unmistakable symptoms marking it as the dreaded sickness. There was no delirium, and but little acute suffering, but there was a low wasting fever, and ever-increasing exhaustion. There are cases, it has been said, “when a person has so long and gradually imbibed the fatal poisons of an infected atmosphere, that the resisting powers of nature have been insidiously and quietly subdued.” Whether Jamie’s was really such or no, it looked very like it. It seemed as if his frame, weakened by a long course of severe privation, must sink and that speedily, beneath the attack of the destroyer. Those around him longed, more than words can tell, for the strong wine and nourishing food that they felt instinctively might save him even yet. But what could they do?

Janet’s courage and calmness gave way when she saw this beloved brother about to be snatched from her. Any other sorrow she could have borne,—but this was too terrible. Once or twice the usually strong self-possessed girl was obliged to leave Mary and Archie to watch by that sick bed, whilst for a brief space she sought relief in tears. Mary did all that was required of her; and if she learned to conceal a breaking heart beneath a countenance that was almost cheerful, she did no more than many women do every day. Yet Janet did not suffer more than Mary, perhaps not so much. She never asked herself why this was so, or whether it should be; it seemed quite natural and inevitable. They were a family, bound together by the strong links that sorrow forges, and what touched one touched all equally.

“Is it you, Mary?” asked the sick man upon one occasion when Mary kept watch beside him. “I hae twa or three things that are vexing me sair, aiblins ye could help me.”

“Dinna vex yersel noo, Jamie; but think o’ the guid Lord Jesus, wha dee’d to tak’ yer sins awa’.”

“Eh, but that’s just it, Mary lass. I ken a’ about the blessed Lord wha dee’d for sinners; but what’s that to me, sae lang’s I’m no sure _I’ll_ get the guid on’t? There’s bread enoo at the baxter’s, but we maun jist starve for a’ that, gin we’ve no a plack to pay for it.”

“But He gies it to us, Jamie, ‘without money and without price.’”

“_Wha_ does He gie it to? O Mary! gin I couldna think it out an’ I strong an’ weel, what chance hae I, noo that I lie here weak and feckless, and canna put twa thochts thegither? The Lord hae mercy on me! An’ I had a priest—”

“That wad do ye nae guid ava’, Jamie.”

“Wae’s me! I ken the same. I hae dooted lang; but noo I’m unco clear; they’re nae better than idle paivies—the oil, and the cross, and sic’ like. But I maun hae _something_, Mary. Death’s a gruesome thing to look at, and I’m sair afear’t.”

“Dinna fear, look on the Saviour’s face. ‘Only believe.’”

Very touching was Jamie’s wistful gaze of intense anxiety. “Is it ‘Only believe,’ Mary? Can I mak siccar there’s naething mair to do? Forbye, what’s the right gait to believe?”

“To believe is naething but to trust. It’s to trust the guid Lord as I’d trust ye or Janet—(anely a hantle mair)—kenning weel as I do that ye’d no wrang me, but keep yer ain promise fast. Whilk promise frae God is just this, ‘I’ll forgie yer transgressions, and yer sins an’ iniquities I’ll remember nae mair.’”

“Mary, could ye pray for me?”

Mary first lifted up her own heart in silent supplication; and then said in a low voice, “I’ll try.”

But at that moment Archie, who had stretched himself in a corner of the room to make up for a lost night’s rest, startled them both by showing he had heard the conversation.

“Eh, Jamie!” he cried, thrusting up his head, “_I’d_ do mair for ye than a’ that.”

As no one replied to this strange announcement, he went on: “What for suld I no just gang to guid Maister Wishart and ask him to come and see ye? Nae doot but he’d do it, for the love o’ God; and he’d tell ye a’ the things ye’re speiring after.”

This audacious proposal, as Mary considered it, fairly took away her breath; while it brought a moment’s colour to Jamie’s pale face. “Is it for the like o’ me?” he said; “a puir baxter lad! Callant, ye’re clean daft.”

“I’m no daft ava’. He gaes to waur than us, aft an’ aft. Ye’re in trouble and hae the sickness—”

“And hae the sickness!” repeated Jamie indignantly. “Guid reason _that_ to bring him here! Na, na, Archie, let me fend as I may, I’ll no hae the precious life that’s help and comfort to sae mony risked for me. What wad we a’ do without him? He’s just like ane licht in a dark sky to the puir folk in this stricken toun.” He was growing excited, and might have injured himself, had not Janet re-entered the room at that moment. She looked pale and haggard; and when, at Jamie’s request, she brought him a drink of water, she could not help expressing her sorrow that she had nothing better to give him.

“Weel,” said the sick man with a sigh half sorrowful, half resigned, “we maun thole it. It’s no for sae lang.”

Shortly afterwards he fell asleep, and Mary beckoned Janet from the room, leaving Archie with his brother.

“Janet,” she said, as they stood together in the passage, “something maun be done.”

“I dinna ken what to do, but to dee a’ thegither,” answered Janet, hopelessly.

“Let us dee, then, by God’s visitation, no by our ain fecklessness. Janet, we’re like to starve, and Jamie—” her voice faltered, but she presently resumed, “gin he had the meat and drink a sick man suld hae, I doot but he’s no that ill, after a’.—Listen, I hae seen my ain dear father dee o’ this awfu’ sickness; forbye that, I hae watched the bairn Effie. It’s no easy to mak me fear’t, and ye say I’m gleg an’ handy. Sae I might find a place to nurse some o’ the sick folk. Dinna think to hinder me, Janet, my mind is set on it; I’ll just gang my gait to the guid leech wha came to father, and ask him to help me. An’ I daur think God ’ill prosper me, sin’ I hae prayed to him wi’ a’ my heart. I’ll bring, or send ye help, the first minute I can. But dinna tell Jamie.”

Janet at first objected to the plan, but Mary’s resolution conquered. Weak herself from watching and fasting, she set out on what her reason told her was a sufficiently hopeless errand. But she trusted in God; and having earnestly prayed for help in the dark hour of trial, she believed he would give it, either by this or by some other means.

Bitter, therefore, was her disappointment to find that the physician whom she sought had himself fallen a victim to the disease with which he had so bravely striven on behalf of others. She sat down on the doorstep to consider what next to do; and it was with difficulty she could prevent herself from giving way to tears. She knew no other physician even by name. To whom then could she go? Again the thought of Wilson occurred to her, and finding any sort of action a relief, she rose half mechanically and moved in the direction of his house. The walk was long enough, and she was very weary. But it seemed as if her limbs must fail her utterly, when, upon arriving at the spot, she found the door shut, and inscribed with the well-known mark that told the plague was within.

If ever she felt despair, it was at this moment. Why should they struggle any more for life? It was useless—they were doomed. Like the wave to a shipwrecked mariner, clinging desperately, hopelessly to some fragment of rock—that cruel sickness, with its fell ally starvation, came on slowly—surely—nearer—nearer—nearer. It was but the work of days, perhaps of hours now. Death reigned everywhere. Her father, little Effie, the physician, all were dead; Wilson was probably dying, and Jamie;—a chill came over her. Should she ever see his face again, that bright young face, except fixed in the awful stillness of death? She scarcely dared to return home. And yet she must. She began to grow dizzy and faint, and to think, almost to _hope_, that she was dying too. She thanked God that for herself she had no fear. And she sought to trust him with those so dear to her; but it was one of those dark hours when Faith droops her pinions, and the tried heart sinks to the very depths, refusing to respond even to the holy thoughts upon which in other seasons it was wont to stay itself.

Once or twice she paused on her weary homeward way, as the last resource of penury presented itself to her mind. Should she ask an alms? Her cheek crimsoned with pain and shame at the thought, but for Jamie’s sake she could conquer this weakness. Still, amongst the passers-by she saw none to whom she could apply for the purpose, so at least it seemed to her; and she had not the physical strength to go further.

Thus, at last, having accomplished nothing to help those she loved in their sore distress, she found herself again at the familiar door. She was able to admit herself; and after standing still for a moment or two in silent dread of what she might meet above, she began to ascend the narrow staircase with trembling limbs and an aching heart.

She had not gone half way when the sound of a voice arrested her. It was Archie’s. Great was her astonishment at the quiet measured tones in which the boy continued to speak. No; he was not speaking, but reading or reciting something. She drew a few steps nearer, and found she could distinguish the words. They thrilled her heart with a strange sense of wonder and delight; for although she had never heard them before, she felt instinctively that they were the words of God. Allowing for the difference (here but very slight) between the quaint language of Tyndale’s New Testament, and that into which our own minds and hearts have grown, this was what she heard:—“Seek not ye what ye shall eat or what ye shall drink, neither be ye of doubtful mind. For all these things do the nations of the world seek after: and your Father knoweth that ye have need of these things. But rather seek ye the kingdom of God, and all these things shall be added unto you. Fear not, little flock; for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.”

Mary’s soul was refreshed by this cup of cold water from the living fountain, and hope began to take the place of her despondency. She was soon at the chamber door. It was wide open; and, for a marvel, so was the little window (despite all Janet’s theories), letting in an evening breeze laden with pleasant messages from the fresh and open sea. But then there was also a fire, before which Janet was standing, busy with some cooking operation. Best of all, Jamie, whose face was turned towards her, was sitting propped up in his bed, a faint flush, not from fever, in his cheek, and a look of earnest living interest in his face, as he listened to Archie’s reading. He was the first to perceive Mary, and he cried out, “Come ben, Mary lass, and praise the guid Lord wi’ us! He _hae_ cared for us, after a’.”

“Come an’ tak’ yer supper,” said Janet, “ye maun be amaist starved.”

Archie at the same moment laid down his book, and exclaimed with characteristic vehemence, “We’re a’ richt noo, Mary! Our Jamie’s no to dee, but to live!”

But Mary, instead of responding to these joyful words, threw herself upon the nearest seat; and, worn out with sorrow, fatigue, and excitement, wept long and unrestrainedly.

Who dreams that tears are the saddest things on earth? Sorrow has often failed to bring them, when the gentle summons of joy and hope has called them forth from their hidden cells.

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