CHAPTER XII.
“Miss Lettie, the auld man’s ta’en an ill turn. He cries for you to gang and tell him how the maister is—will ye gang to the loft and speak to the auld man, Miss Lettie?”
Violet left her place at Harry’s door, and went.
Old Adam lay upon his bed in his ordinary dress, with his long, brown lean fingers lying crossed upon the homely cover, as if they were clutching it—but in reality they grasped nothing. A feeble tremble was in his frame as he lay vacantly looking up to the rafters above him; and his ashy face, though it was indeed scarcely paler than usual, struck Violet with terror, as if it had been the very face of death.
“Oh Dragon, my Harry!” cried poor little Lettie.
“They tell me the horse had thrown him, and dragged him alang the road wi’ ae fit aye the stirrup—was that true, Missie? and I aye kent mysel it was a thrawart beast, and no to be depended on,” said Dragon. “I’ve been lying here thinking on the puir lad, this haill morning; and I was just putting it ower in my mind if it wadna be best to crave the Lord to take me, and spare the young life; but I never can win that length though I try—for I aye mind I’m a harmless auld body, doing ill to nae man, and what for should I ask to die?”
“Would God do that, Dragon? Would God take somebody else, and leave Harry? Oh! will ye ask Him to take me?” cried Harry’s little sister, “for he’s very ill, and Martha thinks he will die. Dragon, if God would take you and me, and save Harry, would you no come? and God would aye let us see the sun shining on the water, and a’ body blythe in Allenders—Dragon, if we were in heaven!”
And Violet’s passionate cry, and voice choked with sobbing, again awoke the old man’s torpid heart. He raised himself from his bed feebly, and leaning on his elbow, looked at the little figure kneeling by his bed-side, with its clasped hands, and gleaming eyes,—and Adam Comrie slowly shook his head.
“Missie, I’m auld—I whiles forget things I ken weel, and speak as if I was a bairn mysel; but ae life canna redeem anither, little bairn. Na, na, I wad gang wi’ ye blythe, puir wee innocent heart, to take care of ye—if God didna send an angel to take care of us baith—” said the old man, with a momentary wandering, “but there never was but Ane, that could redeem lives out of God’s hand with His ain. We’re a’ forfeit ourselves, bairnie; if my life was mine, and your’s your ain, we might offer them for Mr. Hairy; but God has your bit heartie in His hand, as well as mine, and will lay them quiet when it is His pleasure, and no a day before. There was Ane that had His life free to lay down, and free to take up—and there was but Ane. I’ve had glimmerings o’ Him mysel,” continued Dragon, fixing his unsteady eyes on the roof, and wandering from the first subject into the more immediate personal interest which his own words recalled to him, “glimmerings like blinks of the sun out of clouds; but if I whiles lose mind of the Lord—for I’m auld and feeble, and sae lang in this world, that it’s ill to believe I have to gang away—if I whiles lose mind, that am but a puir useless creature, is that to say that He loses mind o’ me?—as if He didna ken what was the guid reason, wherefore, I wasna taken hence in my strength, but left to wear out my days like a sleep, and to forget! Ane might think the like o’ me, sae aged and frail, had been forgotten out of the course of nature, and left because He didna mind—but never you trow that, bairnie—I ken He minds, and when it’s my time, He’ll send for me, as thoughtful as if I was the grandest man on this earth. What’s about my memory, though it whiles can carry naething but bairnly things? Is that to rule His, think ye, that grows not auld for ever? And I ken He never forgets.”
Absorbed and full of awe, Violet followed unconsciously the half-palsied wave of the old man’s head and figure as he spoke, and watched the unusual gleam which shot from the eyes, which he in vain tried to fix on the rafter. Poor, dim unsteady eyes! they glanced about in every direction, as if they possessed some distinct energy and will of their own.
But when Adam sank back on his pillow, Lettie shivered and thought she had forgotten Harry—poor Harry! She could still hear his moan in her ears.
“Oh, my Harry, my Harry! Dragon, do ye think God will take him up—up—yonder beside Him?” and Lettie turned her eyes full of dark wistful reverence and fear upon the old man’s face.
“Wad God take you, and me, think ye, to save him?” said Dragon, now wandering back into a mild half-delirious waking sleep, “but then we’re forfeit—forfeit—and there was but Ane. I’m content to gang, bairnie, content to gang—where’s your hand? and I dinna ken how we maun travel, but the angel will tell us when he comes; and I’ll take care o’ ye a’ the way, for we’re no to expect the angel, that’s a stranger, to take heed to a’ a little bairn’s wants like the like of me. Ye can say we’re ready. Ye can say I’ve got the better o’ mysel, and I’m willing to gang.”
But Lettie, excited and terrified, dared not say aloud the strange prayer, “Take Dragon and me, and save Harry,” which was in her heart.
And Dragon’s feeble hand tightened on hers, till Lettie looking up in fright and sudden fear, saw that his head had fallen back, and that an ashy paleness like that of his face was creeping over the rigid fingers which grasped her own. But Dragon’s loud and heavy breathing showed her that this was not death. Lettie withdrew her hand with pain and difficulty from his grasp, and ran to call assistance. She pressed her finger on her own pulse, as she followed Mysie and the doctor back again to the old man’s bedside, and a strange cold thrill of fear and expectation shot through her frame. Poor little visionary Lettie! She thought her prayer was heard—she thought the angel had called Dragon, and it became her to be ready now.
But Lettie’s shivering hope was vain. A slight, almost momentary, “shock” had come upon the old man, but it passed away. It passed away—nature began to warm again in the withered worn-out frame, and Lettie’s pulse beat true and steady, with a young life whose delicate strength should yet bear many things—while hour by hour the tide of strong manhood ebbed, and Harry, poor Harry! drew nearer to his grave.