Scottish Sketches, Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr [primary phonics .txt] 📗

we did wrang, but we thought then that we were right. We had a few pounds between us and we gaed to Carlisle. But naething went as it should hae done. I could get nae wark, and Bessie fell into vera bad health; but she had a brave spirit, and she begged me to leave her in Carlisle and go my lane to Glasgow. 'For when wark an' siller arena i' one place, Davie,' she said, 'then they're safe to be in another.'

"I swithered lang about leaving her, but a good opportunity came, and Bessie promised me to go back to her father until I could come after her. It was July then, and when Christmas came round I had saved money enough, and I started wi' a blithe heart to Ecclefechan. I hadna any fear o' harm to my bonnie bit wifie, for she had promised to go to her hame, and I was sure she would be mair than welcome when she went without me. I didna expect any letters, because Bessie couldna write, and, indeed, I was poor enough wi' my pen at that time, and only wrote once to tell her I had good wark and would be for her a New Year.

"But when I went I found that Bessie had gane, and none knew where. I traced her to Keswick poor-house, where she had a little lad; the matron said she went away in a very weak condition when the child was three weeks old, declaring that she was going to her friends. Puir, bonnie, loving Bessie; that was the last I ever heard o' my wife and bairn."

Mysie had left the room, and as she returnee with a little bundle Andrew was anxiously asking, "What was the lassie's maiden name, Davie?"

"Bessie Dunbar, father."

"Then this is a wun'erful day; we are blessed and twice blessed, for I found your wife and bairn, Davie, just where John Sugden found you, 'mang the Druids' stanes; and the lad has my ain honest name and is weel worthy o' it."

"See here, Davie," and Mysie tenderly touched the poor faded dress and shawl, and laid the wedding-ring in his palm. As she spoke wee Andrew came across the yard, walking slowly, reading as he walked. "Look at him, Davie! He's a bonnie lad, and a gude are; and oh, my ain dear lad, he has had a' things that thy youth wanted."

It pleased the old man no little that, in spite of his father's loving greeting, wee Andrew stole away to his side.

"You see, Davie," he urged in apology, "he's mair at hame like wi' me."

And then he drew the child to him, and let his whole heart go out now, without check or reproach, to "Davie's bairn."

"But you have not finished your story, Mr. Cargill," said John, and David sighed as he answered,

"There is naething by the ordinar in it. I went back to the warks I had got a footing in, the Glencart Iron Warks, and gradually won my way to the topmost rungs o' the ladder. I am head buyer now, hae a gude share i' the concern, and i' money matters there's plenty folk waur off than David Cargill. When I put my father's forgiveness, my mither's love, and my Bessie's bonnie lad to the lave, I may weel say that 'they are weel guided that God guides.' A week ago I went into the editor's room o' the Glasgow Herald,' and the man no being in I lifted a paper and saw in it my father's message to me. It's sma' credit that I left a' and answered it."

"What paper, Mr. Cargill, what paper?"

"They ca' it 'The Watchman.' I hae it in my pocket."

"I thought so," said John triumphantly. "It's a grand paper; every one ought to have it."

"It is welcome evermore in my house," said Davie.

"It means weel, it means weel," said Andrew, with a great stretch of charity, "but I dinna approve o' its doctrines at a', and--"

"It found David for you, Andrew."

"Ay, ay, God uses a' kinds o' instruments. 'The Watchman' isna as auld as the Bible yet, John, and it's ill praising green barley."

"Now, Andrew, I think--"

"Tut, tut, John, I'se no sit i' Rome and strive wi' the pope; there's naething ill said, you ken, if it's no ill taken."

John smiled tolerantly, and indeed there was no longer time for further discussion, for the shepherds from the hills and the farmers from the glen had heard of David's return, and were hurrying to Cargill to see him. Mysie saw that there would be a goodly company, and the long harvest-table was brought in and a feast of thanksgiving spread. Conversation in that house could only set one way, and after all had eaten and David had told his story again, one old man after another spoke of the dangers they had encountered and the spiritual foes they had conquered.

Whether it was the speaking, or the sympathy of numbers, or some special influence of the Holy Ghost, I know not; but suddenly Andrew lifted his noble old head and spoke thus:

"Frien's, ye hae some o' you said ill things o' yoursel's, but to the sons o' God there is nae condemnation; not that I hae been althegither faultless, but I meant weel, an' the lad was a wilfu' lad, and ye ken what the wisest o' men said anent such. Just and right has been my walk before you, but--still--" Then, with a sudden passion, and rising to his feet, he cried out, "Frien's, I'm a poor sinfu' man, but I'll play no mair pliskies wi' my conscience. I hae dootless been a hard master, hard and stern, and loving Sinai far beyond Bethlehem. Hard was I to my lad, and hard hae I been to the wife o' my bosom, and hard hae I been to my ain heart. It has been my ain will and my ain way all my life lang. God forgie me! God forgie me! for this night he has brought my sins to my remembrance. I hae been your elder for mair than forty years, but I hae ne'er been worthy to carry his holy vessels. I'll e'en sit i' the lowest seat henceforward."

"Not so," said John. And there was such eager praise, and such warm love rose from every mouth, that words began to fail, and as the old man sat down smiling, happier than he had ever been before, song took up the burden speech laid down; for John started one of those old triumphant Methodist hymns, and the rafters shook to the melody, and the stars heard it, and the angels in heaven knew a deeper joy. Singing, the company departed, and Andrew, standing in the moonlight between David and John, watched the groups scatter hither and thither, and heard, far up the hills and down the glen, that sweet, sweet refrain,


"Canaan, bright Canaan!
Will you go to the land of Canaan?"


After this David stayed a week at Glenmora, and then it became necessary for him to return to Glasgow. But wee Andrew was to have a tutor and remain with his grandparents for some years at least. Andrew himself determined to "tak a trip" and see Scotland and the wonderful iron works of which he was never weary of hearing David talk.

When he reached Kendal, however, and saw for the first time the Caledonian Railway and its locomotives, nothing could induce him to go farther.

"It's ower like the deil and the place he bides in, Davie," he said, with a kind of horror. "Fire and smoke and iron bands! I'll no ride at the deil's tail-end, not e'en to see the land o' the Covenant."

So he went back to Glenmora, and was well content when he stood again at his own door and looked over the bonny braes of Sinverness, its simmering becks and fruitful vales. "These are the warks o' His hands, Mysie," he said, reverently lifting his bonnet and looking up to Creffel and away to Solway, "and you'd ken that, woman, if you had seen Satan as I saw him rampaging roun' far waur than any roaring lion."

After this Andrew never left Sinverness; but, the past unsighed for and the future sure, passed through


"----an old age serene and bright,
And lovely as a Lapland night,"


until, one summer evening, he gently fell on that sleep which God giveth his beloved.


"For such Death's portal opens not in gloom,
But its pure crystal, hinged on solid gold,
Shows avenues interminable--shows
Amaranth and palm quivering in sweet accord
Of human mingled with angelic song."




ONE WRONG STEP.

CHAPTER I.

"There's few folk ken Ragon Torr as I do, mother. He is better at heart than thou wad think; indeed he is!"

"If better were within, better wad come out, John. He's been drunk or dovering i' the chimney-corner these past three weeks. Hech! but he'd do weel i' Fool's Land, where they get half a crown a day for sleeping."

"There's nane can hunt a seal or spear a whale like Ragon; thou saw him theesel', mother, among the last school i' Stromness Bay."

"I saw a raving, ranting heathen, wi' the bonnie blue bay a sea o' blood around him, an' he shouting an' slaying like an old pagan sea-king. Decent, God-fearing fisher-folk do their needful wark ither gate than yon. Now there is but one thing for thee to do: thou must break wi' Ragon Torr, an' that quick an' soon."

"Know this, my mother, a friend is to be taken wi' his faults."

"Thou knows this, John: I hae forty years mair than thou hast, an' years ken mair than books. An' wi' a' thy book skill hast thou ne'er read that 'Evil communications corrupt gude manners'? Mak up thy mind that I shall tak it vera ill if thou sail again this year wi' that born heathen;" and with these words Dame Alison Sabay rose up from the stone bench at her cottage door and went dourly into the houseplace.

John stood on the little jetty which ran from the very doorstep into the bay, and looked thoughtfully over towards the sweet green isle of Graemsay; but neither the beauty of land or sea, nor the splendor of skies bright with the rosy banners of the Aurora gave him any answer to the thoughts which troubled him. "I'll hae to talk it o'er wi' Christine," he said decidedly, and he also turned into the house.

Christine was ten years older than her brother John. She had known much sorrow, but she had lived through and lived down all her trials and come out into the peace on the other side. She was sitting by the peat fire knitting, and softly crooning an old Scotch psalm to the click of her needles. She answered John's look with a sweet, grave smile, and a slight nod towards the little round table, upon which there was a plate of smoked goose and some oaten cake for his supper.

"I carena to eat a bite, Christine; this is what I want o' thee: the skiff is under the window; step into it, an' do thou go on the bay wi' me an hour."

"I havena any mind to go, John. It is nine by the clock, an' to-morrow the peat is to coil an' the herring to kipper; yes, indeed."