Part 13 (1/2)

James did not wait for David's return. He went back to his own lodging, and, taking the note out of his pocket-book, spread it before him. His first thought was that he had wared 89 on his enemy's fine clothes, and James loved gold and hated foppish, extravagant dress; his next that he had saved Andrew Starkie 89, and he knew the old usurer was quietly laughing at his folly. But worse than all was the alternative he saw as the result of his sinful purchase: if he used it to gratify his personal hatred, he deeply wounded, perhaps killed, his dearest love and his oldest friend. Hour after hour he sat with the note before him. His good angel stood at his side and wooed him to mercy. There was a fire burning in the grate, and twice he held the paper over it, and twice turned away from his better self.

The watchman was calling ”half-past two o'clock,” when, cold and weary with his mental struggle, he rose and went to his desk. There was a secret hiding-place behind a drawer there, in which he kept papers relating to his transactions with Andrew Starkie, and he put it among them. ”I'll leave it to its chance,” he muttered; ”a fire might come and burn it up some day. If it is G.o.d's will to save Donald, he could so order it, and I am fully insured against pecuniary loss.” He did not at that moment see how presumptuously he was throwing his own responsibility on G.o.d; he did not indeed want to see anything but some plausible way of avoiding a road too steep for a heart weighed down with earthly pa.s.sion to dare.

Then weeks and months drifted away in the calm regular routine of David's life. But though there were no outward changes, there was a very important inward one. About sixteen months after Donald's departure he returned to visit Christine. James, at Christine's urgent request, absented himself during this visit; but when he next called at David's, he perceived at once that all was not as had been antic.i.p.ated. David had little to say about him; Christine looked paler and sadder than ever. Neither quite understood why. There had been no visible break with Donald, but both father and daughter felt that he had drifted far away from them and their humble, pious life. Donald had lost the child's heart he had brought with him from the mountains; he was ambitious of honors, and eager after worldly pleasures and advantages. He had become more gravely handsome, and he talked more sensibly to David; but David liked him less.

After this visit there sprang up a new hope in James' heart, and he waited and watched, though often with very angry feelings; for he was sure that Donald was gradually deserting Christine.

She grew daily more sad and silent; it was evident she was suffering.

The little Testament lay now always with her work, and he noticed that she frequently laid aside her sewing and read it earnestly, even while David and he were quietly talking at the fireside.

One Sabbath, two years after Donald's departure, James met David coming out of church alone. He could only say, ”I hope Christine is well.”

”Had she been well, she had been wi' me; thou kens that, James.”

”I might have done so. Christine is never absent from G.o.d's house when it is open.”

”It is a good plan, James; for when they who go regular to G.o.d's house are forced to stay away, G.o.d himself asks after them. I hae no doubt but what Christine has been visited.”

They walked on in silence until David's house was in sight. ”I'm no caring for any company earth can gie me the night, James; but the morn I hae something to tell you I canna speak anent to-day.”

CHAPTER V.

The next day David came into the bank about noon, and said, ”Come wi'

me to McLellan's, James, and hae a mutton pie, it's near by lunch-time.” While they were eating it David said, ”Donald McFarlane is to be wedded next month. He's making a grand marriage.”

James bit his lip, but said nothing.

”He's spoken for Miss Margaret Napier; her father was ane o' the Lords o' Session; she's his sole heiress, and that will mean 50,000, foreby the bonnie place and lands o' Ellenshawe.”

”And Christine?”

”Dinna look that way, man. Christine is content; she kens weel enough she isna like her cousin.”

”G.o.d be thanked she is not. Go away from me, David Cameron, or I shall say words that will make more suffering than you can dream off. Go away, man.”

David was shocked and grieved at his companion's pa.s.sion. ”James,” he said solemnly, ”dinna mak a fool o' yoursel'. I hae long seen your ill-will at Donald. Let it go. Donald's aboon your thumb now, and the anger o' a poor man aye falls on himsel'.”

”For G.o.d's sake don't tempt me farther. You little know what I could do if I had the ill heart to do it.”

”Ow! ay!” said David scornfully, ”if the poor cat had only wings it would extirpate the race of sparrows from the world; but when the wings arena there, James lad, it is just as weel to mak no boast o'

them.”

James had leaned his head in his hands, and was whispering, ”Christine! Christine! Christine!” in a rapid inaudible voice. He took no notice of David's remark, and David was instantly sorry for it.

”The puir lad is just sorrowful wi' love for Christine, and that's nae sin that I can see,” he thought. ”James,” he said kindly, ”I am sorry enough to grieve you. Come as soon as you can like to do it. You'll be welcome.”

James slightly nodded his head, but did not move; and David left him alone in the little boarded room where they had eaten. In a few minutes he collected himself, and, like one dazed, walked back to his place in the bank. Never had its hours seemed so long, never had the noise and traffic, the tramping of feet, and the banging of doors seemed so intolerable. As early as possible he was at David's, and David, with that fine instinct that a kind heart teaches, said as he entered, ”Gude evening, James. Gae awa ben and keep Christine company.

I'm that busy that I'll no shut up for half an hour yet.”