Salted with Fire

Peter had told the soutar that his son was sorely troubled because of a sin of his youth and its long concealment: now he was bent on all the reparation he could make. “Mr. Robertson,” said Peter, “broucht the lass to oor hoose, never mentionin Jamie, for he didna ken they war onything til ane anither; and for her, she never said ae word aboot him to Mirran or me.”

The soutar went to the door, and called Isy. She came, and stood humbly before her old master.

“Weel, Isy,” said the farmer kindly, “ye gied ‘s a clever slip yon morning and a gey fricht forbye! What possessed ye, lass, to dee sic a thing?”

She stood distressed, and made no answer.

“Hoot, lassie, tell me!” insisted Peter; “I haena been an ill maister til ye, have I?”

“Sir, ye hae been like the maister o’ a’ til me! But I canna—that is, I maunna—or raither, I’m determined no to explain the thing til onybody.”

“Thoucht ye my wife was feart the minister micht fa’ in love wi ye?”

“Weel, sir, there micht hae been something like that intil ‘t! But I wantit sair to win at my bairn again; for i’ that trance I lay in sae lang, I saw or h’ard something I took for an intimation that he was alive, and no that far awa.—And—wad ye believe’t, sir?—i’ this vera hoose I fand him, and here I hae him, and I’m jist as happy the noo as I was meeserable afore! Is ‘t ill o’ me at I canna be sorry ony mair?”

“Na, na,” interposed the soutar: “whan the Lord wad lift the burden, it wad be baith senseless and thankless to grup at it! In His name lat it gang, lass!”

“And noo,” said Mr. Blatherwick, again taking up his probe, “ye hae but ae thing left to confess—and that’s wha’s the father o’ ‘im!”

“Na, I canna dee that, sir; it’s enough that I have disgracet myself! You wouldn’t have me disgrace another as well! What good would that be?”

“It wad help ye beir the disgrace.”

“Na, no a hair, sir; he cudna stan’ the disgrace half sae weel ‘s me! I reckon the man the waiker vessel, sir; the woman has her bairn to fend for, and that taks her aff o’ the shame!”

“Ye dinna tell me he gies ye noucht to mainteen the cratur upo?”

“I tell ye naething, sir. He never even kenned there was a bairn!”

“Hoot, toot! ye canna be sae semple! It’s no poassible ye never loot him ken!”

“‘Deed no; I was ower sair ashamit! Ye see it was a’ my wyte!—and it was naebody’s business! My auntie said gien I wouldna tell, I micht put the door atween ‘s; and I took her at her word; for I kenned weel she couldna keep a secret, and I wasna gaein to hae his name mixed up wi’ a lass like mysel! And, sir, ye maunna try to gar me tell, for I hae no richt, and surely ye canna hae the hert to gar me!—But that ye sanna, ony gait!”

“I dinna blame ye, Isy! but there’s jist ae thing I’m determined upo—and that is that the rascal sail merry ye!”

Isy’s face flushed; she was taken too much at unawares to hide her pleasure at such a word from his mouth. But the flush faded, and presently Mr. Blatherwick saw that she was fighting with herself, and getting the better of that self. The shadow of a pawky smile flitted across her face as she answered—

“Surely ye wouldna merry me upon a rascal, sir! Ill as I hae behaved til ye, I can hardly hae deservit that at yer han’!”

“That’s what he’ll hae to dee though—jist merry ye aff han’! I s’ gar him.”

“I winna hae him garred! It’s me that has the richt ower him, and no anither, man nor wuman! He sanna be garred! What wad ye hae o’ me—thinkin I would tak a man ‘at was garred! Na, na; there s’ be nae garrin!—And ye canna gar him merry me gien I winna hae him! The day’s by for that!—A garred man! My certy!—Na, I thank ye!”

“Weel, my bonny leddy,” said Peter, “gien I had a prence to my son,—providit he was worth yer takin—I wad say to ye, ‘Hae, my leddy!’”

“And I would say to you, sir, ‘No—gien he bena willin,’” answered Isy, and ran from the room.

“Weel, what think ye o’ the lass by this time, Mr. Bletherwick?” said the soutar, with a flash in his eye.

“I think jist what I thoucht afore,” answered Peter: “she’s ane amo’ a million!”

“I’m no that sure aboot the proportion!” returned MacLear. “I doobt ye micht come upo twa afore ye wan throw the million!—A million’s a heap o’ women!”

“All I care to say is, that gien Jeemie binna ready to lea’ father and mother and kirk and steeple, and cleave to that wuman and her only, he’s no a mere gomeril, but jist a meeserable, wickit fule! and I s’ never speyk word til ‘im again, wi my wull, gien I live to the age o’ auld Methuselah!”

“Tak tent what ye say, or mint at sayin, to persuaud him:—Isy ‘ill be upo ye!” said the soutar laughing. “—But hearken to me, Mr. Bletherwick, and sayna a word to the minister aboot the bairnie.”

“Na, na; it’ll be best to lat him fin’ that oot for himsel.—And noo I maun be gaein, for I hae my wallet fu’!”

He strode to the door, holding his head high, and with never a word more, went out. The soutar closed the door and returned to his work, saying aloud as he went, “Lord, lat me ever and aye see thy face, and noucht mair will I desire—excep that the haill warl, O Lord, may behold it likewise. The prayers o’ the soutar are endit!”

Peter Blatherwick went home joyous at heart. His son was his son, and no villain!—only a poor creature, as is every man until he turns to the Lord, and leaves behind him every ambition, and all care about the judgment of men. He rejoiced that the girl he and Marion had befriended would be a strength to his son: she whom his wife would have rejected had proved herself indeed right noble! And he praised the father of men, that the very backslidings of those he loved had brought about their repentance and uplifting.

“Here I am!” he cried as he entered the house. “I hae seen the lassie ance mair, and she’s better and bonnier nor ever!”

“Ow ay; ye’re jist like a’ the men I ever cam across!” rejoined Marion smiling; “—easy taen wi’ the skin-side!”

“Doobtless: the Makker has taen a heap o’ pains wi the skin!—Ony gait, yon lassie’s ane amang ten thoosan! Jeemie sud be on his k-nees til her this vera moment—no sitting there glowerin as gien his twa een war twa bullets—fired aff, but never won oot o’ their barrels!”

“Hoot! wad ye hae him gang on his k-nees til ony but the Ane!”

“Aye wad I—til ony ane that’s nearer His likness nor himsel—and that ane’s oor Isy!—I wadna won’er, Jeemie, gien ye war fit for a drive the morn! In that case, I s’ caw ye doon to the toon, and lat ye say yer ain say til her.”

James did not sleep much that night, and nevertheless was greatly better the next day—indeed almost well.

Before noon they were at the soutar’s door. The soutar opened it himself, and took the minister straight to the ben-end of the house, where Isy sat alone. She rose, and with downcast eyes went to meet him.

“Isy,” he faltered, “can ye forgie me? And wull ye merry me as sene’s ever we can be cried?—I’m as ashamed o’ mysel as even ye would hae me!”

“Ye haena sae muckle to be ashamet o’ as I hae, sir: it was a’ my wyte!”

“And syne no to haud my face til’t!—Isy, I hae been a scoonrel til ye! I’m that disgustit at mysel ‘at I canna luik ye i’ the face!”

“Ye didna ken whaur I was! I ran awa that naebody micht ken.”

“What rizzon was there for onybody to ken? I’m sure ye never tellt!”

Isy went to the door and called Maggie. James stared after her, bewildered.

“There was this rizzon,” she said, re-entering with the child, and laying him in James’s arms.

He gasped with astonishment, almost consternation.

“Is this mine?” he stammered.

“Yours and mine, sir,” she replied. “Wasna God a heap better til me nor I deserved?—Sic a bonnie bairn! No a mark, no a spot upon him frae heid to fut to tell that he had no business to be here!—Gie the bonnie wee man a kiss, Mr. Blatherwick. Haud him close to ye, sir, and he’ll tak the pain oot o’ yer heart: aften has he taen ‘t oot o’ mine—only it aye cam again!—He’s yer ain son, sir! He cam to me bringin the Lord’s forgiveness, lang or ever I had the hert to speir for ‘t. Eh, but we maun dee oor best to mak up til God’s bairn for the wrang we did him afore he was born! But he’ll be like his great Father, and forgie us baith!”

As soon as Maggie had given the child to his mother, she went to her father, and sat down beside him, crying softly. He turned on his leather stool, and looked at her.