Part 10 (1/2)
”Oh, the bonnie, bonnie Hielands!” cried David with a pa.s.sionate affection; ”it is always Sabbath up i' the mountains, Christine. I maun see them once again ere I lay by my pilgrim-staff and shoon for ever.”
”Then you are not Glasgow born, Mr. Cameron,” said James, with the air of one who finds out something to another's disadvantage.
”Me! Glasgo' born! Na, na, man! I was born among the mountains o'
Argyle. It was a sair downcome fra them to the Glasgo' pavements. But I'm saying naething against Glasgo'. I was but thinking o' the days when I wore the tartan and climbed the hills in the white dawns, and, kneeling on the top o' Ben Na Keen, saw the sun sink down wi' a smile.
It's little ane sees o' sunrising or sunsetting here, James,” and David sighed heavily and wiped away the tender mist from his sight.
James looked at the old man with some contempt; he himself had been born and reared in one or other of the closest and darkest streets of the city. The memories of his loveless, hard-worked childhood were bitter to him, and he knew nothing of the joy of a boyhood spent in the hills and woods.
”Life is the same everywhere, Mr. Cameron. I dare say there is as much sin and as much worry and care among the mountains as on the Glasgow pavements.”
”You may 'daur say' it, James, but that winna mak it true. Even in this warld our Father's house has many mansions. Gang your way up and up through thae grand solitudes and ye'll blush to be caught worrying among them.”
And then in a clear, jubilant voice he broke into the old Scotch version of the 121st Psalm:
”I to the hills will lift mine eyes from whence doth come mine aid; My safety cometh from the Lord, who heaven and earth hath made.”
And he sang it to that loveliest of all psalm tunes, Rathiel's ”St.
Mary's.” It was impossible to resist the faith, the enthusiasm, the melody. At the second bar Christine's clear, sweet voice joined in, and at the second line James was making a happy third.
”Henceforth thy goings out and in G.o.d keep for ever will.”
”Thae twa lines will do for a 'Gude-night,'” said David in the pause at the end of the psalm, and James rose with a sigh and wrapped his plaid around him.
CHAPTER II.
James had gone into the house so happy and hopeful, he left it so anxious and angry--yes, angry. He knew well that he had no just cause for anger, but that knowledge only irritated him the more. Souls, as well as bodies, are subject to malignant diseases, and to-night envy and jealousy were causing James Blackie more acute suffering than any attack of fever or contagion. A feeling of dislike towards young Donald McFarlane had taken possession of his heart; he lay awake to make a mental picture of the youth, and then he hated the picture he had made.
Feverish and miserable, he went next morning to the bank in which he was employed, and endeavored amid the perplexities of compound interest to forget the anxieties he had invented for himself. But it was beyond his power, and he did not pray about them; for the burdens we bind on our own shoulders we rarely dare to go to G.o.d with, and James might have known from this circ.u.mstance alone that his trouble was no lawful one. He nursed it carefully all day and took it to bed with him again at night. The next day he had begun to understand how envy grew to hatred, and hatred to murder. Still he did not go to G.o.d for help, and still he kept ever before his eyes the image of the youth that he had determined was to be his enemy.
On Thursday night he could no longer bear his uncertainties. He dressed himself carefully and went to David Cameron's. David was in his shop tasting and buying teas, and apparently absorbed in business.
He merely nodded to James, and bid him ”walk through.” He had no intention of being less kindly than usual, but James was in such a suspicious temper that he took his preoccupation for coolness, and so it was almost with a resentful feeling he opened the half-gla.s.s door dividing the shop from the parlor.
As his heart had foretold him, there sat the youth whom he had determined to hate, but his imagination had greatly deceived him with regard to his appearance. He had thought of Donald only as a ”fair, false Highlander” in tartan, kilt, and philibeg. He found him a tall, dark youth, richly dressed in the prevailing Southern fas.h.i.+on, and retaining no badge of his country's costume but the little Glengary cap with its chieftain's token of an eagle's feather. His manners were not rude and haughty, as James had decided they would be; they were singularly frank and pleasant. Gracious and graceful, exceedingly handsome and light-hearted, he was likely to prove a far more dangerous rival than even James' jealous heart had antic.i.p.ated.
He rose at Christine's introduction, and offered his hand with a pleasant smile to James. The latter received the courtesy with such marked aversion that Donald slightly raised his eyebrows ere he resumed his interrupted conversation with Christine. And now that James sat down with a determination to look for offences he found plenty. Christine was sewing, and Donald sat beside her winding and unwinding her threads, playing with her housewife, or teasingly hiding her scissors. Christine, half pleased and half annoyed, gradually fell into Donald's mood, and her still face dimpled into smiles. James very quickly decided that Donald presumed in a very offensive manner on his relations.h.i.+p to Christine.
A little after nine o'clock David, having closed his shop, joined them in the parlor. He immediately began to question James about the loss of the ”Bonnie Bess,” and from that subject they drifted easily into others of a local business interest. It was very natural that Donald, being a stranger both to the city and its business, should take no part in this discourse, and that he should, in consequence, devote himself to Christine. But James felt it an offence, and rose much earlier than was his wont to depart. David stayed him, almost authoritatively:
”Ye maun stop, baith o' ye lads, and join in my meat and wors.h.i.+p. They are ill visitors that canna sit at ane board and kneel at ane altar.”
For David had seen, through all their drifting talk of s.h.i.+ps and cargoes, the tumult in James' heart, and he did not wish him to go away in an ungenerous and unjust temper. So both Donald and James partook of the homely supper of pease brose and b.u.t.ter, oatmeal cakes and fresh milk, and then read aloud with David and Christine the verses of the evening Psalm that came to each in turn. James was much softened by the exercise; so much so that when Donald asked permission to walk with him as far as their way lay together, he very pleasantly acceded to the request. And Donald was so bright and unpretentious it was almost impossible to resist the infectious good temper which seemed to be his characteristic.
Still James was very little happier or more restful. He lay awake again, but this night it was not to fret and fume, but to calmly think over his position and determine what was best and right to do. For James still thought of ”right,” and would have been shocked indeed if any angel of conscience had revealed to him the lowest depths of his desires and intentions. In the first place, he saw that David would tolerate no element of quarrelling and bitterness in his peaceful home, and that if he would continue to visit there he must preserve the semblance of friends.h.i.+p for Donald McFarlane. In the second, he saw that Donald had already made so good his lien upon his uncle's and cousin's affections that it would be very hard to make them believe wrong of the lad, even if he should do wrong, though of this James told himself there would soon be abundance.
”For the things David will think sinful beyond all measure,” he argued, ”will seem but Puritanical severity to him; forbye, he is rich, gay, handsome, and has little to do with his time, he'll get well on to Satan's ground before he knows it;” and then some whisper dim and low in his soul made him blush and pause and defer the following out of a course which was to begin in such a way.