Scottish sketches Part 21

The people at the Humane Society did the same; sae did Dr. Fleming. I suppose some reporter got the information from one o' the latter sources. But if Robert gets well, we may let it stand; and if he doesna get well, I shall seek counsel o' G.o.d before I take a step farther. In the meantime David is doing his first duty in nursing him; and David will stay in my house till I see whether it be a case o'

murder or not."

For three weeks there was but the barest possibility of Robert's recovery. But his youth and fine const.i.tution, aided by the skill of his physician and the unremitting care of his nurse, were at length, through G.o.d's mercy, permitted to gain a slight advantage. The discipline of that three weeks was a salutary though a terrible one to David. Sometimes it became almost intolerable; but always, when it reached this point, Dr. Morrison seemed, by some fine spiritual instinct, to discover the danger and hasten to his a.s.sistance. Life has silences more pathetic than death's; and the stillness of that darkened room, with its white prostrate figure, was a stillness in which David heard many voices he never would have heard in the crying out of the noisy world.

What they said to him about his wasted youth and talents, and about his neglected Saviour, only his own heart knew. But he must have suffered very much, for, at the end of a month, he looked like a man who had himself walked through the valley and shadow of death. About this time Dr. Morrison began to drop in for an hour or two every evening; sometimes he took his cup of tea with the young men, and then he always talked with David on pa.s.sing events in such a way as to interest without fatiguing the sick man. His first visit of this kind was marked by a very affecting scene. He stood a moment looking at Robert and then taking David's hand, he laid it in Robert's. But the young men had come to a perfect reconciliation one midnight when the first gleam of consciousness visited the sick man, and Dr. Morrison was delighted to see them grasp each other with a smile, while David stooped and lovingly touched his friend's brow.

"Doctor, it was my fault," whispered Robert. "If I die, remember that.

I did my best to anger Davie, and I struck him first. I deserved all I have had to suffer."

After this, however, Robert recovered rapidly, and in two months he was quite well.

"David," said the minister to him one morning, "your trial is nearly over. I have a message from Captain Laird to Robert Leslie. Laird sails to-night; his s.h.i.+p has dropped down the river a mile, and Robert must leave when the tide serves; that will be at five o'clock."

For Robert had shrunk from going again into his Glasgow life, and had determined to sail with his friend Laird at once for New York. There was no one he loved more dearly than David and Dr. Morrison, and with them his converse had been constant and very happy and hopeful. He wished to leave his old life with this conclusion to it unmingled with any other memories.

CHAPTER VIII.

So that evening the three men went in a coach to the Broomilaw together. A boat and two watermen were in waiting at the bridge-stair, and though the evening was wet and chilly they all embarked. No one spoke. The black waters washed and heaved beneath them, the myriad lights shone vaguely through the clammy mist and steady drizzle, and the roar of the city blended with the stroke of the oars and the patter of the rain. Only when they lay under the hull of a large s.h.i.+p was the silence broken. But it was broken by a blessing.

"G.o.d bless you, Robert! The Lord Jesus, our Redeemer, make you a gude man," said Dr. Morrison fervently, and David whispered a few broken words in his friend's ear. Then Captain Laird's voice was heard, and in a moment or two more they saw by the light of a lifted lantern Robert's white face in the middle of a group on deck.

"Farewell!" he shouted feebly, and Dr. Morrison answered it with a l.u.s.ty, "G.o.d speed you, Robert! G.o.d speed the good s.h.i.+p and all on board of her!"

So they went silently back again, and stepped into the muddy, dreamlike, misty streets, wet through and quite weary with emotion.

"Now gude-night, David. Your uncle is waiting dinner for you. I hae learned to love you vera much."

"Is there anything I can do, doctor, to show you how much I love and respect you?"

"You can be a good man, and you can let me see you every Sabbath in your place at kirk. Heaven's gate stands wide open on the Sabbath day, David; sae it is a grand time to offer your pet.i.tions."

Yes, the good old uncle was waiting, but with that fine instinct which is born of a true love he had felt that David would like no fuss made about his return. He met him as if he had only been a few hours away, and he had so tutored Jenny that she only betrayed her joy by a look which David and she understood well.

"The little folks," said John, "have a' gane to their beds; the day has been that wet and wearisome that they were glad to gae to sleep and forget a' about it."

David sat down in his old place, and the two men talked of the Russian war and the probable storming of the Alamo. Then John took his usual after-dinner nap, and David went up stairs with Jenny and kissed his children, and said a few words to them and to the old woman, which made them all very happy.

When he returned to the parlor his uncle was still sleeping, and he could see how weary and worn he had become.

"So patient, so generous, so honorable, so considerate for my feelings," said the young man to himself. "I should be an ingrate indeed if I did not, as soon as he wakes, say what I know he is so anxious to hear."

With the thought John opened his eyes, and David nodded and smiled back to him. How alert and gladly he roused himself! How cheerily he said,

"Why, Davie, I hae been sleeping, I doot. Hech, but it is gude to see you, lad."

"Please G.o.d, uncle, it shall always be gude to see me. Can you give me some advice to-night?" "I'll be mair than glad to do it."

"Tell me frankly, Uncle John, what you think I ought to do. I saw Robert off to America to-night. Shall I follow him?"

"Davie, mind what I say. In the vera place where a man loses what he values, there he should look to find it again. You hae lost your good name in Glasgow; stay in Glasgow and find it again."

"I will stay here then. What shall I do?"

"You'll go back to your old place, and to your old business."

"But I heard that Deacon Strang had bought the looms and the lease."

"He bought them for me, for us, I mean. I will tell you how that came about. One day when I was cross, and sair put out wi' your affairs, Davie, Dr. Morrison came into my office. I'm feared I wasna glad to see him; and though I was ceevil enough, the wise man read me like a book. 'John,' says he, 'I am not come to ask you for siller to-day, nor am I come to reprove you for staying awa from the service o' G.o.d twice lately. I am come to tell you that you will hae the grandest opportunity to-day, to be, not only a man, but a Christ-man. If you let the opportunity slip by you, I shall feel sairly troubled about it.'

"Then he was gone before I could say, 'What is it?' and I wondered and wondered all day what he could hae meant. But just before I was ready to say, 'Mr. MacFarlane, lock the safe,' in walks Deacon Strang. He looked vera downcast and shamefaced, and says he, 'Callendar, you can tak your revenge on me to-morrow, for a' I hae said and done against you for thirty years. You hold twa notes o' mine, and I canna meet them. You'll hae to protest and post them to-morrow, and that will ruin me and break my heart.'

"David, I had to walk to the window and hide my face till I could master mysel', I was that astonished. Then I called out, 'Mr.

MacFarlane, you hae two notes o' Deacon Strang's, bring them to me.'

When he did sae, I said, 'Well, deacon, we a' o' us hae our ain fashes. How long time do you want, and we'll renew these bits o'

paper?'

"And the thing was done, Davie, and done that pleasantly that it made me feel twenty years younger. We shook hands when we parted, and as we did sae, the deacon said, 'Is there aught I can do to pleasure you or David?' and a' at once it struck me about the sales o' the looms and lease. Sae I said, 'Yes, deacon, there is something you can do, and I'll be vera much obligated to you for the same. Davie is sae tied down wi' Robert's illness, will you go to the sale o' Callendar & Leslie's looms and lease, and buy them for me? You'll get them on better terms than I will.' And he did get them on excellent terms, Davie; sae your mill is just as you left it--for Bailie Nicol, wha took it at the accountant's valuation, never opened it at all. And you hae twenty months' rent paid in advance, and you hae something in the bank I expect."

"I have 3,600, uncle."

"Now, I'll be your partner this time. I'll put in the business 4,000, but I'll hae it run on a solid foundation, however small that foundation may be. I'll hae no risks taken that are dishonest risks; I'll hae a broad mark made between enterprise and speculation; and above a', I'll hae the right to examine the books, and see how things are going on, whenever I wish to do sae. We will start no more looms than our capital will work, and we'll ask credit from no one."

"Uncle John, there is not another man in the world so generous and unselfish as you are."

"There are plenty as good men in every congregation o' the Lord; if there wasna they would scatter in no time. Then you are willing, are you? Gie me your hand, Davie. I shall look to you to do your best for baith o' us."

"I have not drunk a drop for two months, uncle. I never intend to drink again."

"I hae given it up mysel'," said the old man, with an affected indifference that was pathetic in its self-abnegation. "I thought twa going a warfare together might do better than ane alone. Ye ken Christ sent out the disciples by twa and twa. And, Davie, when you are hard beset, just utter the name of Christ down in your heart, and see how much harder it is to sin."

CHAPTER IX.

The arrangement had been a very pleasant one, every way, but somehow John did not feel as if David had as much outside help as he needed.

The young man was not imaginative; an ideal, however high, was a far less real thing to David than to old John. He pondered during many sleepless hours the advisability of having David sign the pledge.

David had always refused to do it hitherto. He had a keen sense of shame in breaking a verbal promise on this subject; but he had an almost superst.i.tious feeling regarding the obligation of anything he put his name to; and this very feeling made John hesitate to press the matter. For, he argued, and not unwisely, "if David should break this written obligation, his condition would seem to himself irremediable, and he would become quite reckless."

In the morning this anxiety was solved. When John came down to breakfast, he found David walking about the room with a newspaper in his hand, and in a fever heat of martial enthusiasm. "Uncle," he cried, "O Uncle John, such glorious news! The Alamo is taken. Colin Campbell and his Highlanders were first at the ramparts, and Roy and Hector Callendar were with them. Listen?" and he threw the pa.s.sion and fervor of all his military instincts into the glowing words which told, how in a storm of fire and shot, Sir Colin and his Highland regiment had pushed up the hill; and how when the Life Guards were struggling to reach their side, the brave old commander turned round and shouted, "We'll hae nane but Hieland bonnets here!" "O Uncle John, what would I not have given to have marched with Roy and Hector behind him? With such a leader I would not turn my back on any foe."

"David, you have a far harder fight before you, and a far grander Captain."

"Uncle, uncle, if I could see my foe; if I could meet him face to face in a real fight; but he steals into my heart, even by my nostrils, and unmans me, before I am aware."

John rang the bell sharply, and when Jenny came, he amazed her by saying, "Bring me here from the cellar three bottles of whiskey." He spoke so curt and determined that for once Jenny only wondered, and obeyed.