A HUMAN PROVIDENCE.
Robert kept himself thoroughly awake the whole night, and it was well that he had not to attend classes in the morning.As the gray of the world's reviving consciousness melted in at the window, the things around and within him looked and felt ghastly.Nothing is liker the gray dawn than the soul of one who has been watching by a sick bed all the long hours of the dark, except, indeed, it be the first glimmerings of truth on the mind lost in the dark of a godless life.
Ericson had waked often, and Robert had administered his medicine carefully.But he had been mostly between sleeping and waking, and had murmured strange words, whose passing shadows rather than glimmers roused the imagination of the youth as with messages from regions unknown.
As the light came he found his senses going, and went to his own room again to get a book that he might keep himself awake by reading at the window.To his surprise Shargar was gone, and for a moment he doubted whether he had not been dreaming all that had passed between them the night before.His plaid was folded up and laid upon a chair, as if it had been there all night, and his Ainsworth was on the table.But beside it was the money Shargar had drawn from his pockets.
About nine o'clock Dr.Anderson arrived, found Ericson not so much worse as he had expected, comforted Robert, and told him he must go to bed.
'But I cannot leave Mr.Ericson,' said Robert.
'Let your friend--what's his odd name?--watch him during the day.'
'Shargar, you mean, sir.But that's his nickname.His rale name they say his mither says, is George Moray--wi' an o an' no a u-r.--Do you see, sir?' concluded Robert significantly.
'No, I don't,' answered the doctor.
'They say he's a son o' the auld Markis's, that's it.His mither's a randy wife 'at gangs aboot the country--a gipsy they say.There's nae doobt aboot her.An' by a' accoonts the father's likly eneuch.'
'And how on earth did you come to have such a questionable companion?'
'Shargar's as fine a crater as ever God made,' said Robert warmly.
'Ye'll alloo 'at God made him, doctor; though his father an' mither thochtna muckle aboot him or God either whan they got him atween them? An' Shargar couldna help it.It micht ha' been you or me for that maitter, doctor.'
'I beg your pardon, Robert,' said Dr.Anderson quietly, although delighted with the fervour of his young kinsman: 'I only wanted to know how he came to be your companion.'
'I beg your pardon, doctor--but I thoucht ye was some scunnert at it; an' I canna bide Shargar to be luikit doon upo'.Luik here,' he continued, going to his box, and bringing out Shargar's little heap of coppers, in which two sixpences obscurely shone, 'he brocht a'
that hame last nicht, an' syne sleepit upo' the rug i' my room there.We'll want a' 'at he can mak an' me too afore we get Mr.
Ericson up again.'
'But ye haena tellt me yet,' said the doctor, so pleased with the lad that he relapsed into the dialect of his youth, 'hoo ye cam to forgather wi' 'im.'
'I tellt ye a' aboot it, doctor.It was a' my grannie's doin', God bless her--for weel he may, an' muckle she needs 't.'
'Oh! yes; I remember now all your grandmother's part in the story,'
returned the doctor.'But I still want to know how he came here.'
'She was gaein' to mak a taylor o' 'm: an' he jist ran awa', an' cam to me.'
'It was too bad of him that--after all she had done for him.'
'Ow, 'deed no, doctor.Even whan ye boucht a man an' paid for him, accordin' to the Jewish law, ye cudna mak a slave o' 'im for a'thegither, ohn him seekin' 't himsel'.--Eh! gin she could only get my father hame!' sighed Robert, after a pause.
'What should she want him home for?' asked Dr.Anderson, still making conversation.
'I didna mean hame to Rothieden.I believe she cud bide never seein' 'im again, gin only he wasna i' the ill place.She has awfu'
notions aboot burnin' ill sowls for ever an' ever.But it's no hersel'.It's the wyte o' the ministers.Doctor, I do believe she wad gang an' be brunt hersel' wi' a great thanksgivin', gin it wad lat ony puir crater oot o' 't--no to say my father.An' I sair misdoobt gin mony o' them 'at pat it in her heid wad do as muckle.
I'm some feared they're like Paul afore he was convertit: he wadna lift a stane himsel', but he likit weel to stan' oot by an' luik on.'
A deep sigh, almost a groan, from the bed, reminded them that they were talking too much and too loud for a sick-room.It was followed by the words, muttered, but articulate,'What's the good when you don't know whether there's a God at all?'
''Deed, that's verra true, Mr.Ericson,' returned Robert.'I wish ye wad fin' oot an' tell me.I wad be blithe to hear what ye had to say anent it--gin it was ay, ye ken.'
Ericson went on murmuring, but inarticulately now.
'This won't do at all, Robert, my boy,' said Dr.Anderson.'You must not talk about such things with him, or indeed about anything.You must keep him as quiet as ever you can.'
'I thocht he was comin' till himsel',' returned Robert.'But I will tak care, I assure ye, doctor.Only I'm feared I may fa' asleep the nicht, for I was dooms sleepy this mornin'.'
'I will send Johnston as soon as I get home, and you must go to bed when he comes.'
