Part 43 (2/2)

But at length she rose, admonished by her inborn divinity, to seek her father. As she pa.s.sed him, the baron took her hand and kissed it. She might well tremble. Even such contact was terrible. Why? Because there was no love in it. When the sense of beauty which G.o.d had given him that he might wors.h.i.+p, awoke in Lord Rothie, he did not wors.h.i.+p, but devoured, that he might, as he thought, possess! The poison of asps was under those lips. His kiss was as a kiss from the grave's mouth, for his throat was an open sepulchre. This was all in the past, reader. Baron Rothie was a foam-flake of the court of the Prince Regent. There are no such men now-a-days! It is a shame to speak of such, and therefore they are not! Decency has gone so far to abolish virtue. Would to G.o.d that a writer could be decent and honest! St. Paul counted it a shame to speak of some things, and yet he did speak of them--because those to whom he spoke did them.

Lord Rothie had, in five minutes, so deeply interested Mr. Lindsay in a question of genealogy, that he begged his lords.h.i.+p to call again in a few days, when he hoped to have some result of research to communicate.

One of the antiquarian's weaknesses, cause and result both of his favourite pursuits, was an excessive reverence for rank. Had its claims been founded on mediated revelation, he could not have honoured it more.

Hence when he communicated to his daughter the name of their visitor, it was 'with bated breath and whispering humbleness,' which deepened greatly the impression made upon her by the presence and conversation of the baron. Mysie was in danger.

Shargar was late that evening, for he had a job that detained him. As he handed over his money to Robert, he said,

'I saw Black Geordie the nicht again, stan'in' at a back door, an' Jock Mitch.e.l.l, upo' Reid Rorie, haudin' him.'

'Wha's Jock Mitch.e.l.l?' asked Robert.

'My brither Sandy's ill-faured groom,' answered Shargar. 'Whatever mischeef Sandy's up till, Jock comes in i' the heid or tail o' 't.'

'I wonner what he's up till noo.'

'Faith! nae guid. But I aye like waur to meet Sandy by himsel' upo' that reekit deevil o' his. Man, it's awfu' whan Black Geordie turns the white o' 's ee, an' the white o' 's teeth upo' ye. It's a' the white 'at there is about 'im.'

'Wasna yer brither i' the airmy, Shargar?'

'Ow, 'deed ay. They tell me he was at Watterloo. He's a cornel, or something like that.'

'Wha tellt ye a' that?'

'My mither whiles,' answered Shargar.

CHAPTER XI. ROBERT'S VOW.

Ericson was recovering slowly. He could sit up in bed the greater part of the day, and talk about getting out of it. He was able to give Robert an occasional help with his Greek, and to listen with pleasure to his violin. The night-watching grew less needful, and Ericson would have dispensed with it willingly, but Robert would not yet consent.

But Ericson had seasons of great depression, during which he could not away with music, or listen to the words of the New Testament. During one of these Robert had begun to read a chapter to him, in the faint hope that he might draw some comfort from it.

'Shut the book,' he said. 'If it were the word of G.o.d to men, it would have brought its own proof with it.'

'Are ye sure it hasna?' asked Robert.

'No,' answered Ericson. 'But why should a fellow that would give his life--that's not much, but it's all I've got--to believe in G.o.d, not be able? Only I confess that G.o.d in the New Testament wouldn't satisfy me. There's no help. I must just die, and go and see.--She'll be left without anybody. 'What does it matter? She would not mind a word I said. And the G.o.d they talk about will just let her take her own way. He always does.'

He had closed his eyes and forgotten that Robert heard him. He opened them now, and fixed them on him with an expression that seemed to ask, 'Have I been saying anything I ought not?'

Robert knelt by the bedside, and said, slowly, with strongly repressed emotion,

'Mr. Ericson, I sweir by G.o.d, gin there be ane, that gin ye dee, I'll tak up what ye lea' ahin' ye. Gin there be onybody ye want luikit efter, I'll luik efter her. I'll do what I can for her to the best o' my abeelity, sae help me G.o.d--aye savin' what I maun do for my ain father, gin he be in life, to fess (bring) him back to the richt gait, gin there be a richt gait. Sae ye can think aboot whether there's onything ye wad like to lippen till me.'

A something grew in Ericson's eyes as Robert spoke. Before he had finished, they beamed on the boy.

'I think there must be a G.o.d somewhere after all,' he said, half soliloquizing. 'I should be sorry you hadn't a G.o.d, Robert. Why should I wish it for your sake? How could I want one for myself if there never was one? If a G.o.d had nothing to do with my making, why should I feel that n.o.body but G.o.d can set things right? Ah! but he must be such a G.o.d as I could imagine--altogether, absolutely true and good. If we came out of nothing, we could not invent the idea of a G.o.d--could we, Robert?

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