She told o' how she and her husband put their heads togither. They wanted their dochter to have a chance as gude as' any girl. And so what did they do but tak' all the savings of their lives, twa hundred pounds, and buy a bit schooner for him. He was a sailor lad, it seems, from the toon nearby, and used to the sea.
"'Twas but a wee boat we bought him, but gude for his use in journeying up and doon the coast wi' cargo. His first trip was fine; he made money, and we were all sae happy, syne it seemed we'd been richt in backing him, for a' the neighbors had called us fools. But then misfortune laid sair hands upon us a'. The wee schooner was wrecked on the rocks at Gairliestone. None was lost wi' her, sae it kicht ha' been worse—though I dinna ken, I dinna ken!
"We were a' sorry for the boy. It was no his fault the wee boat was lost; none blamed him for that. But, d'ye ken, he came and brocht himsel' and his wife and his bairns, as they came along, to live wi' us. We were old. We'd worked hard all our lives. We'd gie'n him a' we had. Wad ye no think he'd have gone to work and sought to pay us back? But no. Not he. He sat him doon, and was content to live upon us—faither and me, old and worn out though he knew we were.
"And that wasna the worst. He asked us for siller a' the time, and he beat Lizzie, and was cruel to the wee bairns when we wouldna or couldna find it for him. So it went on, for the years, till, in the end, we gied him twenty pounds more we'd put awa' for a rainy day that he micht tak' himself' off oot o' our sicht and leave us be in peace. He was aff tae Liverpool at once, and we've never clapped een upon him syne then.
"Puir Lizzie! She loves him still, for all he's done to her and to us. She says he'll come back yet, rich and well, and tak' her out o' service, and bring up the bairns like the sons and dochters of gentlefolk. And we—weel, we say nowt to shake her. She maybe happier thinking so, and it's a sair hard time she's had, puir lass. D'ye mind the wee lassie that was sae still till she began to know ye—the weest one of them a'? Aye? Weel, she was born six months after her faither went awa', and I think she's our favorite among them a'."
"And ye ha' the care and the feedin' and the clothin' o' all that brood?" I said. "Is it no cruel hard'?"
"Hard enow," said the auld man, breaking his silence. "But we'd no be wi'oot them. They brichten up the hoose it'd be dull' and drear wi'oot them. I'm hoping that daft lad never comes back, for all o' Lizzie's thinking on him!"
And I share his hope. Chance! Had ever man a greater chance than that sailor lad? He had gone wrong as a boy. Those old folk, because their daughter loved him, gave him the greatest chance a man can have—the chance to retrieve a bad start, to make up for a false step. How many men have that? How many men are there, handicapped as, no doubt, he was, who find those to put faith in them? If a man may not take advantage of sicca chance as that he needs no better chance again than a rope around his neck with a stone tied to it and a drop into the Firth o' Forth!
I've a reminder to this day of that wee hoose at Gatehouse-of-Fleet. There was an old fashioned wag-at-the-wa' in the bedroom where I slept. It had a very curiously shaped little china face, and it took my fancy greatly. Sae, next morning, I offered the old couple a good, stiff price for it mair than it was worth, maybe, but not mair than it was worth to me. They thought I was bidding far too much, and wanted to tak' half, but I would ha' my ain way, for sae I was sure neither of was being cheated. I carried it away wi' me, and the little clock wags awa' in my bedroom to this very day.
There's a bit story I micht as weel tell ye mesel', for yell hear it frae Mac in any case, if ever ye chance to come upon him. It's the tale o' Kirsty Lamont and her rent box. I played eavesdropper, or I wouldna know it to pass it on to ye, but it's tae gude tae lose, for a' that. I'll be saying, first, that I dinna know Kirsty Lamont, though I mak' sae free wi' her name, gude soul!