Old Sinclair started—his strong chest heaved—the recollection of his rash blow, together with the circumstance that it had been dispensed on such a solemn night, and near the new grave of one whose gentle spirit had been but too much troubled by the harshness and waywardness of both husband and son, came over his heart with the sudden conviction that his boy and himself were justly punished by the same blow, for their mutual disrespect in former years. Yearning pity over that son’s unhappy appearance, and the natural flow of a father’s heart, long subdued on behalf of his poor lost prodigal, were mingled in the old man’s deep emotion; and he sought relief by throwing himself in his boy’s arms, and weeping on his neck.
His sturdy nature soon recovered itself a little; yet the bitter spray was winked from his compressed eyes as he shook his head; and the lower part of his face quivered with unusual affliction, as he said in a hoarse whisper—
“My own Richard!—my man, has your father lived to strike you to the ground like a brute beast, and you sae ill?—on the very day, too, o’ your mother’s burial, that loved ye aye sae weel! But come away wi’ me to your father’s house, for ye are sick as death, and the auld man that used ye ower ill is sair humbled the night, Richard!”
The prodigal’s heart could not stand this confession of a father. His young bosom heaved as if about to be rent to pieces; the mother, and hysterica passio of old Lear, rose in his straitened throat, overmastering the struggling respiration, and he fell back in a violent fit. His agonized parent ran to the door, as if seeking assistance, he knew not what or where; then checking himself in a moment, and hastening back, yet without looking on his son, he grasped the clergyman strongly by the hand, crying out, “Is he gone?—is my callant dead?”
Ordering the people to withdraw from around the prostrate youth, whose head was now supported by the clergyman’s beautiful and compassionate daughter, the kind old pastor led forward the agonised father, and pointing to his reviving son, told him that all would soon be well again. With head depressed upon his bosom, his hard hands slowly wringing each other, while they were wetted with the tears which rained from his glazed eyes, old Sinclair stood looking down upon the ghastly boy, whose eye was severely swollen, whilst his cheek was stained with the clotted blood which had flowed from the wound above the temples, inflicted by his own father.
After standing a while in this position, the old man drew a white napkin from his pocket, and, as if himself unable for the task, he gave it to one of his neighbours, and pointed to the blood on the face of his prodigal boy, signifying that he wished it wiped away. This was done accordingly; and, in a few moments more, Richard rose, recovered from his fit, and modestly thanking the clergyman and his beautiful daughter for their attentions to him, he signified his resolve to go home immediately with his father. The kind old minister would fain have kept him all night, alleging the danger of exposing himself in such a state to the night air; but the youth was determined in his purpose; and old Sinclair cut short the matter by shaking the hand of his pastor, whilst, without saying a word, he looked him kindly in the face to express his thanks, and then by leading his son away by the arm.
The villagers, who had crowded into the manse, judging this one of those levelling occasions when they might intrude into the best parlour, allowed the father and son to depart without attempting immediately to follow—nature teaching them that they had no right to intermeddle with the sacred communings of the son and father’s repentance and forgiveness, or with the sorrow of their common bereavement. Yet the rude throng glanced at the minister, as if surprised and disappointed that the thing had ended so simply; then slunk out of the room, apprehensive, probably, of some rebuke from him. The ruling elder, however, remained behind, and wherefore not?
THE BARLEY FEVER—AND REBUKE.
By D. M. Moir (“Delta”).
Sages their solemn een may steek,