“We were afraid it might lead to a quarrel with Mr Johnson,” whispered one of the sons.
“He is come without asking,” replied the stranger, entering; “and the wind shall blow from a new point if I destroy the mirth or happiness of the company.”
“Ye’re a stranger, young man,” said Peter, “or ye would ken this is no a meeting o’ mirth-makers. But, I assure ye, ye are welcome, heartily welcome. Haste ye, lasses,” he added to the servants; “some o’ ye get a chair for the gentleman.”
“Gentleman, indeed!” muttered Johnson between his teeth.
“Never mind about a chair, my hearties,” said the seaman; “this will do!” And, before Peter could speak to withhold him, he had thrown himself carelessly into the hallowed, the venerated, the twelve years unoccupied chair! The spirit of sacrilege uttering blasphemies from a pulpit could not have smitten a congregation of pious worshippers with deeper horror and consternation, than did this filling of the vacant chair the inhabitants of Marchlaw.
“Excuse me, sir! excuse me, sir!” said Peter, the words trembling upon his tongue; “but ye cannot—ye cannot sit there!”
“O man! man!” cried Mrs Elliot, “get out o’ that! get out o’ that!—take my chair!—take ony chair i’ the house!—but dinna, dinna sit there! It has never been sat in by mortal being since the death o’ my dear bairn!—and to see it filled by another is a thing I canna endure!”
“Sir! sir!” continued the father, “ye have done it through ignorance, and we excuse ye. But that was my Thomas’s seat! Twelve years this very day—his birthday—he perished, Heaven kens how! He went out from our sight, like the cloud that passes over the hills—never, never to return. And, O sir, spare a father’s feelings! for to see it filled wrings the blood from my heart!”
“Give me your hand, my worthy soul!” exclaimed the seaman; “I revere—nay, hang it! I would die for your feelings! But Tom Elliot was my friend, and I cast anchor in this chair by special commission. I know that a sudden broadside of joy is a bad thing; but as I don’t know how to preach a sermon before telling you, all I have to say is—that Tom aint dead.”
“Not dead!” said Peter, grasping the hand of the stranger, and speaking with an eagerness that almost choked his utterance. “O sir! sir! tell me how!—how!—Did ye say living?—Is my ain Thomas living?”