"Listed!" exclaimed James, and he fell back against the wall, as though a bullet had entered his bosom.
"Listed! my bairn, my darling bairn, listed!" cried Peggy. "O James! James!—ye cruel man! see what ye've done!—ye hae driven my bairn to destruction!"
"Woman! woman!" added he, "dinna torment me beyond what I am able to endure. Do you no think I am suffering aneugh, and mair than aneugh, without you aggravating my misery? Oh, the rash, the thoughtless callant! Could he no forgie his faither for ae fault?—a faither that could lay down his life for him. Haste ye, Katie, get me my stick and my Sunday coat, and I'll follow him; he canna be far yet—I'll bring him back. Wheesht now, Peggy," he added, "let us hae nae mair reflections—just compose yersel. George shall be hame the night—and we'll let byganes be byganes."
"Oh, then, James, rin every foot," said Peggy, whose ill-humour had yielded to her maternal anxiety; "bring him back whether he will or no; tell him how ill Katie is; and that, if he persists in being a sodger, he will be the death o' his mother."
With a heavy and an anxious heart, James set out in pursuit of his son; but the serjeant and his recruits had taken the road six hours before him. On arriving at Dunbar, where he expected they would halt for the night, he was informed that the serjeant, being ordered to push forward to Leith with all possible expedition, as the vessel in which they were to embark was to sail with the morning tide, had, with his recruits, taken one of the coaches, and would then be within a few miles of Edinburgh. This was another blow to James. But, after resting for a space, not exceeding five minutes, he hastened forward to Leith.
It was midnight when he arrived, and he could learn nothing of his son or the vessel in which he was to embark; but, weary as he was, he wandered along the shore and the pier till morning. Day began to break; the shores of the Frith became dimly visible; the Bass, like a fixed cloud, appeared on the distant horizon; it was more than half-tide; and, as he stood upon the pier, he heard the yo-heave-ho! of seamen proceeding from a smack which lay on the south side of the harbour, by the lowest bridge. He hastened towards the vessel; but before he approached it, and while the cry of the seamen yet continued, a party of soldiers and recruits issued from a tavern on the shore. They tossed their caps in the air, they huzzaed, and proceeded towards the smack. With a throbbing heart, James hurried forward, and in the midst of them, through the grey light, he beheld his son.
"O George!" cried the anxious parent, "what a journey ye hae gien yer faither!"
George started at his father's voice, and for a moment he was silent and sullen, as though he had not yet forgiven him.
"Come, George," said the old man, affectionately, "let us forget and forgie. Come awa hame again, my man, and I'll pay the smart money. Dinna persist in bringing yer mother to her grave, in breaking yer sister's heart, puir thing, and in making me miserable."
"O faither! faither!" groaned George, grasping his father's hand, "it's owre late—it's owre late now! What's done canna be undone!"