Salted with Fire

In the afternoon James was a good deal better. When his father went in to see him, his first words were—

“I doobt, father, I’m no likly to preach ony mair: I’ve come to see ‘at I never was fit for the wark, neither had I ever ony ca’ til’t.”

“It may be sae, Jeemie,” answered his father; “but we’ll haud awa frae conclusions till ye’re better, and able to jeedge wi’oot the bias o’ ony thrawin distemper.”

“Oh father,” James went on, and to his delight Peter saw, for the first time since he was the merest child, tears running down his cheeks, now thin and wan; “Oh father, I hae been a terrible hypocreet! But my een’s come open at last! I see mysel as I am!”

“Weel, there’s God hard by, to tak ye by the han’ like Enoch! Tell me,” Peter went on, “hae ye onything upo yer min’, laddie, ‘at ye wud like to confess and be eased o’? There’s nae papistry in confessin to yer ain auld father!”

James lay still for a few moments; then he said, almost inaudibly—

“I think I could tell my mother better nor you, father.”

“It’ll be a’ ane whilk o’ ‘s ye tell. The forgiein and the forgettin ‘ill be ae deed—by the twa o’ ‘s at ance! I s’ gang and cry doon the stair til yer mother to come up and hear ye.” For Peter knew by experience that good motions must be taken advantage of in their first ripeness. “We maunna try the speerit wi ony delays!” he added, as he went to the head of the stair, where he called aloud to his wife. Then returning to the bedside, he resumed his seat, saying, “I’ll jist bide a minute till she comes.”

He was loath to let in any risk between his going and her coming, for he knew how quickly minds may change; but the moment she appeared, he left the room, gently closing the door behind him.

Then the trembling, convicted soul plucked up what courage his so long stubborn and yet cringing heart was capable of, and began.

“Mother, there was a lass I cam to ken in Edinburgh, whan I was a divinity student there, and—”

“Ay, ay, I ken a’ aboot it!” interrupted his mother, eager to spare him; “—an ill-faured, designin limmer, ‘at micht ha kent better nor come ower the son o’ a respectable wuman that gait!—Sic like, I doobtna, wad deceive the vera elec’!”

“Na, na, mother, she was nane o’ that sort! She was baith bonny and guid, and pleasant to the hert as to the sicht: she wad hae saved me gien I had been true til her! She was ane o’ the Lord’s makin, as he has made but feow!”

“Whatfor didna she haud frae ye till ye had merried her than? Dinna tell me she didna lay hersel oot to mak a prey o’ ye!”

“Mother, i’ that sayin ye hae sclandert yersel!—I’ll no say a word mair!”

“I’m sure neither yer father nor mysel wud hae stede i’ yer gait!” said Marion, retreating from the false position she had taken.

She did not know herself, or how bitter would have been her opposition; for she had set her mind on a distinguished match for her Jamie!

“God knows how I wish I had keepit a haud o’ mysel! Syne I micht hae steppit oot o’ the dirt o’ my hypocrisy, i’stead o’ gaein ower the heid intil’t! I was aye a hypocrite, but she would maybe hae fun’ me oot, and garred me luik at mysel!”

He did not know the probability that, if he had not fallen, he would have but sunk the deeper in the worst bog of all, self-satisfaction, and none the less have played her false, and left her to break her heart.

If any reader of this tale should argue it better then to do wrong and repent, than to resist the devil, I warn him, that in such case he will not repent until the sorrows of death and the pains of hell itself lay hold upon him. An overtaking fault may be beaten with few stripes, but a wilful wrong shall be beaten with many stripes. The door of the latter must share, not with Judas, for he did repent, although too late, but with such as have taken from themselves the power of repentance.

“Was there no mark left o’ her disgrace?” asked his mother. “Wasna there a bairn to mak it manifest?”

“Nane I ever heard tell o’.”

“In that case she’s no muckle the waur, and ye needna gang lamentin: she ‘ll no be the ane to tell! and ye maunna, for her sake! Sae tak ye comfort ower what’s gane and dune wi’, and canna come back, and maunna happen again.—Eh, but it’s a’ God’s-mercy there was nae bairn!”

Thus had the mother herself become an evil councillor, crying Peace! peace! when there was no peace, and tempting her son to go on and become a devil! But one thing yet rose up for the truth in his miserable heart—his reviving and growing love for Isy. It had seemed smothered in selfishness, but was alive and operative: God knows how—perhaps through feverish, incoherent, forgotten dreams.

He had expected his mother to aid his repentance, and uphold his walk in the way of righteousness, even should the way be that of social disgrace. He knew well that reparation must go hand in hand with repentance where the All-wise was judge, and selfish Society dared not urge one despicable pretence for painting hidden shame in the hues of honour. James had been the cowering slave of a false reputation; but his illness and the assaults of his conscience had roused him, set repentance before him, brought confession within sight, and purity within reach of prayer.

“I maun gang til her,” he cried, “the meenute I’m able to be up!—Whaur is she, mother?”

“Upo nae accoont see her, Jamie! It wad be but to fa’ again intil her snare!” answered his mother, with decision in her look and tone. “We’re to abstain frae a’ appearance o’ evil—as ye ken better nor I can tell ye.”

“But Isy’s no an appearance o’ evil, mother!”

“Ye say weel there, I confess! Na, she’s no an appearance; she’s the vera thing! Haud frae her, as ye wad frae the ill ane himsel.”

“Did she never lat on what there had been atween ‘s?”

“Na, never. She kenned weel what would come o’ that!”

“What, mother?”

“The ootside o’ the door.”

“Think ye she ever tauld onybody?”

“Mony ane, I doobtna.”

“Weel, I dinna believe ‘t, I hae nae fear but she’s been dumb as deith!”

“Hoo ken ye that?—What for said she never ae word aboot ye til yer ain mither?”

“‘Cause she was set on haudin her tongue. Was she to bring an owre true tale o’ me to the vera hoose I was born in? As lang as I haud til my tongue, she’ll never wag hers!—Eh, but she’s a true ane! She’s ane to lippen til!”

“Weel, I alloo, she’s deen as a wuman sud—the faut bein a’ her ain!”

“The faut bein’ a’ mine, mother, she wouldna tell what would disgrace me!”

“She micht hae kenned her secret would be safe wi’ me!”

“I micht hae said the same, but for the w’y ye spak o’ her this vera meenut!—Whaur is she, mother? Whaur’s Isy?”

“‘Deed, she’s made a munelicht flittin o’ ‘t!”

“I telled ye she would never tell upo me!—Hed she ony siller?”

“Hoo can I tell?”

“Did ye pey her ony wages?”

“She gae me no time!—But she’s no likly to tell noo; for, hearin her tale, wha wad tak her in?”

“Eh, mother, but ye are hard-hertit!”

“I ken a harder, Jamie!”

“That’s me!—and ye’re richt, mother! But, eh, gien ye wad hae me loe ye frae this meenut to the end o’ my days, be but a wee fair to Isy: I hae been a damnt scoon’rel til her!”