This explained his reception, and Cosmo made haste in his turn to explain his conduct.
“Ye may be sure,” he answered, “it gaed some agen the grain to seek wark frae him, an’ I had no rizzon upon earth for no comin’ to you first but that I didna want to be sae far, at nicht especially, frae my father. He’s no the man he was.”
“Verra nait’ral!” responded the farmer heartily, and wondered in himself whether any of his sons would have considered him so much. “Weel,” he went on, “I’m jist relieved to un’erstan’ the thing; for the lasses wad hae perswaudit me I hed gien ye some offence wi’ my free-spoken w’y, whan I’m sure naething cud hae been far’er frae the thoucht o’ my hert.”
“Indeed,” said Cosmo, half rising in his eagerness, “I assure you, Mr. Henderson, there is not a man from whom I should be less ready to imagine offence than yourself. I do not know how to express my feeling of the kindness with which you always treated me. Nor could I have given you a better proof that I mean what I say than by coming to you first, the moment I was able for the walk, with the request I have now to make. Will you engage me for the coming harvest, and pay me a part of the fee in advance? I know it is a strange request, and if you refuse it, I doubt if there is another to whom I shall venture to make it. I confess also that I have been very ill, but I am now fairly on the mend, and there is a long time to recover my strength in before the harvest. To tell you the truth, we are much in want of a little money at the castle. We are not greatly in debt now, but we have lost all our land; and a house, however good, won’t grow corn. Something in my mind tells me that my father, unlikely as it may seem, will yet pay everything; and anyhow we want to hold on as long as we can. I am sure, if you were in our place, you would not be willing to part with the house a moment before you were absolutely compelled.”
“But, laird,” said the farmer, who had listened with the utmost attention, “hoo can the thing be, ’at amo’ a’ the great fowk ye hae kent, there sud be nane to say, ‘Help yersel’? I canna un’erstan’ hoo the last o’ sic an auld faimily sud na hae a han’ held oot to help them!”
“It is not so very hard to explain,” replied Cosmo. “Almost all my father’s old friends are dead or gone, and a man like him, especially in straitened circumstances, does not readily make new friends. Almost the only person he has been intimate with of late years is Mr. Simon, whom I daresay you know. Then he has what many people count peculiar notions—so peculiar, indeed, that I have heard of some calling him a fool behind his back because he paid themselves certain moneys his father owed them. I believe if he had rich friends they would say it was no use trying to help such a man.”
“Weel!” exclaimed the farmer, “it jist blecks me to ken hoo there can be ony trowth i’ the Bible, whan a man like that comes sae near to beggin’ his breid!”
“He is very near it, certainly,” assented Cosmo, “but why not he as well as another?”
“’Cause they tell me the Bible says the richteous man sall never come to beg his breid.”
“Well, near is not there. But I fancy there must be a mistake. The writer of one of the psalms—I do not know whether David or another, says he never saw the righteous forsaken or his seed begging bread; but though he may not have seen it, another may.”