Kitabı oku: «Ranald Bannerman's Boyhood», sayfa 7

How I got through the rest of that evening I hardly know. I tried to read, but could not. I was rather fond of arithmetic; so I got my slate and tried to work a sum; but in a few moments I was sick of it. At family prayers I never lifted my head to look at my father, and when they were over, and I had said good night to him, I felt that I was sneaking out of the room. But I had some small sense of protection and safety when once in bed beside little Davie, who was sound asleep, and looked as innocent as little Samuel when the voice of God was going to call him. I put my arm round him, hugged him close to me, and began to cry, and the crying brought me sleep.

It was a very long time now since I had dreamt my old childish dream; but this night it returned. The old sunny-faced sun looked down upon me very solemnly. There was no smile on his big mouth, no twinkle about the corners of his little eyes. He looked at Mrs. Moon as much as to say, “What is to be done? The boy has been going the wrong way: must we disown him?” The moon neither shook her head nor moved her lips, but turned as on a pivot, and stood with her back to her husband, looking very miserable. Not one of the star-children moved from its place. They shone sickly and small. In a little while they faded out; then the moon paled and paled until she too vanished without ever turning her face to her husband; and last the sun himself began to change, only instead of paling he drew in all his beams, and shrunk smaller and smaller, until no bigger than a candle-flame. Then I found that I was staring at a candle on the table; and that Tom was kneeling by the side of the other bed, saying his prayers.

CHAPTER XVII
The Trouble Grows

When I woke in the morning, I tried to persuade myself that I had made a great deal too much of the whole business; that if not a dignified thing to do, it was at worst but a boy’s trick; only I would have no more to say to Peter Mason, who had betrayed me at the last moment without even the temptation of any benefit to himself. I went to school as usual. It was the day for the Shorter Catechism. None failed but Peter and me; and we two were kept in alone, and left in the schoolroom together. I seated myself as far from him as I could. In half an hour he had learned his task, while I had not mastered the half of mine. Thereupon he proceeded, regardless of my entreaties, to prevent me learning it. I begged, and prayed, and appealed to his pity, but he would pull the book away from me, gabble bits of ballads in my ear as I was struggling with Effectual Calling, tip up the form on which I was seated, and, in short, annoy me in twenty different ways. At last I began to cry, for Mason was a bigger and stronger boy than I, and I could not help myself against him. Lifting my head after the first vexation was over, I thought I saw a shadow pass from the window. Although I could not positively say I saw it, I had a conviction it was Turkey, and my heart began to turn again towards him. Emboldened by the fancied proximity, I attempted my lesson once more, but that moment Peter was down upon me like a spider. At last, however, growing suddenly weary of the sport, he desisted, and said:

“Ran, you can stay if you like. I’ve learned my catechism, and I don’t see why I should wait his time.”

As he spoke he drew a picklock from his pocket—his father was an ironmonger—deliberately opened the schoolroom door, slipped out, and locked it behind him. Then he came to one of the windows, and began making faces at me. But vengeance was nigher than he knew. A deeper shadow darkened my page, and when I looked up, there was Turkey towering over Mason, with his hand on his collar, and his whip lifted. The whip did not look formidable. Mason received the threat as a joke, and laughed in Turkey’s face. Perceiving, however, that Turkey looked dangerous, with a sudden wriggle, at which he was an adept, he broke free, and, trusting to his tried speed of foot, turned his head and made a grimace as he took to his heels. Before, however, he could widen the space between them sufficiently, Turkey’s whip came down upon him. With a howl of pain Peter doubled himself up, and Turkey fell upon him, and, heedless of his yells and cries, pommelled him severely. Although they were now at some distance, too great for the distinguishing of words, I could hear that Turkey mingled admonition with punishment. A little longer, and Peter crept past the window, a miserable mass of collapsed and unstrung impudence, his face bleared with crying, and his knuckles dug into his eyes. And this was the boy I had chosen for my leader! He had been false to me, I said to myself; and the noble Turkey, seeing his behaviour through the window, had watched to give him his deserts. My heart was full of gratitude.

Once more Turkey drew near the window. What was my dismay and indignation to hear him utter the following words:

“If you weren’t your father’s son, Ranald, and my own old friend, I would serve you just the same.”

Wrath and pride arose in me at the idea of Turkey, who used to call himself my horse, behaving to me after this fashion; and, my evil ways having half made a sneak of me, I cried out:

“I’ll tell my father, Turkey.”

“I only wish you would, and then I should be no tell-tale if he asked me why, and I told him all about it. You young blackguard! You’re no gentleman! To sneak about the streets and hit girls with snowballs! I scorn you!”

“You must have been watching, then, Turkey, and you had no business to do that,” I said, plunging at any defence.

“I was not watching you. But if I had been, it would have been just as right as watching Hawkie. You ill-behaved creature! You’re a true minister’s son.”

“It’s a mean thing to do, Turkey,” I persisted, seeking to stir up my own anger and blow up my self-approval.

“I tell you I did not do it. I met Elsie Duff crying in the street because you had hit her with a dirty snowball. And then to go and smoke her and her poor grannie, till the old woman fell down in a faint or a fit, I don’t know which! You deserve a good pommelling yourself, I can tell you, Ranald. I’m ashamed of you.”

He turned to go away.

“Turkey, Turkey,” I cried, “isn’t the old woman better?”

“I don’t know. I’m going to see,” he answered.

“Come back and tell me, Turkey,” I shouted, as he disappeared from the field of my vision.

“Indeed I won’t. I don’t choose to keep company with such as you. But if ever I hear of you touching them again, you shall have more of me than you’ll like, and you may tell your father so when you please.”

I had indeed sunk low when Turkey, who had been such a friend, would have nothing to say to me more. In a few minutes the master returned, and finding me crying, was touched with compassion. He sent me home at once, which was well for me, as I could not have repeated a single question. He thought Peter had crept through one of the panes that opened for ventilation, and did not interrogate me about his disappearance.

The whole of the rest of that day was miserable enough. I even hazarded one attempt at making friends with Mrs. Mitchell, but she repelled me so rudely that I did not try again. I could not bear the company of either Allister or Davie. I would have gone and told Kirsty, but I said to myself that Turkey must have already prejudiced her against me. I went to bed the moment prayers were over, and slept a troubled sleep. I dreamed that Turkey had gone and told my father, and that he had turned me out of the house.

CHAPTER XVIII
Light out of Darkness

I woke early on the Sunday morning, and a most dreary morning it was. I could not lie in bed, and, although no one was up yet, rose and dressed myself. The house was as waste as a sepulchre. I opened the front door and went out. The world itself was no better. The day had hardly begun to dawn. The dark dead frost held it in chains of iron. The sky was dull and leaden, and cindery flakes of snow were thinly falling. Everywhere life looked utterly dreary and hopeless. What was there worth living for? I went out on the road, and the ice in the ruts crackled under my feet like the bones of dead things. I wandered away from the house, and the keen wind cut me to the bone, for I had not put on plaid or cloak. I turned into a field, and stumbled along over its uneven surface, swollen into hard frozen lumps, so that it was like walking upon stones. The summer was gone and the winter was here, and my heart was colder and more miserable than any winter in the world. I found myself at length at the hillock where Turkey and I had lain on that lovely afternoon the year before. The stream below was dumb with frost. The wind blew wearily but sharply across the bare field. There was no Elsie Duff, with head drooping over her knitting, seated in the summer grass on the other side of a singing brook. Her head was aching on her pillow because I had struck her with that vile lump; and instead of the odour of white clover she was breathing the dregs of the hateful smoke with which I had filled the cottage. I sat down, cold as it was, on the frozen hillock, and buried my face in my hands. Then my dream returned upon me. This was how I sat in my dream when my father had turned me out-of-doors. Oh how dreadful it would be! I should just have to lie down and die.

I could not sit long for the cold. Mechanically I rose and paced about. But I grew so wretched in body that it made me forget for a while the trouble of my mind, and I wandered home again. The house was just stirring. I crept to the nursery, undressed, and lay down beside little Davie, who cried out in his sleep when my cold feet touched him. But I did not sleep again, although I lay till all the rest had gone to the parlour. I found them seated round a blazing fire waiting for my father. He came in soon after, and we had our breakfast, and Davie gave his crumbs as usual to the robins and sparrows which came hopping on the window-sill. I fancied my father’s eyes were often turned in my direction, but I could not lift mine to make sure. I had never before known what misery was.

Only Tom and I went to church that day: it was so cold. My father preached from the text, “Be sure your sin shall find you out”. I thought with myself that he had found out my sin, and was preparing to punish me for it, and I was filled with terror as well as dismay. I could scarcely keep my seat, so wretched was I. But when after many instances in which punishment had come upon evil-doers when they least expected it, and in spite of every precaution to fortify themselves against it, he proceeded to say that a man’s sin might find him out long before the punishment of it overtook him, and drew a picture of the misery of the wicked man who fled when none pursued him, and trembled at the rustling of a leaf, then I was certain that he knew what I had done, or had seen through my face into my conscience. When at last we went home, I kept waiting the whole of the day for the storm to break, expecting every moment to be called to his study. I did not enjoy a mouthful of my food, for I felt his eyes upon me, and they tortured me. I was like a shy creature of the woods whose hole had been stopped up: I had no place of refuge—nowhere to hide my head; and I felt so naked!

My very soul was naked. After tea I slunk away to the nursery, and sat staring into the fire. Mrs. Mitchell came in several times and scolded me for sitting there, instead of with Tom and the rest in the parlour, but I was too miserable even to answer her. At length she brought Davie, and put him to bed; and a few minutes after, I heard my father coming down the stair with Allister, who was chatting away to him. I wondered how he could. My father came in with the big Bible under his arm, as was his custom on Sunday nights, drew a chair to the table, rang for candles, and with Allister by his side and me seated opposite to him, began to find a place from which to read to us. To my yet stronger conviction, he began and read through without a word of remark the parable of the Prodigal Son. When he came to the father’s delight at having him back, the robe, and the shoes, and the ring, I could not repress my tears. “If I could only go back,” I thought, “and set it all right! but then I’ve never gone away.” It was a foolish thought, instantly followed by a longing impulse to tell my father all about it. How could it be that I had not thought of this before? I had been waiting all this time for my sin to find me out; why should I not frustrate my sin, and find my father first?

As soon as he had done reading, and before he had opened his mouth to make any remark, I crept round the table to his side, and whispered in his ear,—

“Papa, I want to speak to you.”

“Very well, Ranald,” he said, more solemnly, I thought, than usual; “come up to the study.”

He rose and led the way, and I followed. A whimper of disappointment came from Davie’s bed. My father went and kissed him, and said he would soon be back, whereupon Davie nestled down satisfied.

When we reached the study, he closed the door, sat down by the fire, and drew me towards him.

I burst out crying, and could not speak for sobs. He encouraged me most kindly. He said—

“Have you been doing anything wrong, my boy?”

“Yes, papa, very wrong,” I sobbed. “I’m disgusted with myself.”

“I am glad to hear it, my dear,” he returned. “There is some hope of you, then.”

“Oh! I don’t know that,” I rejoined. “Even Turkey despises me.”

“That’s very serious,” said my father. “He’s a fine fellow, Turkey. I should not like him to despise me. But tell me all about it.”

It was with great difficulty I could begin, but with the help of questioning me, my father at length understood the whole matter. He paused for a while plunged in thought; then rose, saying,—

“It’s a serious affair, my dear boy; but now you have told me, I shall be able to help you.”

“But you knew about it before, didn’t you, papa? Surely you did!”

“Not a word of it, Ranald. You fancied so because your sin had found you out. I must go and see how the poor woman is. I don’t want to reproach you at all, now you are sorry, but I should like you just to think that you have been helping to make that poor old woman wicked. She is naturally of a sour disposition, and you have made it sourer still, and no doubt made her hate everybody more than she was already inclined to do. You have been working against God in this parish.”

I burst into fresh tears. It was too dreadful.

“What am I to do?” I cried.

“Of course you must beg Mrs. Gregson’s pardon, and tell her that you are both sorry and ashamed.”

“Yes, yes, papa. Do let me go with you.”

“It’s too late to find her up, I’m afraid; but we can just go and see. We’ve done a wrong, a very grievous wrong, my boy, and I cannot rest till I at least know the consequences of it.”

He put on his long greatcoat and muffler in haste, and having seen that I too was properly wrapped up, he opened the door and stepped out. But remembering the promise he had made to Davie, he turned and went down to the nursery to speak to him again, while I awaited him on the doorsteps. It would have been quite dark but for the stars, and there was no snow to give back any of their shine. The earth swallowed all their rays, and was no brighter for it. But oh, what a change to me from the frightful morning! When my father returned, I put my hand in his almost as fearlessly as Allister or wee Davie might have done, and away we walked together.

“Papa,” I said, “why did you say we have done a wrong? You did not do it.”

“My dear boy, persons who are so near each other as we are, must not only bear the consequences together of any wrong done by one of them, but must, in a sense, bear each other’s iniquities even. If I sin, you must suffer; if you sin, you being my own boy, I must suffer. But this is not all: it lies upon both of us to do what we can to get rid of the wrong done; and thus we have to bear each other’s sin. I am accountable to make amends as far as I can; and also to do what I can to get you to be sorry and make amends as far as you can.”

“But, papa, isn’t that hard?” I asked.

“Do you think I should like to leave you to get out of your sin as you best could, or sink deeper and deeper into it? Should I grudge anything to take the weight of the sin, or the wrong to others, off you? Do you think I should want not to be troubled about it? Or if I were to do anything wrong, would you think it very hard that you had to help me to be good, and set things right? Even if people looked down upon you because of me, would you say it was hard? Would you not rather say, ‘I’m glad to bear anything for my father: I’ll share with him’?”

“Yes, indeed, papa. I would rather share with you than not, whatever it was.”

“Then you see, my boy, how kind God is in tying us up in one bundle that way. It is a grand and beautiful thing that the fathers should suffer for the children, and the children for the fathers. Come along. We must step out, or I fear we shall not be able to make our apology to-night. When we’ve got over this, Ranald, we must be a good deal more careful what company we keep.”

“Oh, papa,” I answered, “if Turkey would only forgive me!”

“There’s no fear. Turkey is sure to forgive you when you’ve done what you can to make amends. He’s a fine fellow, Turkey. I have a high opinion of Turkey—as you call him.”

“If he would, papa, I should not wish for any other company than his.”

“A boy wants various kinds of companions, Ranald, but I fear you have been neglecting Turkey. You owe him much.”

“Yes, indeed I do, papa,” I answered; “and I have been neglecting him. If I had kept with Turkey, I should never have got into such a dreadful scrape as this.”

“That is too light a word to use for it, my boy. Don’t call a wickedness a scrape; for a wickedness it certainly was, though I am only too willing to believe you had no adequate idea at the time how wicked it was.”

“I won’t again, papa. But I am so relieved already.”

“Perhaps poor old Mrs. Gregson is not relieved, though. You ought not to forget her.”

Thus talking, we hurried on until we arrived at the cottage. A dim light was visible through the window. My father knocked, and Elsie Duff opened the door.

CHAPTER XIX
Forgiveness

When we entered, there sat the old woman on the farther side of the hearth, rocking herself to and fro. I hardly dared look up. Elsie’s face was composed and sweet. She gave me a shy tremulous smile, which went to my heart and humbled me dreadfully. My father took the stool on which Elsie had been sitting. When he had lowered himself upon it, his face was nearly on a level with that of the old woman, who took no notice of him, but kept rocking herself to and fro and moaning. He laid his hand on hers, which, old and withered and not very clean, lay on her knee.

“How do you find yourself to-night, Mrs. Gregson?” he asked.

“I’m an ill-used woman,” she replied with a groan, behaving as if it was my father who had maltreated her, and whose duty it was to make an apology for it.

“I am aware of what you mean, Mrs. Gregson. That is what brought me to inquire after you. I hope you are not seriously the worse for it.”

“I’m an ill-used woman,” she repeated. “Every man’s hand’s against me.”

“Well, I hardly think that,” said my father in a cheerful tone. “My hand’s not against you now.”

“If you bring up your sons, Mr. Bannerman, to mock at the poor, and find their amusement in driving the aged and infirm to death’s door, you can’t say your hand’s not against a poor lone woman like me.”

“But I don’t bring up my sons to do so. If I did I shouldn’t be here now. I am willing to bear my part of the blame, Mrs. Gregson, but to say I bring my sons up to that kind of wickedness, is to lay on me more than my share, a good deal.—Come here, Ranald.”

I obeyed with bowed head and shame-stricken heart, for I saw what wrong I had done my father, and that although few would be so unjust to him as this old woman, many would yet blame the best man in the world for the wrongs of his children. When I stood by my father’s side, the old woman just lifted her head once to cast on me a scowling look, and then went on again rocking herself.

“Now, my boy,” said my father, “tell Mrs. Gregson why you have come here to-night.”

I had to use a dreadful effort to make myself speak. It was like resisting a dumb spirit and forcing the words from my lips. But I did not hesitate a moment. In fact, I dared not hesitate, for I felt that hesitation would be defeat.

“I came, papa–” I began.

“No no, my man,” said my father; “you must speak to Mrs. Gregson, not to me.”

Thereupon I had to make a fresh effort. When at this day I see a child who will not say the words required of him, I feel again just as I felt then, and think how difficult it is for him to do what he is told; but oh, how I wish he would do it, that he might be a conqueror I for I know that if he will not make the effort, it will grow more and more difficult for him to make any effort. I cannot be too thankful that I was able to overcome now.

“I came, Mrs. Gregson,” I faltered, “to tell you that I am very sorry I behaved so ill to you.”

“Yes, indeed,” she returned. “How would you like anyone to come and serve you so in your grand house? But a poor lone widow woman like me is nothing to be thought of. Oh no! not at all.”

“I am ashamed of myself,” I said, almost forcing my confession upon her.

“So you ought to be all the days of your life. You deserve to be drummed out of the town for a minister’s son that you are! Hoo!”

“I’ll never do it again, Mrs. Gregson.”

“You’d better not, or you shall hear of it, if there’s a sheriff in the county. To insult honest people after that fashion!”

I drew back, more than ever conscious of the wrong I had done in rousing such unforgiving fierceness in the heart of a woman. My father spoke now.

“Shall I tell you, Mrs. Gregson, what made the boy sorry, and made him willing to come and tell you all about it?”

“Oh, I’ve got friends after all. The young prodigal!”

“You are coming pretty near it, Mrs. Gregson,” said my father; “but you haven’t touched it quite. It was a friend of yours that spoke to my boy and made him very unhappy about what he had done, telling him over and over again what a shame it was, and how wicked of him. Do you know what friend it was?”

“Perhaps I do, and perhaps I don’t. I can guess.”

“I fear you don’t guess quite correctly. It was the best friend you ever had or ever will have. It was God himself talking in my poor boy’s heart. He would not heed what he said all day, but in the evening we were reading how the prodigal son went back to his father, and how the father forgave him; and he couldn’t stand it any longer, and came and told me all about it.”

“It wasn’t you he had to go to. It wasn’t you he smoked to death—was it now? It was easy enough to go to you.”

“Not so easy perhaps. But he has come to you now.”

“Come when you made him!”

“I didn’t make him. He came gladly. He saw it was all he could do to make up for the wrong he had done.”

“A poor amends!” I heard her grumble; but my father took no notice.

“And you know, Mrs. Gregson,” he went on, “when the prodigal son did go back to his father, his father forgave him at once.”

“Easy enough! He was his father, and fathers always side with their sons.”

I saw my father thinking for a moment.

“Yes; that is true,” he said. “And what he does himself, he always wants his sons and daughters to do. So he tells us that if we don’t forgive one another, he will not forgive us. And as we all want to be forgiven, we had better mind what we’re told. If you don’t forgive this boy, who has done you a great wrong, but is sorry for it, God will not forgive you—and that’s a serious affair.”

“He’s never begged my pardon yet,” said the old woman, whose dignity required the utter humiliation of the offender.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Gregson,” I said. “I shall never be rude to you again.”

“Very well,” she answered, a little mollified at last.

“Keep your promise, and we’ll say no more about it. It’s for your father’s sake, mind, that I forgive you.”

I saw a smile trembling about my father’s lips, but he suppressed it, saying,

“Won’t you shake hands with him, Mrs. Gregson?”

She held out a poor shrivelled hand, which I took very gladly; but it felt so strange in mine that I was frightened at it: it was like something half dead. But at the same moment, from behind me another hand, a rough little hand, but warm and firm and all alive, slipped into my left hand. I knew it was Elsie Duff’s, and the thought of how I had behaved to her rushed in upon me with a cold misery of shame. I would have knelt at her feet, but I could not speak my sorrow before witnesses. Therefore I kept hold of her hand and led her by it to the other end of the cottage, for there was a friendly gloom, the only light in the place coming from the glow—not flame—of a fire of peat and bark. She came readily, whispering before I had time to open my mouth—

I’m sorry grannie’s so hard to make it up.”

“I deserve it,” I said. “Elsie, I’m a brute. I could knock my head on the wall. Please forgive me.”

“It’s not me,” she answered. “You didn’t hurt me. I didn’t mind it.”

“Oh, Elsie! I struck you with that horrid snowball.”

“It was only on the back of my neck. It didn’t hurt me much. It only frightened me.”

“I didn’t know it was you. If I had known, I am sure I shouldn’t have done it. But it was wicked and contemptible anyhow, to any girl.”

I broke down again, half from shame, half from the happiness of having cast my sin from me by confessing it. Elsie held my hand now.

“Never mind; never mind,” she said; “you won’t do it again.”

“I would rather be hanged,” I sobbed.

That moment a pair of strong hands caught hold of mine, and the next I found myself being hoisted on somebody’s back, by a succession of heaves and pitches, which did not cease until I was firmly seated. Then a voice said—

“I’m his horse again, Elsie, and I’ll carry him home this very night.”

Elsie gave a pleased little laugh; and Turkey bore me to the fireside, where my father was talking away in a low tone to the old woman. I believe he had now turned the tables upon her, and was trying to convince her of her unkind and grumbling ways. But he did not let us hear a word of the reproof.

“Eh! Turkey, my lad! is that you? I didn’t know you were there,” he said.

I had never before heard my father address him as Turkey.

“What are you doing with that great boy upon your back?” he continued.

“I’m going to carry him home, sir.”

“Nonsense! He can walk well enough.”

Half ashamed, I began to struggle to get down, but Turkey held me tight.

“But you see, sir,” said Turkey, “we’re friends now. He’s done what he could, and I want to do what I can.”

“Very well,” returned my father, rising; “come along; it’s time we were going.”

When he bade her good night, the old woman actually rose and held out her hand to both of us.

“Good night, Grannie,” said Turkey. “Good night, Elsie.” And away we went.

Never conqueror on his triumphal entry was happier than I, as through the starry night I rode home on Turkey’s back. The very stars seemed rejoicing over my head. When I think of it now, the words always come with it, “There is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth,” and I cannot but believe they rejoiced then, for if ever I repented in my life I repented then. When at length I was down in bed beside Davie, it seemed as if there could be nobody in the world so blessed as I was: I had been forgiven. When I woke in the morning, I was as it were new born into a new world. Before getting up I had a rare game with Davie, whose shrieks of laughter at length brought Mrs. Mitchell with angry face; but I found myself kindly disposed even towards her. The weather was much the same; but its dreariness had vanished. There was a glowing spot in my heart which drove out the cold, and glorified the black frost that bound the earth. When I went out before breakfast, and saw the red face of the sun looking through the mist like a bright copper kettle, he seemed to know all about it, and to be friends with me as he had never been before; and I was quite as well satisfied as if the sun of my dream had given me a friendly nod of forgiveness.