Scottish sketches Part 23

"You'll no dare to speak o' dying, wife, until the Lord gies you occasion; and Davie maun drink as he's brewed."

"Nay, gudeman, but you brewed for him; the lad is drinking the cup you mixed wi' your ain hands."

"I did my duty by him."

"He had ower muckle o' your duty, and ower little o' your indulgence.

If Davie was wrang, ither folk werena right. Every fault has its forefault."

Andrew looked in amazement at this woman, who for thirty and more years had never before dared to oppose his wishes, and to whom his word had been law.

"Davie's wrang-doing was weel kent, gude-wife; he hasted to sin like a moth to a candle."

"It's weel that our faults arena written i' our faces."

"I hae fallen on evil days, Mysie; saxty years syne wives and bairns werena sae contrarie."

"There was gude and bad then, as now, gudeman."

Mysie's face had a dour, determined look that no one had ever seen on it before. Andrew began to feel irritated at her. "What do you want, woman?" he said sternly.

"I want my bairn, Andrew Cargill."

"Your bairn is i' some far-awa country, squandering his share o'

Paradise wi' publicans and sinners."

"I hope not, I hope not; if it werena for this hope my heart would break;" and then all the barriers that education and habit had built were suddenly overthrown as by an earthquake, and Mysie cried out pa.s.sionately, "I want my bairn, Andrew Cargill! the bonnie bairn that lay on my bosom, and was dandled on my knees, and sobbed out his sorrows i' my arms. I want the bairn you were aye girding and grumbling at! that got the rod for this, and the hard word and the black look for that! My bonnie Davie, wha ne'er had a playtime nor a story-book! O gudeman, I want my bairn! I want my bairn!"

The repressed pa.s.sion and sorrow of ten long years had found an outlet and would not be controlled. Andrew laid down his pipe in amazement and terror, and for a moment he feared his wife had lost her senses.

He had a tender heart beneath his stern, grave manner, and his first impulse was just to take the sobbing mother to his breast and promise her all she asked. But he did not do it the first moment, and he could not the second. Yet he did rise and go to her, and in his awkward way try to comfort her. "Dinna greet that way, Mysie, woman," he said; "if I hae done amiss, I'll mak amends."

That was a great thing for Andrew Cargill to say; Mysie hardly knew how to believe it. Such a confession was a kind of miracle, for she judged things by results and was not given to any consideration of the events that led up to them. She could not know, and did not suspect, that all the bitter truths she had spoken had been gradually forcing themselves on her husband's mind. She did not know that wee Andrew's happy face over his story-books, and his eager claim for sympathy, had been an accusation and a reproach which the old man had already humbly and sorrowfully accepted. Therefore his confession and his promise were a wonder to the woman, who had never before dared to admit that it was possible Andrew Cargill should do wrong in his own household.

CHAPTER II.

The confidence that came after this plain speaking was very sweet and comforting to both, although in their isolation and ignorance they knew not what steps to take in order to find Davie. Ten years had elapsed since he had hung for one heart-breaking moment on his mother's neck, and bid, as he told her, a farewell for ever to the miserable scenes of his hard, bare childhood. Mysie had not been able to make herself believe that he was very wrong; dancing at pretty Mary Halliday's bridal and singing two or three love-songs did not seem to the fond mother such awful transgressions as the stern, strict Covenanter really believed them to be, though even Mysie was willing to allow that Davie, in being beguiled into such sinful folly, "had made a sair tumble."

However, Davie and his father had both said things that neither could win over, and the lad had gone proudly down the hill with but a few s.h.i.+llings in his pocket. Since then there had been ten years of anxious, longing grief that had remained unconfessed until this night.

Now the hearts of both yearned for their lost son. But how should they find him? Andrew read nothing but his Bible and almanac; he had no conception of the world beyond Kendal and Keswick. He could scarcely imagine David going beyond these places, or, at any rate, the coast of Scotland. Should he make a pilgrimage round about all those parts?

Mysie shook her head. She thought Andrew had better go to Keswick and see the Methodist preacher there. She had heard they travelled all over the world, and if so, it was more than likely they had seen Davie Cargill; "at ony rate, he would gie advice worth speiring after."

Andrew had but a light opinion of Methodists, and had never been inside the little chapel at Sinverness; but Mysie's advice, he allowed, "had a savor o' sense in it," and so the next day he rode over to Keswick and opened his heart to John Sugden, the superintendent of the Derwent Circuit. He had a.s.sured himself on the road that he would only tell John just as much as was necessary for his quest; but he was quite unable to resist the preacher's hearty sympathy. There never were two men more unlike than Andrew Cargill and John Sugden, and yet they loved each other at once.

"He is a son o' consolation, and dootless ane o' G.o.d's chosen," said Andrew to Mysie on his return.

"He is a far n.o.bler old fellow than he thinks he is," said John to his wife when he told her of Andrew's visit.

John had advised advertising for Davie in "The Watchman;" for John really thought this organ of the Methodist creed was the greatest paper in existence, and honestly believed that if Davie was anywhere in the civilized world "The Watchman" would find him out. He was so sure of it that both Mysie and Andrew caught his hopeful tone, and began to tell each other what should be done when Davie came home.

Poor Mysie was now doubly kind to wee Andrew. She accused herself bitterly of "grudging the bit lammie his story-books," and persuaded her husband to bring back from Keswick for the child the "Pilgrim's Progress" and "The Young Christian." John Sugden, too, visited them often, not only staying at Cargill during his regular appointments, but often riding over to take a day's recreation with the old Cameronian. True, they disputed the whole time. John said very positive things and Andrew very contemptuous ones; but as they each kept their own opinions intact, and were quite sure of their grounds for doing so, no words that were uttered ever slackened the grip of their hands at parting.

One day, as John was on the way to Cargill, he perceived a man sitting among the Druids' stones. The stranger was a pleasant fellow, and after a few words with the preacher he proposed that they should ride to Sinverness together. John soon got to talking of Andrew and his lost son, and the stranger became greatly interested. He said he should like to go up to Andrew's and get a description of Davie, adding that he travelled far and wide, and might happen to come across him.

The old man met them at the door.

"My sight fails, John," he said, "but I'd hae kent your step i' a thousand. You too are welcome, sir, though I ken you not, and doubly welcome if you bring G.o.d's blessing wi' you."

The stranger lifted his hat, and Andrew led the way into the house.

John had been expected, for haver bread and potted shrimps were on the table, and he helped himself without ceremony, taking up at the same time their last argument just where he had dropped it at the gate of the lower croft. But it had a singular interruption. The sheep-dogs who had been quietly sleeping under the settle began to be strangely uneasy. Keeper could scarcely be kept down, even by Andrew's command, and Sandy bounded towards the stranger with low, rapid barks that made John lose the sense of the argument in a new thought. But before he could frame it into words Mysie came in.

"See here, John," she cried, and then she stopped and looked with wide-open eyes at the man coming towards her. With one long, thrilling cry she threw herself into his arms.

"Mother! mother! darling mother, forgive me!"

John had instantly gone to Andrew's side, but Andrew had risen at once to the occasion. "I'm no a woman to skirl or swoon," he said, almost petulantly, "and it's right and fit the lad should gie his mither the first greeting."

But he stretched out both hands, and his cheeks were flushed and his eyes full when Davie flung himself on his knees beside him.

"My lad! my ain dear lad!" he cried, "I'll see nae better day than this until I see His face."

No one can tell the joy of that hour. The cheese curds were left in the dairy and the wool was left at the wheel, and Mysie forget her household, and Andrew forgot his argument, and the preacher at last said,

"You shall tell us, Davie, what the Lord has done for you since you left your father's house."

"He has been gude to me, vera gude. I had a broad Scot's tongue in my head, and I determined to go northward. I had little siller and I had to walk, and by the time I reached Ecclefechan I had reason enough to be sorry for the step I had taken. As I was sitting by the fireside o'

the little inn there a man came in who said he was going to Carlisle to hire a shepherd. I did not like the man, but I was tired and had not plack nor bawbee, so I e'en asked him for the place. When he heard I was c.u.mberland born, and had been among sheep all my life, he was fain enough, and we soon 'greed about the fee.

"He was a harder master than Laban, but he had a daughter who was as bonnie as Rachel, and I loved the la.s.s wi' my whole soul, and she loved me. I ne'er thought about being her father's hired man. I was aye Davie Cargill to mysel', and I had soon enough told Bessie all about my father and mither and hame. I spoke to her father at last, but he wouldna listen to me. He just ordered me off his place, and Bessie went wi' me.

"I know now that 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 la.s.sie'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."