Ranald Bannerman's Boyhood Part 11

[Ill.u.s.tration]

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, Ra.n.a.ld. 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 G.o.d 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 m.u.f.fler 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 s.h.i.+ne. 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 G.o.d 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, Ra.n.a.ld, 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, Ra.n.a.ld, 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 sc.r.a.pe as this."

"That is too light a word to use for it, my boy. Don't call a wickedness a sc.r.a.pe; 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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, Ra.n.a.ld."

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.