Part 7 (2/2)
”What's your name, my wee man?”
”Alexander is my name.”
”That is my name.”
”It is not,” he answered positively; ”don't say that any more.”
”Will you hae a sixpence?”
”Yes, I will. Money is good. It buys sweeties.”
”Whose boy is that, dominie?”
”Mrs. Hope's. I thought he would annoy you. He is a great pleasure to me.”
”Let him come up to the Keep whiles. I'll no mind him.”
When he rose to go he stood a moment before each picture, and then suddenly asked,
”Whar is young Crawford?”
”In Rome.”
”A nice place for him to be! He'd be in Babylon, doubtless, if it was on the face o' the earth.”
When he went home he shut himself in his room and almost stealthily took out that slip of paper. It had begun to look yellow and faded, and Crawford had a strange fancy that it had a sad, pitiful appearance. He held it in his hand a few moments and then put it back again. It would be the new year soon, and he would decide then. He had made similar promises often; they always gave him temporary comfort.
Then gradually another element of pleasure crept into his life--Mrs.
Hope's child. The boy amused him; he never resented his pretty, authoritative ways; a queer kind of companions.h.i.+p sprang up between them. It was one of perfect equality every way; an old man easily becomes a little child. And those who only knew Crawford among coals and pig iron would have been amazed to see him keeping up a mock dispute with this baby.
CHAPTER X.
One day, getting towards the end of December, the laird awoke in a singular mood. He had no mind to go to the works, and the weather promised to give him a good excuse. Over the dreary hills there was a mournful floating veil of mist. Clouds were flying rapidly in great ma.s.ses, and showers streaming through the air in disordered ranks, driven furiously before a mad wind--a wind that before noon shook the doors and windows, and drove the bravest birds into hiding.
The laird wandered restlessly up and down.
”There is the dominie,” cried Mrs. Hope, about one o'clock. ”What brings him here through such a storm?”
Crawford walked to the door to meet him. He came striding over the soaking moor with his plaid folded tightly around him and his head bent before the blast. He was greatly excited.
”Crawford, come wi' me. The Athol pa.s.senger packet is driving before this wind, and there is a fis.h.i.+ng smack in her wake.”
”Gie us some brandy wi' us, Mrs. Hope, and you'll hae fires and blankets and a' things needfu' in case O' accident, ma'am.” He was putting on his bonnet and plaid as he spoke, and in five minutes the men were hastening to the seaside.
It was a deadly coast to be on in a storm with a gale blowing to land.
A long reef of sharp rocks lay all along it, and now the line of foaming breakers was to any s.h.i.+p a terrible omen of death and destruction. The packet was almost helpless, and the laird and Tallisker found a crowd of men waiting the catastrophe that was every moment imminent.
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