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Paddy Dougan knew better than to give him any of his own home-made brew, for if, after his fourth, McFarquhar found himself growing incapable, knowing that he could enjoy his sixth and even carry with comfort his ninth, then his rage blazed forth, and the only safety for Paddy lay in escape to the woods.
In the result the executors gave their consent, and the publication became an authorized one, so much so that Dodsley was able to obtain an interdict in the Scotch Court preventing a certain Scotch bookseller, caller McFarquhar, from reprinting the letters in Edinburgh. Whether the executors believed Mrs.
I could easily imagine the close dealing between the minister and McFarquhar, who would give him all reverence and submission, but when I imagined the highland minister dealing faithfully with the Indian wife and mother and her boys I failed utterly.
In my dreaming, ever and again there kept coming to me the face of Ould Michael, with the look that it bore after reading his home-letter, and I thought how different would his Sabbath day have been had his sister and his little one been near to stand between him and the dreariness and loneliness of his life. True to his promise, McFarquhar carried off Ould Michael to his ranch up Grizzly Creek.
His tongue, so ready at other times, would be silent; and he would move softly over to his friend McFarquhar, and stand there as in a dream. As he came toward us on this occasion, McFarquhar said, in an undertone: "It is good news to-day with Ould Michael," adding in answer to my look of inquiry, "His sister has charge of his little girl at home."
"Ay, that is a great part of it, whatever." "Och! me hea-art is broke, me hea-art is broke," groaned Ould Michael. "Hoots, man! is it for the p'stoffice? That was not much worth to any man." But Ould Michael only shook his head. It was hopeless to try to make such a man appreciate his feelings. McFarquhar rambled on, making light of the whole affair. The loss could only be very trifling.
"Whisht, man," said McFarquhar, as he might to a child, "whist, whist, lad! It will be well with you yet." But Ould Michael could not be comforted, but sobbed on and on. A man's weeping has something terrible in it, but an old man's tears are hardest of all to bear. McFarquhar stood helpless for some moments; then, taking Ould Michael by the arm, he said: "Come out of this, anyway! Come out!"
It was not so much that he despised the weakness of getting drunk, but he resented the fraud that deprived him of the pleasure of leisurely pursuing his way to his proper limit. "It is the bad whisky," repeated McFarquhar "and Ould Michael ought to know better than fill himself up with such deplorable stuff." "Too bad!" I said.
Then McFarquhar, who had grown quick in following Ould Michael's thoughts, read one by one all the words that picture the Christian life as a warfare, ending up with that grand outburst of that noblest of Christian soldiers, "I have fought the fight, I have kept the faith." The splendid loyalty of it appealed to Ould Michael.
McFarquhar had come prepared to adopt strong measures, but the sight of Ould Michael, besotted and broken, was more than he could stand. "Michael, man!" he cried, amazement and grief in his voice. "Aw, Michael, man! What's this? What's this?" He went to him and laid his big bony hand on Ould Michael's shoulder. At his words and touch the old man broke into sobbing, terrible to see.
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