didna want to say onything to vex ye, grannie. I s’ gang on wi’ the chapter.’
‘Ow, say awa’. Ye sanna say muckle ‘at’s wrang afore I cry haud,’ said Mrs. Falconer, curious to know what had been moving in the boy’s mind, but watching him like a cat, ready to spring upon the first visible hair of the old Adam.
And Robert, recalling the outbreak of terrible grief which he had heard on that memorable night, really thought that his project would bring comfort to a mind burdened with such care, and went on with the exposition of his plan.
‘A’ them ‘at sits doon to the supper o’ the Lamb ‘ll sit there because Christ suffert the punishment due to their sins—winna they, grannie?’
‘Doobtless, laddie.’
‘But it’ll be some sair upo’ them to sit there aitin’ an’ drinkin’ an’ talkin’ awa’, an’ enjoyin’ themsel’s, whan ilka noo an’ than there’ll come a sough o’ wailin’ up frae the ill place, an’ a smell o’ burnin’ ill to bide.’
‘What put that i’ yer heid, laddie? There’s no rizzon to think ‘at hell’s sae near haven as a’ that. The Lord forbid it!’
‘Weel, but, grannie, they’ll ken ‘t a’ the same, whether they smell ‘t or no. An’ I canna help thinkin’ that the farrer awa’ I thoucht they war, the waur I wad like to think upo’ them. ‘Deed it wad be waur.’
‘What are ye drivin’ at, laddie? I canna unnerstan’ ye,’ said Mrs. Falconer, feeling very uncomfortable, and yet curious, almost anxious, to hear what would come next. ‘I trust we winna hae to think muckle—’
But here, I presume, the thought of the added desolation of her Andrew if she, too, were to forget him, as well as his Father in heaven, checked the flow of her words. She paused, and Robert took up his parable and went on, first with yet another question.
‘Duv ye think, grannie, that a body wad be allooed to speik a word i’ public, like, there—at the lang table, like, I mean?’
‘What for no, gin it was dune wi’ moedesty, and for a guid rizzon? But railly, laddie, I doobt ye’re haverin’ a’thegither. Ye hard naething like that, I’m sure, the day, frae Mr. Maccleary.’
‘Na, na; he said naething aboot it. But maybe I’ll gang and speir at him, though.’
‘What aboot?’
‘What I’m gaein’ to tell ye, grannie.’
‘Weel, tell awa’, and hae dune wi’ ‘t. I’m growin’ tired o’ ‘t.’
It was something else than tired she was growing.
‘Weel, I’m gaein’ to try a’ that I can to win in there.’
‘I houp ye will. Strive and pray. Resist the deevil. Walk in the licht. Lippen not to yersel’, but trust in Christ and his salvation.’
‘Ay, ay, grannie.—Weel—’
‘Are ye no dune yet?’
‘Na. I’m but jist beginnin’.’
‘Beginnin’, are ye? Humph!’
‘Weel, gin I win in there, the verra first nicht I sit doon wi’ the lave o’ them, I’m gaein’ to rise up an’ say—that is, gin the Maister, at the heid o’ the table, disna bid me sit doon—an’ say: “Brithers an’ sisters, the haill o’ ye, hearken to me for ae minute; an’, O Lord! gin I say wrang, jist tak the speech frae me, and I’ll sit doon dumb an’ rebukit. We’re a’ here by grace and no by merit, save his, as ye a’ ken better nor I can tell ye, for ye hae been langer here nor me. But it’s jist ruggin’ an’ rivin’ at my hert to think o’ them ‘at’s doon there. Maybe ye can hear them. I canna. Noo, we hae nae merit, an’ they hae nae merit, an’ what for are we here and them there? But we’re washed clean and innocent noo; and noo, whan there’s no wyte lying upo’ oursel’s, it seems to me that we micht beir some o’ the sins o’ them ‘at hae ower mony. I call upo’ ilk ane o’ ye ‘at has a frien’ or a neebor down yonner, to rise up an’ taste nor bite nor sup mair till we gang up a’thegither to the fut o’ the throne, and pray the Lord to lat’s gang and du as the Maister did afore ‘s, and beir their griefs, and cairry their sorrows doon in hell there; gin it maybe that they may repent and get remission o’ their sins, an’ come up here wi’ us at the lang last, and sit doon wi’ ‘s at this table, a’ throuw the merits o’ oor Saviour Jesus Christ, at the heid o’ the table there. Amen.”’
Half ashamed of his long speech, half overcome by the feelings fighting within him, and altogether bewildered, Robert burst out crying like a baby, and ran out of the room—up to his own place of meditation, where he threw himself on the floor. Shargar, who had made neither head nor tail of it all, as he said afterwards, sat staring at Mrs. Falconer. She rose, and going into Robert’s little bedroom, closed the door, and what she did there is not far to seek.
When she came out, she rang the bell for tea, and sent Shargar to look for Robert. When he appeared, she was so gentle to him that it woke quite a new sensation in him. But after tea was over, she said:
‘Noo, Robert, lat’s hae nae mair o’ this. Ye ken as weel ‘s I du that them ‘at gangs there their doom is fixed, and noething can alter ‘t. An’ we’re not to alloo oor ain fancies to cairry ‘s ayont the Scripter. We hae oor ain salvation to work oot wi’ fear an’ trimlin’. We hae naething to do wi’ what’s hidden. Luik ye till ‘t ‘at ye win in yersel’. That’s eneuch for you to min’.—Shargar, ye can gang to the kirk. Robert’s to bide wi’ me the nicht.’
Mrs. Falconer very rarely went to church, for she could not hear a word, and found it irksome.
When Robert and she were alone together,
‘Laddie,’ she said, ‘be ye waure o’ judgin’ the Almichty. What luiks to you a’ wrang may be a’ richt. But it’s true eneuch ‘at we dinna ken a’thing; an’ he’s no deid yet—I dinna believe ‘at he is—and he’ll maybe win in yet.’
Here her voice failed her. And Robert had nothing to say now. He had said all his say before.
‘Pray, Robert, pray for yer father, laddie,’ she resumed; ‘for we hae muckle rizzon to be anxious aboot ‘im. Pray while there’s life an’ houp. Gie the Lord no rist. Pray till ‘im day an’ nicht, as I du, that he wad lead ‘im to see the error o’ his ways, an’ turn to the Lord, wha’s ready to pardon. Gin yer mother had lived, I wad hae had mair houp, I confess, for she was a braw leddy and a bonny, and that sweet-tongued! She cud hae wiled a maukin frae its lair wi’ her bonnie Hielan’ speech. I never likit to hear nane o’ them speyk the Erse (Irish, that is, Gaelic), it was aye sae gloggie and baneless; and I cudna unnerstan’ ae word o’ ‘t. Nae mair cud yer father—hoot! yer gran’father, I mean—though his father cud speyk it weel. But to hear yer mother—mamma, as ye used to ca’ her aye, efter the new fashion—to hear her speyk English, that was sweet to the ear; for the braid Scotch she kent as little o’ as I do o’ the Erse. It was hert’s care aboot him that shortent her days. And a’ that’ll be laid upo’ him. He’ll hae ‘t a’ to beir an’ accoont for. Och hone! Och hone! Eh! Robert, my man, be a guid lad, an’ serve the Lord wi’ a’ yer hert, an’ sowl, an’ stren’th, an’ min’; for gin ye gang wrang, yer ain father ‘ll hae to beir naebody kens hoo muckle o’ the wyte o’ ‘t, for he’s dune
