“Oo, ay, but there iss not in him the wull to give up the trink. He hes given it up more than wance before, an’ failed. He will co from pad to worse in my opinion. There iss no hope for him, I fear.”
“Fery likely,” and on the strength of that opinion Ian drew a flask from his pocket, and the two cronies had what the groom called a “tram” together.
Farther up the steep road they overtook John Barret and Giles Jackman, who saluted them with pleasant platitudes about the weather as they passed. Curiously enough, these two chanced to be conversing on the very subject that had engaged the thoughts of Ian and the groom.
“They say this is not the first time that poor Ivor has dashed his bottle to pieces,” said Barret. “I fear it has become a disease in this case, and that he has lost the power of self-control. From all I hear I have little hope of him. It is all the more sad that he seems to have gained the affections of that poor little girl, Aggy Anderson.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Giles, laughing; “a fellow-feeling makes you wondrous sharp, I suppose, for I had not observed that interesting fact. But why do you speak in such pitiful tones of Aggy?”
“Because she is an invalid, and her lover is a drunkard. Sufficient reasons, I should think.”
“No, not quite, because she has almost recovered her usual health while here, and poor Ivor is, after all, only one of the sinners for whom Jesus Christ died. I have great hopes of him.”
“I’m glad to hear you say so, Jackman, though I don’t see that the fact of our Saviour’s dying for us all proves his case to be hopeful. Are there not hundreds of men of whom the same may be said, yet they are not delivered from drunkenness, and don’t seem likely to be?”
“That is unquestionably true,” rejoined his friend; “but such men as you refer to have not been brought to the condition of renouncing self, and trusting only in our Saviour. They want to have some credit in the matter of their own salvation—hence they fail. Ivor, I have good reason to believe, has been brought to that condition—a condition which insures success—hence my great hopes of him. I became aware of his state of mind, partly from having had a long talk with him the other day, and partly from the report of his good old mother. She told me yesterday that Ivor had come to her, laid his hand on her shoulder, and said, ‘Mither, I’ve lost all hope o’ mysel’ noo,’ to which the old woman answered, ‘That’s the best news I’ve heard for mony a day, my son, for noo the Lord wull let ye see what He can do for ye.’ Ivor’s reply to that was, ‘I believe ye’re richt, mither.’ Now I think that was a great deal to come from two such undemonstrative Celts.”
At this point in the conversation they reached a part of the road where a footpath diverged down to the river, the road itself rising abruptly towards the Eagle Cliff.