'Something beirs 't in upo' me 'at he wadna be sae sair upo' me himsel'.There's something i' the New Testament, some gait, 'at's pitten 't into my heid; though, faith, I dinna ken whaur to luik for 't.Canna ye help me oot wi' 't, man?'
Robert could think of nothing but the parable of the prodigal son.
Mrs.Alexander got him the New Testament, and he read it.She sat at the foot of the bed listening.
'There!' cried the soutar, triumphantly, 'I telled ye sae! Not ae word aboot the puir lad's sins! It was a' a hurry an' a scurry to get the new shune upo' 'im, an' win at the calfie an' the fiddlin'
an' the dancin'.--O Lord,' he broke out, 'I'm comin' hame as fest 's I can; but my sins are jist like muckle bauchles (shoes down at heel) upo' my feet and winna lat me.I expec' nae ring and nae robe, but I wad fain hae a fiddle i' my grup when the neist prodigal comes hame; an' gin I dinna fiddle weel, it s' no be my wyte.--Eh, man! but that is what I ca' gude, an' a' the minister said--honest man--'s jist blether till 't.--O Lord, I sweir gin ever I win up again, I'll put in ilka steek (stitch) as gin the shune war for the feet o' the prodigal himsel'.It sall be gude wark, O Lord.An'
I'll never lat taste o' whusky intil my mou'--nor smell o' whusky intil my nose, gin sae be 'at I can help it--I sweir 't, O Lord.An'
gin I binna raised up again--'
Here his voice trembled and ceased, and silence endured for a short minute.Then he called his wife.
'Come here, Bell.Gie me a kiss, my bonny lass.I hae been an ill man to you.'
'Na, na, Sandy.Ye hae aye been gude to me--better nor I deserved.
Ye hae been naebody's enemy but yer ain.'
'Haud yer tongue.Ye're speykin' waur blethers nor the minister, honest man! I tell ye I hae been a damned scoon'rel to ye.I haena even hauden my han's aff o' ye.And eh! ye war a bonny lass whan Imerried ye.I hae blaudit (spoiled) ye a'thegither.But gin I war up, see gin I wadna gie ye a new goon, an' that wad be something to make ye like yersel' again.I'm affrontet wi' mysel' 'at I had been sic a brute o' a man to ye.But ye maun forgie me noo, for I do believe i' my hert 'at the Lord's forgien me.Gie me anither kiss, lass.God be praised, and mony thanks to you! Ye micht hae run awa' frae me lang or noo, an' a'body wad hae said ye did richt.--Robert, play a spring.'
Absorbed in his own thoughts, Robert began to play The Ewie wi' the Crookit Horn.
'Hoots! hoots!' cried Sandy angrily.'What are ye aboot? Nae mair o' that.I hae dune wi' that.What's i' the heid o' ye, man?'
'What'll I play than, Sandy?' asked Robert meekly.
'Play The Lan' o' the Leal, or My Nannie's awa,', or something o'
that kin'.I'll be leal to ye noo, Bell.An' we winna pree o' the whusky nae mair, lass.'
'I canna bide the smell o' 't,' cried Bell, sobbing.
Robert struck in with The Lan' o' the Leal.When he had played it over two or three times, he laid the fiddle in its place, and departed--able just to see, by the light of the neglected candle, that Bell sat on the bedside stroking the rosiny hand of her husband, the rhinoceros-hide of which was yet delicate enough to let the love through to his heart.
After this the soutar never called his fiddle his auld wife.
Robert walked home with his head sunk on his breast.Dooble Sanny, the drinking, ranting, swearing soutar, was inside the wicket-gate;and he was left outside for all his prayers, with the arrows from the castle of Beelzebub sticking in his back.He would have another try some day--but not yet--he dared not yet.
Henceforth Robert had more to do in reading the New Testament than in the fiddle to the soutar, though they never parted without an air or two.Sandy continued hopeful and generally cheerful, with alternations which the reading generally fixed on the right side for the night.Robert never attempted any comments, but left him to take from the word what nourishment he could.There was no return of strength to the helpless arm, and his constitution was gradually yielding.
The rumour got abroad that he was a 'changed character,'--how is not far to seek, for Mr.Maccleary fancied himself the honoured instrument of his conversion, whereas paralysis and the New Testament were the chief agents, and even the violin had more share in it than the minister.For the spirit of God lies all about the spirit of man like a mighty sea, ready to rush in at the smallest chink in the walls that shut him out from his own--walls which even the tone of a violin afloat on the wind of that spirit is sometimes enough to rend from battlement to base, as the blast of the rams'
horns rent the walls of Jericho.And now to the day of his death, the shoemaker had need of nothing.Food, wine, and delicacies were sent him by many who, while they considered him outside of the kingdom, would have troubled themselves in no way about him.What with visits of condolence and flattery, inquiries into his experience, and long prayers by his bedside, they now did their best to send him back among the swine.The soutar's humour, however, aided by his violin, was a strong antidote against these evil influences.
'I doobt I'm gaein' to dee, Robert,' he said at length one evening as the lad sat by his bedside.
'Weel, that winna do ye nae ill,' answered Robert, adding with just a touch of bitterness--'ye needna care aboot that.'
'I do not care aboot the deein' o' 't.But I jist want to live lang eneuch to lat the Lord ken 'at I'm in doonricht earnest aboot it.Ihae nae chance o' drinkin' as lang's I'm lyin' here.'
