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."
[Illustration]
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.
