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

masses, 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 passenger packet is driving before

this wind, and there is a fishing 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 ship 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.

"She ought to hae gien hersel' plenty o' sea room," said the laird. He

was half angry to see all the interest centred on the packet. The

little fishing cobble was making, in his opinion, a far more sensible

struggle for existence. She was managing her small resources with

desperate skill.

"Tallisker," said the laird, "you stay here with these men. Rory and I

are going half a mile up the coast. If the cobble drives on shore, the

current will take a boat as light as she is over the Bogie Rock and

into the surf yonder. There are doubtless three or four honest men in

her, quite as weel worth the saving as those stranger merchant bodies

that will be in the packet."

So Crawford and Rory hastened to the point they had decided on, and

just as they reached it the boat became unmanageable. The wind took

her in its teeth, shook her a moment or two like a thing of straw and

rags, and then flung her, keel upwards, on the Bogie Rock. Two of the

men were evidently good swimmers; the others were a boy and an old

man. Crawford plunged boldly in after the latter. The waves buffeted

him, and flung him down, and lifted him up, but he was a fine surf

swimmer, and he knew every rock on that dangerous coast. After a hard

struggle, all were brought safe to land.

Then they walked back to where the packet had been last seen. She had

gone to pieces. A few men waited on the beach, picking up the dead,

and such boxes and packages as were dashed on shore. Only three of all

on board had been rescued, and they had been taken to the Keep for

succor and rest.

The laird hastened home. He had not felt as young for many years. The

struggle, though one of life and death, had not wearied him like a

day's toil at the works, for it had been a struggle to which the soul

had girded itself gladly, and helped and borne with it the mortal

body. He came in all glowing and glad; a form lay on his own couch

before the fire. The dominie and Mrs. Hope were bending over it. As he

entered, Mrs. Hope sprang forward--

"Father!"

"Eh? Father? What is this?"

"Father, it is Colin."

Then he knew it all. Colin stretched out a feeble hand towards him. He

was sorely bruised and hurt, he was white and helpless and death-like.

"Father!"

And the father knelt down beside him. Wife and friend walked softly

away. In the solemn moment when these two long-parted souls met again

there was no other love that could inter-meddle.

"My dear father--forgive me!"

Then the laird kissed his recovered son, and said tenderly,

"Son Colin, you are all I have, and all I have is yours."

"Father, my wife and son."

Then the old man proudly and fondly kissed Hope Crawford too, and he

clasped the little lad in his arms. He was well pleased that Hope had

thought it worth while to minister to his comfort, and let him learn

how to know her fairly.

"But it was your doing, Tallisker, I ken it was; it has your mark on

it." And he grasped his old friend's hand with a very hearty grip.

"Not altogether, laird. Colin had gone to Rome on business, and you

were in sair discomfort, and I just named it to Mrs. Hope. After a' it

was her proposal. Naebody but a woman would hae thought o' such a way

to win round you."

Perhaps it was well that Colin was sick and very helpless for some

weeks. During them the two men learned to understand and to respect

each other's peculiarities. Crawford himself was wonderfully happy; he

would not let any thought of the past darken his heart. He looked

forward as hopefully as if he were yet on the threshold of life.

O mystery of life! from what depths proceed thy comforts and thy

lessons! One morning at very early dawn Crawford awoke from a deep

sleep in an indescribable awe. In some vision of the night he had

visited that piteous home which memory builds, and where only in sleep

we walk. Whom had he seen there? What message had he received? This he

never told. He had been "spoken to."

Tallisker was not the man to smile at any such confidence. He saw no

reason why God's messengers should not meet his children in the

border-land of dreams. Thus he had counselled and visited the

patriarchs and prophets of old. He was a God who changeth not; and if

he had chosen to send Crawford a message in this way, it was doubtless

some special word, for some special duty or sorrow. But he had really

no idea of what Crawford had come to confess to him.

"Tallisker, I hae been a man in a sair strait for many a year. I hae

not indeed hid the Lord's talent in a napkin, but I hae done a warse

thing; I hae been trading wi' it for my ain proper advantage. O

dominie, I hae been a wretched man through it all. Nane ken better

than I what a hard master the deil is."

Then he told the dominie of Helen's bequest. He went over all the

arguments with which he had hitherto quieted his conscience, and he

anxiously watched their effect upon Tallisker. He had a hope even yet

that the dominie might think them reasonable. But the table at which

they sat was not less demonstrative than Tallisker's face; for once he

absolutely controlled himself till the story was told. Then he said to

Crawford,

"I'll no tak any responsibility in a matter between you and your

conscience. If you gie it, gie it without regret and without holding

back. Gie it cheerfully; God loves a cheerful giver. But it isna wi'

me you'll find the wisdom to guide you in this matter. Shut yoursel'

in your ain room, and sit down at the foot o' the cross and think it

out. It is a big sum to gie away, but maybe, in the face o' that

stupendous Sacrifice it willna seem so big. I'll walk up in the

evening, laird; perhaps you will then hae decided what to do."

Crawford was partly disappointed. He had hoped that Tallisker would in

some way take the burden from him--he had instead sent him to the foot

of the cross. He did not feel as if he dared to neglect the advice; so

he went thoughtfully to his own room and locked the door. Then he took

out his private ledger. Many a page had been written the last ten

years. It was the book of a very rich man. He thought of all his

engagements and plans and hopes, and of how the withdrawal of so large

a sum would affect them.

Then he took out Helen's last message, and sat down humbly with it

where Tallisker had told him to sit. Suddenly Helen's last words came

back to him, "Oh! the unspeakable riches!" What of? The cross of

Christ--the redemption from eternal death--the promise of eternal

life! Sin is like a nightmare; when we stir under it, we awake.

Crawford sat thinking until his heart burned and softened, and great

tears rolled slowly down his cheeks and dropped upon the paper in his

hands. Then he thought of the richness of his own life--Colin and

Hope, and the already beloved child Alexander--of his happy home, of

the prosperity of his enterprises, of his loyal and loving friend

Tallisker. What a contrast to the Life he had been told to remember!

that pathetic Life that had not where to lay its head, that mysterious

agony in Gethsemane, that sublime death on Calvary, and he cried out,

"O Christ! O Saviour of my soul! all that I have is too little!"

When Tallisker came in the evening, Hope noticed a strange solemnity

about the man. He, too, had been in the presence of God all day. He

had been praying for his friend. But as soon as he saw Crawford he

knew how the struggle had ended. Quietly they grasped each other's

hand, and the evening meal was taken by Colin's side in pleasant

cheerfulness. After it, when all were still, the laird spoke:

"Colin and Hope, I hae something I ought to tell you. When your sister

Helen died she asked me to gie her share o' the estate to the poor

children of our Father. I had intended giving Helen £100,000. It is a

big sum, and I hae been in a sair strait about it. What say you,

Colin?"

"My dear father, I say there is only one way out of that strait. The

money must be given as Helen wished it. Helen was a noble girl. It was

just like her."

"Ah, Colin, if you could only tell what a burden this bit o' paper has

been to me! I left the great weight at the foot o' the cross this

morning." As he spoke the paper dropped from his fingers and fell upon

the table. Colin lifted it reverently and kissed it. "Father," he

said, "may I keep it now? The day will come when the Crawfords will

think with more pride of it than of any parchment they possess."

Then there was an appeal to Tallisker about its disposal. "Laird," he

answered, "such a sum must be handled wi' great care. It is not enough

to gie money, it must be gien wisely." But he promised to take on

himself the labor of inquiry into different charities, and the

consideration of what places and objects needed help most. "But,

Crawford," he said, "if you hae any special desire, I think it should

be regarded."

Then Crawford said he had indeed one. When he was himself young he had

desired greatly to enter the ministry, but his father had laid upon

him a duty to the family and estate which he had accepted instead.

"Now, dominie," he said, "canna I keep aye a young man in my place?"

"It is a worthy thought, Crawford."

So the first portion of Helen's bequest went to Aberdeen University.

This endowment has sent out in Crawford's place many a noble young man

into the harvest-field of the world, and who shall say for how many

centuries it will keep his name green in earth and heaven! The

distribution of the rest does not concern our story. It may safely be

left in Dominie Tallisker's hands.

Of course, in some measure it altered Crawford's plans. The new house

was abandoned and a wing built to the Keep for Colin's special use. In

this portion the young man indulged freely his poetic, artistic

tastes. And the laird got to like it. He used to tread softly as soon

as his feet entered the large shaded rooms, full of skilful lights and

white gleaming statues. He got to enjoy the hot, scented atmosphere

and rare blossoms of the conservatory, and it became a daily delight

to him to sit an hour in Colin's studio and watch the progress of some

favorite picture.

But above all his life was made rich by his grandson. Nature, as she

often does, reproduced in the second generation what she had totally

omitted in the first. The boy was his grandfather over again. They

agreed upon every point. It was the laird who taught Alexander to

spear a salmon, and throw a trout-line, and stalk a deer. They had

constant confidences about tackle and guns and snares. They were all

day together on the hills. The works pleased the boy better than his

father's studio. He trotted away with his grandfather gladly to them.

The fires and molten metal, the wheels and hammers and tumult, were

all enchantments to him. He never feared to leap into a collier's

basket and swing down the deep, black shaft. He had also an

appreciative love of money; he knew just how many sixpences he owned,

and though he could give if asked to do so, he always wanted the

dominie to give him a good reason for giving. The child gave him back

again his youth, and a fuller and nobler one than he himself had

known.

And God was very gracious to him, and lengthened out this second youth

to a green old age. These men of old Gaul had iron constitutions; they

did not begin to think themselves old men until they had turned

fourscore. It was thirty years after Helen's death when Tallisker one

night sent this word to his life-long friend,

"I hae been called, Crawford; come and see me once more."

They all went together to the manse. The dominie was in his

ninety-first year, and he was going home. No one could call it dying.

He had no pain. He was going to his last sleep

"As sweetly as a child,

Whom neither thought disturbs nor care encumbers,

Tired with long play, at close of summer's day

Lies down and slumbers."

"Good-by, Crawford--for a little while. We'll hae nae tears. I hae

lived joyfully before my God these ninety years; I am going out o' the

sunshine into the sunshine. Crawford, through that sair strait o'

yours you hae set a grand, wide-open door for a weight o' happiness. I

am glad ye didna wait. A good will is a good thing, but a good life is

far better. It is a grand thing to sow your ain good seed. Nae ither

hand could hae done it sae well and sae wisely. Far and wide there are

lads and lasses growing up to call you blessed. This is a thought to

mak death easy, Crawford. Good-night, dears."

And then "God's finger touched him and he slept."

Crawford lived but a few weeks longer. After the dominie's death he

simply sat waiting. His darling Alexander came home specially to

brighten these last hours, and in his company he showed almost to the

last hour the true Crawford spirit.

"Alexander," he would say, "you'll ding for your ain side and the

Crawfords always, but you'll be a good man; there is nae happiness

else, dear. Never rest, my lad, till ye sit where your fathers sat in

the House o' Peers. Stand by the State and the Kirk, and fear God,

Alexander. The lease o' the Cowden Knowes is near out; don't renew it.

Grip tight what ye hae got, but pay every debt as if God wrote the

bill. Remember the poor, dear lad. Charity gies itsel' rich. Riches

mak to themselves wings, but charity clips the wings. The love o' God,

dear, the love o' God--that is the best o' all."

Yes, he had a sair struggle with his lower nature to the very last,

but he was constantly strengthened by the conviction of a "Power

closer to him than breathing, nearer than hands or feet." Nine weeks

after the dominie's death they found him sitting in his chair, fallen

on that sleep whose waking is eternal day. His death was like

Tallisker's--a perfectly natural one. He had been reading. The Bible

lay open at that grand peroration of St. Paul's on faith, in the

twelfth of Hebrews. The "great cloud of witnesses," "the sin which

doth so easily beset us," "Jesus, the Author and Finisher of our

faith"--these were probably his last earthly thoughts, and with them

he passed into

"That perfect presence of His face

Which we, for want of words, call heaven."

James Blackie's Revenge.

JAMES BLACKIE'S REVENGE.

CHAPTER I.

Few people who have travelled will deny that of all cities Glasgow is

apparently the least romantic. Steeped in wet, white mist, or wrapped

in yellow fog vapor, all gray stone and gray sky, dirty streets, and

sloppy people, it presents none of the features of a show town. Yet it

has great merits; it is enterprising, persevering, intensely national,

and practically religious; and people who do not mind being damp have

every chance to make a good living there. Even the sombre appearance

of the dark gray granite of which it is built is not unsuitable to the

sterling character of its people; for though this stone may be dull

and ugly, there is a natural nobility about it, and it never can be

mean.

I have said that, as a city, Glasgow is practically religious, and

certainly this was the case something less than half a century ago.

The number of its churches was not more remarkable than the piety and

learning of its clergy; and the "skailing" of their congregations on a

Sabbath afternoon was one of the most impressive sights, of its kind,

in the world.

My true little story opens with the skailing of the Ramshorn Kirk, a

very favorite place of worship with the well-to-do burghers of the

east end of the city, and it was a peculiarly douce, decent,

solemn-looking crowd that slowly and reverently passed out of its

gates into the absolutely silent streets. For no vehicles of any kind

disturbed the Sabbath stillness, and not until the people had gone

some distance from the house of God did they begin to think their own

thoughts, and with a certain grave reserve put them into words.

Among the groups who proceeded still farther east, towards the

pleasant houses facing the "Green," one alone was remarkable enough to

have elicited special notice from an observing stranger. It consisted

of an old man and a young girl, evidently his daughter. Both were

strikingly handsome, and the girl was much better dressed than the

majority of women who took the same road. Long before they reached the

Green they were joined by a younger man, whom the elder at once

addressed in a reproving voice.

"Ye didna pay as much attention to the sermon as it behooved ye to do,

James Blackie; and what for did ye speak to Robert Laird a'most within

'the Gates'?"

"I only asked if he had heard of the 'Bonnie Bess;' she is overdue

five days, and eight good men in her, not to speak of the cargo."

"It's no cannie to be aye asking questions. Sit still and the news

will come to ye: forbye, I'm no sure if yon was a lawfu' question; the

Sabbath sun hasna set yet."

James Blackie mechanically turned to the west, and then slowly let his

glance fall on the lovely face at his side.

"Christine," he asked softly, "how is all with you?"

"All is well, James."

Not another word was spoken until they reached David Cameron's home.

He was carefully reconsidering the sermon--going over every point on

his finger ends, lest he should drop any link of the argument; and

James and Christine were listening to his criticisms and remarks. They

all stopped before a shop over the windows of which was painted,

"David Cameron, Dealer in Fine Teas;" and David, taking a large key

from his pocket, opened the door, and said,

"Come in and eat wi' us, James; ye ken ye're welcome."

"Our friendship, Mr. Cameron, is a kind of Montgomery division--all on

one side, nothing on the other; but I am 'so by myself' that I thank

you heartily."

So David, followed by Christine and James, passed slowly through the

darkened store, with its faint smells of Eastern spices and fragrant

teas, into the little parlor beyond. The early winter night had now

fallen, and the room, having only an outlet into a small court, would

have been dark also but for the red glow of the "covered" fire. David

took the poker and struck the great block of coal, and instantly the

cheerful blaze threw an air of cosey and almost picturesque comfort

over the homelike room.

The two men sat down beside the fire, spreading their hands to its

warmth, and apparently finding their own thoughts excellent company,

for neither of them spoke or moved until Christine reappeared. She had

divested herself of the handsome black satin and velvet which formed

her kirk suit; but in her long, plain dress of gray winsey, with a

snowy lawn kerchief and cuffs, she looked still more fair and lovable.

James watched her as she spread the cloth and produced from various

cupboards cold meats and pastries, bread and cakes, and many kinds of

delicate preserves and sweetmeats. Her large, shapely hands among the

gold-and-white china fascinated him, while her calm, noiseless,

unhurried movements induced a feeling of passive repose that it

required an effort to dispel, when she said in a low, even voice,

"Father, the food is waiting for the blessing."

It was a silent but by no means an unhappy meal. David was a good man,

and he ate his food graciously and gratefully, dropping now and then a

word of praise or thanks; and James felt it delightful enough to watch

Christine. For James, though he had not yet admitted the fact to his

own heart, loved Christine Cameron as men love only once, with that

deep, pure affection that has perchance a nearer kindred than this

life has hinted of.

He thought her also exquisitely beautiful, though this opinion would

not have been indorsed by a majority of men. For Christine had one of

those pale, statuesque faces apt to be solemn in repose; its beauty

was tender and twilight, its expression serious and steadfast, and her

clear, spiritual eyes held in them no light of earthly passion. She

had grown up in that little back parlor amid the din and tumult of the

city, under the gray, rainy skies, and surrounded by care and sin, as

a white lily grows out of the dark, damp soil, drawing from the

elements around only sweetness and purity.

She was very silent this afternoon, but apparently very happy. Indeed,

there was an expression on her face which attracted her father's

attention, and he said,

"The sermon has pleased thee well, I see, Christine."

"The sermon was good, but the text was enough, father. I think it over

in my heart, and it leaves a light on all the common things of life."

And she repeated it softly, "O Thou preserver of men, unto Thee shall

all flesh come."

David lifted his bonnet reverently, and James, who was learned in what

the Scotch pleasantly call "the humanities," added slowly,

"'But I, the mortal,

Planted so lowly, with death to bless me,

I sorrow no longer.'"

When people have such subjects of conversation, they talk

moderately--for words are but poor interpreters of emotions whose

sources lie in the depths of eternity. But they were none the less

happy, and James felt as if he had been sitting at one of those tables

which the Lord "prepareth in the wilderness," where the "cup runneth

over" with joy and content.

Such moments rarely last long; and it is doubtful if we could bear to

keep the soul always to its highest bent. When Christine had sided

away the dishes and put in order the little room, David laid down his

pipe, and said, "The Lord's day being now over, I may speak anent my

ain matters. I had a letter, Christine, on Saturday, from my

brother-in-law, McFarlane. He says young Donald will be in Glasgow

next week."

"Will he stay here, father?"

"Na, na; he'll bide wi' the McFarlanes. They are rich folk; but siller

is nae sin--an' it be clean-won siller."

"Then why did Uncle McFarlane write to you, father?"

"He wrote concerning the lad's pecuniary matters, Christine. Young

Donald will need gude guiding; and he is my sister Jessie's only

bairn--blood is thicker than water, ye'll allow that--and Donald is o'

gentle blood. I'm no saying that's everything; but it is gude to come

o' a gude kind."

"The McFarlanes have aye been for the pope and the Stuarts," said

James, a little scornfully. "They were 'out' in the '79'; and they

would pin the white cockade on to-morrow, if there was ever a Stuart

to bid them do it."

"Maybe they would, James. Hielandmen hae a way o' sticking to auld

friends. There's Camerons I wadna go bail for, if Prince Charlie could

come again; but let that flea stick to the wa'. And the McFarlanes

arena exactly papist noo; the twa last generations hae been

'Piscopals--that's ane step ony way towards the truth. Luther mayna be

John Knox, but they'll win up to him some time, dootless they will."

"How old is young McFarlane?" asked James.

"He is turned twenty--a braw lad, his father says. I hae ne'er seen

him, but he's Jessie's bairn, and my heart gaes out to meet him."

"Why did you not tell me on Saturday, father? I could have spoken for

Maggie Maclean to help me put the house in order."

"I didna get the letter till the evening post. It was most as good as

Sabbath then. Housecleaning is an unco temptation to women-folk, so I

keepit the news till the Sabbath sun was weel set."

During this conversation James Blackie's heart had become heavy with

some sad presentiment of trouble, such as arise very naturally in

similar circumstances. As a poet says,

"Ah, no! it is not all delusion,

That strange intelligence of sorrow

Searching the tranquil heart's seclusion,

Making us quail before the morrow.

'Tis the farewell of happiness departing,

The sudden tremor of a soul at rest;

The wraith of coming grief upstarting

Within the watchful breast."

He listened to David Cameron's reminiscences of his bonnie sister

Jessie, and of the love match she had made with the great Highland

chieftain, with an ill-disguised impatience. He had a Lowlander's

scorn for the thriftless, fighting, freebooting traditions of the

Northern clans and a Calvinist's dislike to the Stuarts and the

Stuarts' faith; so that David's unusual emotion was exceedingly and,

perhaps, unreasonably irritating to him. He could not bear to hear him

speak with trembling voice and gleaming eyes of the grand mountains

and the silent corries around Ben-Nevis, the red deer trooping over

the misty steeps, and the brown hinds lying among the green plumes of

fern, and the wren and the thrush lilting in song together.

"Oh, the bonnie, bonnie Hielands!" cried David with a passionate

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

God 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 God with, and

James might have known from this circumstance 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 God

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-glass 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 fashion, 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 anticipated.

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

relationship 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 worship. 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 ships 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 butter, 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 friendship 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.

So Donald and he fell into the habit of meeting at David's two or

three nights every week, and an apparent friendship sprang up between

them. It was only apparent, however. On Donald's side was that

good-natured indifference that finds it easy enough to say smooth

words, and is not ready to think evil or to take offence; on James'

part a wary watchfulness, assuming the rôle of superior wisdom, half

admiring and half condemning Donald's youthful spirits and ways.

David was quite deceived; he dropped at once the authoritative manner

which had marked his displeasure when he perceived James' disposition

to envy and anger; he fell again into his usual pleasant familiar

talks with the young man, for David thought highly of James as of one

likely to do his duty to God and himself.

In these conversations Donald soon began to take a little share, and

when he chose to do so, evinced a thought and shrewdness which greatly

pleased his uncle; more generally, however, he was at Christine's

side, reading her some poem he had copied, or telling her about some

grand party he had been at. Sometimes James could catch a few words of

reproof addressed in a gentle voice to Donald by Christine; more often

he heard only the murmur of an earnest conversation, or Christine's

low laugh at some amusing incident.

The little room meanwhile had gradually become a far brighter place.

Donald kept it sweet and bright with his daily offerings of fresh

flowers; the pet canary he had given Christine twittered and sang to

her all the day through. Over Christine herself had come the same

bright change; her still, calm face often dimpled into smiles, her

pale-gold hair was snooded with a pretty ribbon, and her dress a

little richer. Yet, after all, the change was so slight that none but

a lover would have noticed it. But there was not a smile or a shade of

brighter color that James did not see; and he bore it with an

equanimity which used often to astonish himself, though it would not

have done so if he had dared just once to look down into his heart; he

bore it because he knew that Donald was living two lives--one that

Christine saw, and one that she could not even have imagined.

It was, alas, too true that this gay, good-natured young man, who had

entered the fashionable world without one bad habit, was fast becoming

proficient in all its follies and vices. That kind of negative

goodness which belonged naturally to him, unfortified by strict habits

and strong principles, had not been able to repel the seductions and

temptations that assail young men, rich, handsome, and well-born.

There was an evil triumph in James' heart one night when Donald said

to him, as they walked home after an evening at David's,

"Mr. Blackie, I wish you could lend me £20. I am in a little trouble,

and I cannot ask Uncle David for more, as I have already overdrawn my

father's allowance."

James loaned it with an eager willingness, though he was usually very

cautious and careful of every bawbee of his hard-earned money. He knew

it was but the beginning of confidence, and so it proved; in a very

little while Donald had fallen into the habit of going to James in

every emergency, and of making him the confidant of all his youthful

hopes and follies.

James even schooled himself to listen patiently to Donald's praises of

his cousin Christine. "She is just the wife I shall need when I settle

down in three or four years," Donald would say complacently, "and I

think she loves me. Of course no man is worthy of such a woman, but

when I have seen life a little I mean to try and be so."

"Umph!" answered James scornfully, "do you suppose, Mr. McFarlane,

that ye'll be fit for a pure lassie like Christine Cameron when you

have played the prodigal and consorted with foolish women, and wasted

your substance in riotous living?"

And Donald said with an honest blush, "By the memory of my mother, no,

I do not, James. And I am ashamed when I think of Christine's white

soul and the stained love I have to offer it. But women forgive! Oh,

what mothers and wives and sisters there are in this world!"

"Well, don't try Christine too far, Donald. She is of an old

Covenanting stock; her conscience feels sin afar off. I do not believe

she would marry a bad, worldly man, though it broke her heart to say

'No.' I have known her far longer than you have."

"Tut, man, I love her! I know her better in an hour than you could do

in a lifetime;" and Donald looked rather contemptuously on the plain

man who was watching him with eyes that might have warned any one more

suspicious or less confident and self-satisfied.

CHAPTER III.

The summer brought some changes. Christine went to the seaside for a

few weeks, and Donald went away in Lord Neville's yacht with a party

of gay young men; James and David passed the evenings generally

together. If it was wet, they remained in the shop or parlor; if fine,

they rambled to the "Green," and sitting down by the riverside talked

of business, of Christine, and of Donald. In one of these confidential

rambles James first tried to arouse in David's mind a suspicion as to

his nephew's real character. David himself introduced the subject by

speaking of a letter he had received from Donald.

"He's wi' the great Earl o' Egremont at present," said David proudly,

for he had all a Scotsman's respect for good birth; "and there is wi'

them young Argyle, and Lord Lovat, and ithers o' the same quality. But

our Donald can cock his bonnet wi' ony o' them; there is na better

blood in Scotland than the McFarlanes'. It taks money though to

foregather wi' nobeelity, and Donald is wanting some. So, James, I'll

gie ye the siller to-night, and ye'll send it through your bank as

early as may be in the morn."

"Donald wanting money is an old want, Mr. Cameron."

David glanced quickly at James, and answered almost haughtily, "It's a

common want likewise, James Blackie. But if Donald McFarlane wants

money, he's got kin that can accommodate him, James; wanters arena

always that fortunate."

"He has got friends likewise, Mr. Cameron; and I am sure I was proud

enough to do him a kindness, and he knows it well."

"And how much may Donald be owing you, I wonder?"

"Only a little matter of £20. You see he had got into--"

"Dinna fash yoursel' wi' explanations, James. Dootless Donald has his

faults; but I may weel wink at his small faults, when I hae sae mony

great faults o' my ain."

And David's personal accusation sounded so much like a reproof, that

James did not feel it safe to pursue the subject.

That very night David wrote thus to his nephew:

"Donald, my dear lad, if thou owest James Blackie £20, pay it

immediate. Lying is the second vice, owing money is the first. I

enclose draft for £70 instead o' £50, as per request."

That £70 was a large sum in the eyes of the careful Glasgow trader; in

the young Highlander's eyes it seemed but a small sum. He could not

form any conception of the amount of love it represented, nor of the

struggle it had cost David to "gie awa for nae consideration" the

savings of many days, perhaps weeks, of toil and thought.

In September Christine came back, and towards the end of October,

Donald. He was greatly improved externally by his trip and his

associations--more manly and more handsome--while his manners had

acquired a slight touch of hauteur that both amused and pleased his

uncle. It had been decided that he should remain in Glasgow another

winter, and then select his future profession. But at present Donald

troubled himself little about the future. He had returned to Christine

more in love with the peace and purity of her character than ever; and

besides, his pecuniary embarrassments in Glasgow were such as to

require his personal presence until they were arranged.

This arrangement greatly troubled him. He had only a certain allowance

from his father--a loving but stern man--who having once decided what

sum was sufficient for a young man in Donald's position, would not,

under any ordinary circumstances, increase it. David Cameron had

already advanced him £70. James Blackie was a resource he did not care

again to apply to. In the meantime he was pressed by small debts on

every hand, and was living among a class of young men whose habits led

him into expenses far beyond his modest income. He began to be very

anxious and miserable. In Christine's presence he was indeed still the

same merry-hearted gentleman; but James saw him in other places, and

he knew from long experience the look of care that drew Donald's

handsome brows together.

One night, towards the close of this winter, James went to see an old

man who was a broker or trader in bills and money, doing business in

the Cowcaddens. James also did a little of the same business in a

cautious way, and it was some mutual transaction in gold and silver

that took him that dreary, soaking night into such a locality.

The two men talked for some time in a low and earnest voice, and then

the old man, opening a greasy leather satchel, displayed a quantity of

paper which he had bought. James looked it over with a keen and

practised eye. Suddenly his attitude and expression changed; he read

over and over one piece of paper, and every time he read it he looked

at it more critically and with a greater satisfaction.

"Andrew Starkie," he said, "where did you buy this?"

"Weel, James, I bought it o' Laidlaw--Aleck Laidlaw. Ye wadna think a

big tailoring place like that could hae the wind in their faces; but

folks maun hae their bad weather days, ye ken; but it blew me gude, so

I'll ne'er complain. Ye see it is for £89, due in twenty days now, and

I only gied £79 for it--a good name too, nane better."

"David Cameron! But what would he be owing Laidlaw £89 for clothes

for?"

"Tut, tut! The claithes were for his nephew. There was some trouble

anent the bill, but the old man gied a note for the amount at last, at

three months. It's due in twenty days now. As he banks wi' your firm,

ye may collect it for me; it will be an easy-made penny or twa."

"I would like to buy this note. What will you sell it for?"

"I'm no minded to sell it. What for do ye want it?"

"Nothing particular. I'll give you £90 for it."

"If it's worth that to you, it is worth mair. I'm no minded to tak

£90."

"I'll give you £95."

"I'm no minded to tak it. It's worth mair to you, I see that. What are

you going to mak by it? I'll sell it for half o' what you are counting

on." "Then you would not make a bawbee. I am going to ware £95 on--on

a bit of revenge. Now will you go shares?"

"Not I. Revenge in cold blood is the deil's own act. I dinna wark wi'

the deil, when it's a losing job to me."

"Will you take £95 then?"

"No. When lads want whistles they maun pay for them."

"I'll give no more. For why? Because in twenty days you will do my

work for me; then it will cost me nothing, and it will cost you £89,

that is all about it, Starkie."

Starkie lifted the note which James had flung carelessly down, and his

skinny hands trembled as he fingered it. "This is David Cameron's note

o' hand, and David Cameron is a gude name."

"Yes, very good. Only that is not David Cameron's writing, it is

a--forgery. Light your pipe with it, Andrew Starkie."

"His nephew gave it himsel' to Aleck Laidlaw--"

"I know. And I hate his nephew. He has come between me and Christine

Cameron. Do you see now?"

"Oh! oh! oh! I see, I see! Well, James, you can have it for £100--as a

favor."

"I don't want it now. He could not have a harder man to deal with than

you are. You suit me very well."

"James, such business wont suit me. I can't afford to be brought into

notice. I would rather lose double the money than prosecute any

gentleman in trouble."

The older man had reasoned right--James dared not risk the note out of

sight, dared not trust to Starkie's prosecution. He longed to have the

bit of paper in his own keeping, and after a wary battle of a full

hour's length Andrew Starkie had his £89 back again, and James had the

note in his pocket-book.

Through the fog, and through the wind, and through the rain he went,

and he knew nothing, and he felt nothing but that little bit of paper

against his breast. Oh, how greedily he remembered Donald's handsome

looks and stately ways, and all the thousand little words and acts by

which he imagined himself wronged and insulted. Now he had his enemy

beneath his feet, and for several days this thought satisfied him, and

he hid his secret morsel of vengeance and found it sweet--sharply,

bitterly sweet--for even yet conscience pleaded hard with him.

As he sat counting his columns of figures, every gentle, forgiving

word of Christ came into his heart. He knew well that Donald would

receive his quarterly allowance before the bill was due, and that he

must have relied on this to meet it. He also knew enough of Donald's

affairs to guess something of the emergency that he must have been in

ere he would have yielded to so dangerous an alternative. There were

times when he determined to send for Donald, show him the frightful

danger in which he stood, and then tear the note before his eyes, and

leave its payment to his honor. He even realized the peace which would

flow from such a deed. Nor were these feelings transitory, his better

nature pleaded so hard with him that he walked his room hour after

hour under their influence, and their power over him was such as

delayed all action in the matter for nearly a week.

CHAPTER IV.

At length one morning David Cameron came into the bank, and having

finished his business, walked up to James and said, "I feared ye were

ill, James. Whatna for hae ye stayed awa sae lang? I wanted ye sairly

last night to go o'er wi' me the points in this debate at our kirk. We

are to hae anither session to-night; ye'll come the morn and talk it

o'er wi' me?"

"I will, Mr. Cameron."

But James instantly determined to see Christine that night. Her father

would be at the kirk session, and if Donald was there, he thought he

knew how to whisper him away. He meant to have Christine all to

himself for an hour or two, and if he saw any opportunity he would

tell her all. When he got to David's the store was still open, but the

clerk said, "David has just gone," and James, as was his wont, walked

straight to the parlor.

Donald was there; he had guessed that, because a carriage was in

waiting, and he knew it could belong to no other caller at David

Cameron's. And never had Donald roused in him such an intense

antagonism. He was going to some National Celebration, and he stood

beside Christine in all the splendid picturesque pomp of the McFarlane

tartans. He was holding Christine's hand, and she stood as a white

lily in the glow and color of his dark beauty. Perhaps both of them

felt James' entrance inopportune. At any rate they received him

coldly, Donald drew Christine a little apart, said a few whispered

words to her, and lifting his bonnet slightly to James, he went away.

In the few minutes of this unfortunate meeting the devil entered into

James' heart. Even Christine was struck with the new look on his face.

It was haughty, malicious, and triumphant, and he leaned against the

high oaken chimney-piece in a defiant way that annoyed Christine,

though she could not analyze it.

"Sit down, James," she said with a touch of authority--for his

attitude had unconsciously put her on the defensive. "Donald has gone

to the Caledonian club; there is to be a grand gathering of Highland

gentlemen there to-night."

"_Gentlemen!_"

"Well, yes, _gentlemen!_ And there will be none there more worthy the

name than our Donald."

"The rest of them are much to be scorned at, then."

"James, James, that speech was little like you. Sit down and come to

yourself; I am sure you are not so mean as to grudge Donald the rights

of his good birth."

"Donald McFarlane shall have all the rights he has worked for; and

when he gets his just payment he will be in Glasgow jail."

"James, you are ill. You have not been here for a week, and you look

so unlike yourself. I know you must be ill. Will you let me send for

our doctor?" And she approached him kindly, and looked with anxious

scrutiny into his face.

He put her gently away, and said in a thick, rapid voice,

"Christine, I came to-night to tell you that Donald McFarlane is

unworthy to come into your presence--he has forged your father's

name."

"James, you are mad, or ill, what you say is just impossible!"

"I am neither mad nor ill. I will prove it, if you wish."

At these words every trace of sympathy or feeling vanished from her

face; and she said in a low, hoarse whisper,

"You cannot prove it. I would not believe such a thing possible."

Then with a pitiless particularity he went over all the events

relating to the note, and held it out for her to examine the

signature.

"Is that David Cameron's writing?" he cried; "did you ever see such a

weak imitation? The man is a fool as well as a villain."

Christine gazed blankly at the witness of her cousin's guilt, and

James, carried away with the wicked impetuosity of his passionate

accusations of Donald's life, did not see the fair face set in white

despair and the eyes close wearily, as with a piteous cry she fell

prostrate at his feet.

Ah, how short was his triumph! When he saw the ruin that his words had

made he shrieked aloud in his terror and agony. Help was at hand, and

doctors were quickly brought, but she had received a shock from which

it seemed impossible to revive her. David was brought home, and knelt

in speechless distress by the side of his insensible child, but no

hope lightened the long, terrible night, and when the reaction came in

the morning, it came in the form of fever and delirium.

Questioned closely by David, James admitted nothing but that while

talking to him about Donald McFarlane she had fallen at his feet, and

Donald could only say that he had that evening told her he was going

to Edinburgh in two weeks, to study law with his cousin, and that he

had asked her to be his wife.

This acknowledgement bound David and Donald in a closer communion of

sorrow. James and his sufferings were scarcely noticed. Yet, probably

of all that unhappy company, he suffered the most. He loved Christine

with a far deeper affection than Donald had ever dreamed of. He would

have given his life for hers, and yet he had, perhaps, been her

murderer. How he hated Donald in those days! What love and remorse

tortured him! And what availed it that he had bought the power to ruin

the man he hated? He was afraid to use it. If Christine lived, and he

did use it, she would never forgive him; if she died, he would be her

murderer.

But the business of life cannot be delayed for its sorrows. David must

wait in his shop, and James must be at the bank; and in two weeks

Donald had to leave for Edinburgh, though Christine was lying in a

silent, broken-hearted apathy, so close to the very shoal of Time that

none dared say, "She will live another day."

How James despised Donald for leaving her at all; he desired nothing

beyond the permission to sit by her side, and watch and aid the slow

struggle of life back from the shores and shades of death.

It was almost the end of summer before she was able to resume her

place in the household, but long before that she had asked to see

James. The interview took place one Sabbath afternoon while David was

at church. Christine had been lifted to a couch, but she was unable to

move, and even speech was exhausting and difficult to her. James knelt

down by her side, and, weeping bitterly, said,

"O Christine, forgive me!"

She smiled faintly.

"You--have--not--used--yonder--paper,--James?"

"Oh, no, no."

"It--would--kill--me. You--would--not--kill--me?"

"I would die to make you strong again."

"Don't--hurt--Donald. Forgive--for--Christ's--sake,--James!"

Poor James! It was hard for him to see that still Donald was her first

thought, and, looking on the wreck of Christine's youth and beauty, it

was still harder not to hate him worse than ever.

Nor did the temptation to do so grow less with time. He had to listen

every evening to David's praises of his nephew: how "he had been

entered wi' Advocate Scott, and was going to be a grand lawyer," or

how he had been to some great man's house and won all hearts with his

handsome face and witty tongue. Or, perhaps, he would be shown some

rich token of his love that had come for Christine; or David would

say, "There's the 'Edinbro' News,' James; it cam fra Donald this morn;

tak it hame wi' you. You're welcome." And James feared not to take it,

feared to show the slightest dislike to Donald, lest David's anger at

it should provoke him to say what was in his heart, and Christine only

be the sufferer.

One cold night in early winter, James, as was his wont now, went to

spend the evening in talking with David and in watching Christine.

That was really all it was; for, though she had resumed her house

duties, she took little part in conversation. She had always been

inclined to silence, but now a faint smile and a "Yes" or "No" were

her usual response, even to her father's remarks. This night he found

David out, and he hesitated whether to trouble Christine or not. He

stood for a moment in the open door and looked at her. She was sitting

by the table with a little Testament open in her hand; but she was

rather musing on what she had been reading than continuing her

occupation.

"Christine!"

"James!"

"May I come in?"

"Yes, surely."

"I hear your father has gone to a town-meeting."

"Yes."

"And he is to be made a bailie."

"Yes."

"I am very glad. It will greatly please him, and there is no citizen

more worthy of the honor."

"I think so also."

"Shall I disturb you if I wait to see him?"

"No, James; sit down."

Then Christine laid aside her book and took her sewing, and James sat

thinking how he could best introduce the subject ever near his heart.

He felt that there was much to say in his own behalf, if he only knew

how to begin. Christine opened the subject for him. She laid down her

work and went and stood before the fire at his side. The faintest

shadow of color was in her face, and her eyes were unspeakably sad and

anxious. He could not bear their eager, searching gaze, and dropped

his own.

"James, have you destroyed yonder paper?"

"Nay, Christine; I am too poor a man to throw away so much hard-won

gold. I am keeping it until I can see Mr. McFarlane and quietly

collect my own."

"You will never use it in any way against him?"

"Will you ever marry him? Tell me that."

"O sir!" she cried indignantly, "you want to make a bargain with my

poor heart. Hear, then. If Donald wants me to marry him I'll never

cast him off. Do you think God will cast him off for one fault? You

dare not say it."

"I do not say but what God will pardon. But we are human beings; we

are not near to God yet."

"But we ought to be trying to get near him; and oh, James, you never

had so grand a chance. See the pitiful face of Christ looking down on

you from the cross. If that face should turn away from you, James--if

it should!"

"You ask a hard thing of me, Christine."

"Yes, I do."

"But if you will only try and love me--"

"Stop, James! I will make no bargain in a matter of right and wrong.

If for Christ's sake, who has forgiven you so much, you can forgive

Donald, for Christ's dear sake do it. If not, I will set no earthly

love before it. Do your worst. God can find out a way. I'll trust

him."

"Christine! dear Christine!"

"Hush! I am Donald's promised wife. May God speak to you for me. I am

very sad and weary. Good-night."

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 God'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 God; 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 passion 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

anticipated. 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 God's house when

it is open."

"It is a good plan, James; for when they who go regular to God's house

are forced to stay away, God 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."

"God 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 passion. "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 God'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."

James found Christine in her usual place. The hearth had been freshly

swept, the fire blazed brightly, and she sat before it with her white

seam in her hand. She raised her eyes at James' entrance, and

smilingly nodded to a vacant chair near her. He took it silently.

Christine seemed annoyed at his silence in a little while, and asked,

"Why don't you speak, James? Have you nothing to say?"

"A great deal, Christine. What now do you think of Donald McFarlane?"

"I think well of Donald."

"And of his marriage also?"

"Certainly I do. When he was here I saw how unfit I was to be his

wife. I told him so, and bid him seek a mate more suitable to his

position and prospects."

"Do you think it right to let yonder lady wed such a man with her eyes

shut?"

"Are you going to open them?" Her face was sad and mournful, and she

laid her hand gently on James' shoulder.

"I think it is my duty, Christine."

"Think again, James. Be sure it is your duty before you go on such an

errand. See if you dare kneel down and ask God to bless you in this

duty."

"Christine, you treat me very hardly. You know how I love you, and you

use your power over me unmercifully."

"No, no, James, I only want you to keep yourself out of the power of

Satan. If indeed I have any share in your heart, do not wrong me by

giving Satan a place there also. Let me at least respect you, James."

Christine had never spoken in this way before to him; the majesty and

purity of her character lifted him insensibly to higher thoughts, her

gentleness soothed and comforted him. When David came in he found them

talking in a calm, cheerful tone, and the evening that followed was

one of the pleasantest he could remember. Yet James understood that

Christine trusted in his forbearance, and he had no heart to grieve

her, especially as she did her best to reward him by striving to make

his visits to her father unusually happy.

So Donald married Miss Napier, and the newspapers were full of the

bridegroom's beauty and talents, and the bride's high lineage and

great possessions. After this Donald and Donald's affairs seemed to

very little trouble David's humble household. His marriage put him far

away from Christine's thoughts, for her delicate conscience would have

regarded it as a great sin to remember with any feeling of love

another woman's affianced husband; and when the struggle became one

between right and wrong, it was ended for Christine. David seldom

named him, and so Donald McFarlane gradually passed out of the lives

he had so sorely troubled.

Slowly but surely James continued to prosper; he rose to be cashier in

the bank, and he won a calm but certain place in Christine's regard.

She had never quite recovered the shock of her long illness; she was

still very frail, and easily exhausted by the least fatigue or

excitement. But in James' eyes she was perfect; he was always at his

best in her presence, and he was a very proud and happy man when,

after eight years' patient waiting and wooing, he won from her the

promise to be his wife; for he knew that with Christine the promise

meant all that it ought to mean.

The marriage made few changes in her peaceful life. James left the

bank, put his savings in David's business, and became his partner. But

they continued to live in the same house, and year after year passed

away in that happy calm which leaves no records, and has no fate days

for the future to date from.

Sometimes a letter, a newspaper, or some public event, would bring

back the memory of the gay, handsome lad that had once made so bright

the little back parlor. Such strays from Donald's present life were

always pleasant ones. In ten years he had made great strides forward.

Every one had a good word for him. His legal skill was quoted as

authority, his charities were munificent, his name unblemished by a

single mean deed.

Had James forgotten? No, indeed. Donald's success only deepened his

hatred of him. Even the silence he was compelled to keep on the

subject intensified the feeling. Once after his marriage he attempted

to discuss the subject with Christine, but the scene had been so

painful he had never attempted it again; and David was swift and

positive to dismiss any unfavorable allusion to Donald. Once, on

reading that "Advocate McFarlane had joined the Free Kirk of Scotland

on open confession of faith," James flung down the paper and said

pointedly, "I wonder whether he confessed his wrong-doing before his

faith or not."

"There's nane sae weel shod, James, that they mayna slip," answered

David, with a stern face. "He has united wi' Dr. Buchan's

kirk--there's nane taken into that fellowship unworthily, as far as

man can judge."

"He would be a wise minister that got at all Advocate McFarlane's

sins, I am thinking."

"Dinna say all ye think, James. They walk too fair for earth that

naebody can find fault wi'."

So James nursed the evil passion in his own heart; indeed, he had

nursed it so long that he could not of himself resign it, and in all

his prayers--and he did pray frequently, and often sincerely--he never

named this subject to God, never once asked for his counsel or help in

the matter.

Twelve years after his marriage with Christine David died, died as he

had often wished to die, very suddenly. He was well at noon; at night

he had put on the garments of eternal Sabbath. He had but a few

moments of consciousness in which to bid farewell to his children.

"Christine," he said cheerfully, "we'll no be lang parted, dear

lassie;" and to James a few words on his affairs, and then almost with

his last breath, "James, heed what I say: 'Blessed are the merciful,

for they shall--obtain mercy.'"

There seemed to have been some prophetic sense in David's parting

words to his daughter, for soon after his death she began to fail

rapidly. What James suffered as he saw it only those can tell who have

watched their beloved slowly dying, and hoped against hope day after

day and week after week. Perhaps the hardest part was the knowledge

that she had never recovered the health she had previous to the

terrible shock which his revelation of Donald's guilt had been to her.

He forgot his own share in the shock and threw the whole blame of her

early decay on Donald. "And if she dies," he kept saying in his angry

heart, "I will make him suffer for it."

And Christine was drawing very near to death, though even when she was

confined to her room and bed James would not believe it. And it was at

this time that Donald came once more to Glasgow. There was a very

exciting general election for a new Parliament, and Donald stood for

the Conservative party in the city of Glasgow. Nothing could have so

speedily ripened James' evil purpose. Should a forger represent his

native city? Should he see the murderer of his Christine win honor

upon honor, when he had but to speak and place him among thieves?

During the struggle he worked frantically to defeat him--and failed.

That night he came home like a man possessed by some malicious,

ungovernable spirit of hell. He would not go to Christine's room, for

he was afraid she would discover his purpose in his face, and win him

from it. For now he had sworn to himself that he would only wait until

the congratulatory dinner. He could get an invitation to it. All the

bailies and the great men of the city would be there. The newspaper

reporters would be there. His triumph would be complete. Donald would

doubtless make a great speech, and after it _he_ would say his few

words.

Then he thought of Christine. But she did not move him now, for she

was never likely to hear of it. She was confined to her bed; she read

nothing but her Bible; she saw no one but her nurse. He would charge

the nurse, and he would keep all papers and letters from her. He

thought of nothing now but the near gratification of a revengeful

purpose for which he had waited twenty years. Oh, how sweet it seemed

to him!

The dinner was to be in a week, and during the next few days he was

like a man in a bad dream. He neglected his business, and wandered

restlessly about the house, and looked so fierce and haggard that

Christine began to notice, to watch, and to fear. She knew that Donald

was in the city, and her heart told her that it was his presence only

that could so alter her husband; and she poured it out in strong

supplications for strength and wisdom to avert the calamity she felt

approaching.

That night her nurse became sick and could not remain with her, and

James, half reluctantly, took her place, for he feared Christine's

influence now. She would ask him to read the Bible, to pray with her;

she might talk to him of death and heaven; she might name Donald, and

extract some promise from him. And he was determined now that nothing

should move him. So he pretended great weariness, drew a large chair

to her bedside, and said,

"I shall try and sleep a while, darling; if you need me you have only

to speak."

CHAPTER VI.

He was more weary than he knew, and ere he was aware he fell asleep--a

restless, wretched sleep, that made him glad when the half-oblivion

was over. Christine, however, was apparently at rest, and he soon

relapsed into the same dark, haunted state of unconsciousness.

Suddenly he began to mutter and moan, and then to speak with a hoarse,

whispered rapidity that had in it something frightful and unearthly.

But Christine listened with wide-open eyes, and heard with sickening

terror the whole wicked plot. It fell from his half-open lips over and

over in every detail; and over and over he laughed low and terribly at

the coming shame of the hated Donald.

She had not walked alone for weeks, nor indeed been out of her room

for months, but she must go now; and she never doubted her strength.

As if she had been a spirit, she slipped out of bed, walked rapidly

and noiselessly into the long-unfamiliar parlor. A rushlight was

burning, and the key of the old desk was always in it. Nothing

valuable was kept there, and people unacquainted with the secret of

the hidden drawer would have looked in vain for the entrance to it.

Christine had known it for years, but her wifely honor had held it

more sacred than locks or keys could have done. She was aware only

that James kept some private matter of importance there, and she would

as readily have robbed her husband's purse as have spied into things

of which he did not speak to her.

Now, however, all mere thoughts of courtesy or honor must yield before

the alternative in which James and Donald stood. She reached the desk,

drew out the concealing drawer, pushed aside the slide, and touched

the paper. There were other papers there, but something taught her at

once the right one. To take it and close the desk was but the work of

a moment, then back she flew as swiftly and noiselessly as a spirit

with the condemning evidence tightly clasped in her hand.

James was still muttering and moaning in his troubled sleep, and with

the consciousness of her success all her unnatural strength passed

away. She could hardly secrete it in her bosom ere she fell into a

semi-conscious lethargy, through which she heard with terror her

husband's low, weird laughter and whispered curses.

At length the day for the dinner came. James had procured an

invitation, and he made unusual personal preparations for it. He was

conscious that he was going to do a very mean action, but he would

look as well as possible in the act. He had even his apology for it

ready; he would say that "as long as it was a private wrong he had

borne the loss patiently for twenty years, but that the public welfare

demanded honest men, men above reproach, and he could no longer feel

it his duty," etc., etc.

After he was dressed he bid Christine "Good-by."

"He would only stay an hour," he said, "and he must needs go, as

Donald was her kin."

Then he went to the desk, and with hands trembling in their eagerness

sought the bill. It was not there. _Impossible!_ He looked

again--again more carefully--could not believe his eyes, and looked

again and again. It was really gone. If the visible hand of God had

struck him, he could not have felt it more consciously. He

mechanically closed the desk and sat down like one stunned. Cain might

have felt as James did when God asked him, "Where is thy brother?" He

did not think of prayer. No "God be merciful to me a sinner" came as

yet from his dry, white lips. The fountains of his heart seemed dry as

dust. The anger of God weighed him down till

"He felt as one

Who, waking after some strange, fevered dream,

Sees a dim land and things unspeakable,

And comes to know at last that it is hell."

Meantime Christine was lying with folded hands, praying for him. She

knew what an agony he was going through, and ceaselessly with pure

supplications she prayed for his forgiveness. About midnight one came

and told him his wife wanted to see him. He rose with a wretched sigh,

and looked at the clock. He had sat there six hours. He had thought

over everything, over and over--the certainty that the paper was

there, the fact that no other paper had been touched, and that no

human being but Christine knew of the secret place. These things

shocked him beyond expression. It was to his mind a visible assertion

of the divine prerogative; he had really heard God say to him,

"Vengeance is mine." The lesson that in these materialistic days we

would reason away, James humbly accepted. His religious feelings were,

after all, his deepest feelings, and in those six hours he had so

palpably felt the frown of his angry Heavenly Father that he had quite

forgotten his poor, puny wrath at Donald McFarlane.

As he slowly walked up stairs to Christine he determined to make to

her a full confession of the deed he had meditated. But when he

reached her bedside he saw that she was nearly dead. She smiled

faintly and said,

"Send all away, James. I must speak alone with you, dear; we are going

to part, my husband."

Then he knelt down by her side and held her cold hands, and the

gracious tears welled up in his hot eyes, and he covered them with the

blessed rain.

"O James, how you have suffered--since six o'clock."

"You know then, Christine! I would weep tears of blood over my sin. O

dear, dear wife, take no shameful memory of me into eternity with

you."

"See how I trust you, James. Here is poor, weak Donald's note. I know

now you will never use it against him. What if your six hours were

lengthened out through life--through eternity? I ask no promise from

you now, dear."

"But I give it. Before God I give it, with all my heart. My sin has

found me out this night. How has God borne with me all these years?

Oh, how great is his mercy!"

Then Christine told him how he had revealed his wicked plot, and how

wonderful strength had been given her to defeat it; and the two souls,

amid their parting sighs and tears, knew each other as they had never

done through all their years of life.

For a week James remained in his own room. Then Christine was laid

beside her father, and the shop was reopened, and the household

returned to its ways. But James was not seen in house or shop, and the

neighbors said,

"Kirsty Cameron has had a wearisome sickness, and nae doobt her

gudeman was needing a rest. Dootless he has gane to the Hielands a

bit."

But it was not northward James Blackie went. It was south; south past

the bonnie Cumberland Hills and the great manufacturing towns of

Lancashire and the rich valleys of Yorkshire; southward until he

stopped at last in London. Even then, though he was weary and sick and

the night had fallen, he did not rest. He took a carriage and drove at

once to a fashionable mansion in Baker street. The servant looked

curiously at him and felt half inclined to be insolent to such a

visitor.

"Take that card to your master at once," he said in a voice whose

authority could not be disputed, and the man went.

His master was lying on a sofa in a luxuriously-furnished room,

playing with a lovely girl about four years old, and listening

meanwhile to an enthusiastic account of a cricket match that two boys

of about twelve and fourteen years were giving him. He was a

strikingly handsome man, in the prime of life, with a thoroughly happy

expression. He took James' card in a careless fashion, listened to the

end of his sons' story, and then looked at it. Instantly his manner

changed; he stood up, and said promptly,

"Go away now, Miss Margaret, and you also, Angus and David; I have an

old friend to see." Then to the servant, "Bring the gentleman here at

once."

When he heard James' step he went to meet him with open hand; but

James said,

"Not just yet, Mr. McFarlane; hear what I have to say. Then if you

offer your hand I will take it."

"Christine is dead?"

"Dead, dead."

They sat down opposite each other, and James did not spare himself.

From his discovery of the note in old Starkie's possession until the

death of Christine, he confessed everything. Donald sat with downcast

eyes, quite silent. Once or twice his fierce Highland blood surged

into his face, and his hand stole mechanically to the place where his

dirk had once been, but the motion was as transitory as a thought.

When James had finished he sat with compressed lips for a few moments,

quite unable to control his speech; but at length he slowly said,

"I wish I had known all this before; it would have saved much sin and

suffering. You said that my indifference at first angered you. I must

correct this. I was not indifferent. No one can tell what suffering

that one cowardly act cost me. But before the bill fell due I went

frankly to Uncle David and confessed all my sin. What passed between

us you may guess; but he forgave me freely and fully, as I trust God

did also. Hence there was no cause for its memory to darken life."

"I always thought Christine had told her father," muttered James.

"Nay, but I told him myself. He said he would trace the note, and I

have no doubt he knew it was in your keeping from the first."

Then James took it from his pocket-book.

"There it is, Mr. McFarlane. Christine gave it back to me the hour she

died. I promised her to bring it to you and tell you all."

"Christine's soul was a white rose without a thorn. I count it an

honor to have known and loved her. But the paper is yours, Mr.

Blackie, unless I may pay for it."

"O man, man! what money could pay for it? I would not dare to sell it

for the whole world! Take it, I pray you."

"I will not. Do as you wish with it, James, I can trust you."

Then James walked towards the table. There were wax lights burning on

it, and he held it in the flame and watched it slowly consume away to

ashes. The silence was so intense that they heard each other

breathing, and the expression on James' face was so rapt and noble

that even Donald's stately beauty was for the moment less attractive.

Then he walked towards Donald and said,

"Now give me your hand, McFarlane, and I'll take it gladly."

And that was a handclasp that meant to both men what no words could

have expressed.

"Farewell, McFarlane; our ways in this world lie far apart; but when

we come to die it will comfort both of us to remember this meeting.

God be with you!"

"And with you also, James. Farewell."

Then James went back to his store and his shadowed household life. And

people said he looked happier than ever he had done, and pitied him

for his sick wife, and supposed he felt it a happy release to be rid

of her. So wrongly does the world, which knows nothing of our real

life, judge us.

You may see his gravestone in Glasgow Necropolis to-day, and people

will tell you that he was a great philanthropist, and gave away a

noble fortune to the sick and the ignorant; and you will probably

wonder to see only beneath his name the solemn text, "Vengeance is

mine; I will repay, saith the Lord."

Facing His Enemy.

FACING HIS ENEMY.

CHAPTER I.