Part 20 (1/2)

David had drunk enough to excite all the hereditary fight in his nature, and not enough to dull the anger and remorse he felt for having drunk anything at all. The dreary, damp atmosphere and the cold, sloppy turf of Glasgow Green might have brought them back to the ordinary cares and troubles of every-day life, but it did not. This grim oasis in the very centre of the hardest and bitterest existences was now deserted. The dull, heavy swash of the dirty Clyde and the distant hum of the sorrowful voices of humanity in the adjacent streets hardly touched the sharp, cutting accents of the two quarrelling men. No human ears heard them, and no human eyes saw the uplifted hands and the sway and fall of Robert Leslie upon the s.m.u.tty and half melted snow, except David's.

Yes; David saw him fall, and heard with a strange terror the peculiar thud and the long moan that followed it. It sobered him at once and completely. The shock was frightful. He stood for a moment looking at the upturned face, and then with a fearful horror he stooped and touched it. There was no response to either entreaties or movement, and David was sure after five minutes' efforts there never would be.

Then his children, his uncle, his own life, pressed upon him like a surging crowd. His rapid mind took in the situation at once. There was no proof. n.o.body had seen them leave together. Robert had certainly left the company an hour before it scattered; none of them could know that he was waiting in that inner room. With a rapid step he took his way through Kent street into a region where he was quite unknown, and by a circuitous route reached the foot of Great George street.

He arrived at home about eight o'clock. John had had his dinner, and the younger children had gone to bed. Little John sat opposite him on the hearthrug, but the old man and the child were both lost in thought. David's face at once terrified his uncle.

”Johnnie,” he said, with a weary pathos in his voice, ”your father wants to see me alane. You had best say 'Gude-night,' my wee man.”

The child kissed his uncle, and after a glance into his father's face went quietly out. His little heart had divined that he ”must not disturb papa.” David's eyes followed him with an almost overmastering grief and love, but when John said sternly, ”Now, David Callendar, what is it this time?” he answered with a sullen despair,

”It is the last trouble I can bring you. I have killed Robert Leslie!”

The old man uttered a cry of horror, and stood looking at his nephew as if he doubted his sanity.

”I am not going to excuse mysel', sir. Robert said some aggravating things, and he struck me first; but that is neither here nor there. I struck him and he fell. I think he hit his head in falling; but it was dark and stormy, I could not see. I don't excuse mysel' at all. I am as wicked and lost as a man can be. Just help me awa, Uncle John, and I will trouble you no more for ever.”

”Where hae you left Robert?”

”Where he fell, about 300 yards above Rutherglen Bridge.”

”You are a maist unmerciful man! I ne'er liked Robert, but had he been my bitterest enemy I would hae got him help if there was a chance for life, and if not, I would hae sought a shelter for his corpse.”

Then he walked to the parlor door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket.

”As for helping you awa, sir, I'll ne'er do it, ne'er; you hae sinned, and you'll pay the penalty, as a man should do.”

”Uncle, have mercy on me.”

”Justice has a voice as weel as mercy. O waly, waly!” cried the wretched old man, going back to the pathetic Gaelic of his childhood, ”O waly, waly! to think o' the sin and the shame o' it. Plenty o'

Callendars hae died before their time, but it has been wi' their faces to their foes and their claymores in their hands. O Davie, Davie! my lad, my lad! My Davie!”

His agony shook him as a great wind shakes the tree-tops, and David stood watching him in a misery still keener and more hopeless. For a few moments neither spoke. Then John rose wearily and said,

”I'll go with you, David, to the proper place. Justice must be done--yes, yes, it is just and right.”

Then he lifted up his eyes, and clasping his hands, cried out,

”But, O my heavenly Father, be merciful, be merciful, for love is the fulfilling of the law. Come, David, we hae delayed o'er long.”

”Where are you going, uncle?”

”You ken where weel enough.”

”Dear uncle, be merciful. At least let us go see Dr. Morrison first.

Whatever he says I will do.”

”I'll do that; I'll be glad to do that; maybe he'll find me a road out o' this sair, sair strait. G.o.d help us all, for vain is the help o'

man.”

CHAPTER VII.