“I hear you have been ill, Saunders,” he said.
“Na, no to ca’ ill,” said Saunders, clearing his voice with an effort, “I’m an auld man, and I get frail; but I hae muckle mair than I deserve; a hantle mair than I deserve—mair than I wad hae gien to ony ane that did evil in my sight.”
“Oh, Saunders, man!” It was the only remonstrance his wife ever made.
“And I’m no ill,” continued Saunders, with the spasmodic shrillness in his voice. “I’m strong in my bodily health, Mr Oswald, it’s no that: I gaed to ye ance when my heart was turning—ye ken it’s no that.”
To no other man would Saunders have said so much, but he thought better of the rigid banker than he deserved. He thought him possessed of his own stern unselfish nature, without his miseries to bring out its harsher points.
“Oh, Maister Oswald,” said the wife, “say something till him! speak to the auld man; bid him no be sae hard on himsel.”
“Whisht, Marget,” said the old man, labouring to steady himself, “haud your peace—it’s you that disna ken. What would it become me to be but hard on mysel? wasna I hard on ane—ane—” the spasm returned, the voice became hoarse and thick, and then broke out peremptorily shrill and high, “ane that canna ken now how I hae warstled for him, yearned for him—oh, woman, ye dinna ken!”
And the mother drew back into the darkness and hid her face; she too had yearned and travailed—but before this agony she was still.
“And gin we win up yonder where we hae nae right to win,” continued the unsteady, broken, excited voice, “and seek for him amang the blessed, and find him never—will ye say I hae nae wyte o’t? Me that avenged his sin upon him, and shut him out o’ my heart wi’ a vow? The Lord mightna have saved him; it might have pleased the Lord no to have saved him; wha can faddom the Almighty? but I banished him away, I pat him out of sound and sight o’ the word that saves, and isna the burden mine? Marget, I bid ye haud your peace—ye hae nae guilt o’ his bluid—but for me—”
The old man’s head shook with a palsied vehement motion, the wild fire shot out in gleams from under his heavy eyebrows; the hard hand with its knotted sinews distinct upon it was clenched in bitter pain.