Part 58 (1/2)
”Wad ye ha'e me d.a.m.ned, mem?”
Mrs Crathie gave a cry and held up her hands. She was too well accustomed to imprecations from the lips of her husband for any but an affected horror, but, regarding the honest word as a bad one, she a.s.sumed an air of injury.
”Wad ye daur to sweir afore a leddy,” she exclaimed, shaking her uplifted hands in pretence of ghasted astonishment.
”If Mr Crathie wishes to see me, ma'am,” rejoined Malcolm, taking up the s.h.i.+eld of English, ”I am ready. If not, please allow me to go.”
The same moment the bell whose rope was at the head of the factor's bed, rang violently, and Mrs Crathie's importance collapsed.
”Come this w'y,” she said, and turning led him up the stair to the room where her husband lay.
Entering, Malcolm stood astonished at the change he saw upon the strong man of rubicund countenance, and his heart filled with compa.s.sion. The factor was sitting up in bed, looking very white and worn and troubled. Even his nose had grown thin and white. He held out his hand to him, and said to his wife, ”Tak the door to ye, Mistress Crathie,” indicating which side he wished it closed from.
”Ye was some sair upo' me, Ma'colm,” he went on, grasping the youth's hand.
”I doobt I was ower sair,” said Malcolm, who could hardly speak for a lump in his throat.
”Weel, I deserved it. But eh, Ma'colm! I canna believe it was me: it bude to be the drink.”
”It was the drink,” rejoined Malcolm; ”an' eh sir! afore ye rise frae that bed, sweir to the great G.o.d 'at ye'll never drink nae mair drams, nor onything 'ayont ae tum'ler at a sittin'.”
”I sweir't; I sweir't, Ma'colm!” cried the factor.
”It's easy to sweir't noo, sir, but whan ye're up again it'll be hard to keep yer aith.--O Lord!” spoke the youth, breaking out into almost involuntary prayer, ”help this man to haud troth wi'
thee.--An' noo, Maister Crathie,” he resumed, ”I'm yer servan', ready to do onything I can. Forgi'e me, sir, for layin' on ower sair.”
”I forgi'e ye wi' a' my hert,” returned the factor, inly delighted to have something to forgive.
”I thank ye frae mine,” answered Malcolm, and again they shook hands.
”But eh, Ma'colm, my man!” said the factor, ”hoo will I ever shaw my face again?”
”Fine that!” returned Malcolm, eagerly. ”Fowk's terrible guid natur'd whan ye alloo 'at ye're i' the wrang. I do believe 'at whan a man confesses till 's neebour, an' says he's sorry, he thinks mair o'
'im nor afore he did it. Ye see we a' ken we ha'e dune wrang, but we ha'ena a' confessed. An' it's a queer thing, but a man'll think it gran' o' 's neebour to confess, whan a' the time there's something he winna repent o' himsel' for fear o' the shame o' ha'ein' to confess 't. To me, the shame lies in no confessin' efter ye ken ye're wrang. Ye'll see, sir, the fisher fowk 'll min' what ye say to them a heap better noo.”
”Div ye railly think it, Ma'colm?” sighed the factor with a flush.
”I div that, sir. Only whan ye grow better, gien ye'll alloo me to say't, sir, ye maunna lat Sawtan temp' ye to think 'at this same repentin' was but a wakeness o' the flesh, an' no an enlichtenment o' the speerit.”
”I s' tie mysel' up till 't,” cried the factor, eagerly. ”Gang an' tell them i' my name, 'at I tak' back ilka scart o' a nottice I ever ga'e ane o' them to quit, only we maun ha'e nae mair stan'in'
o' honest fowk 'at comes to bigg herbours till them.--Div ye think it wad be weel ta'en gien ye tuik a poun' nott the piece to the twa women?”
”I wadna du that, sir, gien I was you,” answered Malcolm. ”For yer ain sake, I wadna to Mistress Mair, for naething wad gar her tak'
it--it wad only affront her; an' for Nancy Tacket's sake, I wadna to her, for as her name so's her natur': she wad not only tak it, but she wad lat ye play the same as aften 's ye likit for less siller. Ye'll ha'e mony a chance o' makin' 't up to them baith, ten times ower, afore you an' them pairt, sir.”
”I maun lea' the cuintry, Ma'colm.”
”'Deed, sir, ye'll du naething o' the kin'. The fishers themsel's wad rise, no to lat ye, as they did wi' Blew Peter! As sune's ye're able to be aboot again, ye'll see plain eneuch 'at there's no occasion for onything like that, sir. Portlossie wadna ken 'tsel'