The Attic Guest: A Novel

by Robert E. Knowles

"Gang an' fetch the plaidie," he suddenly directed, "the yin I used to wear at hame; an' pit it aboot my shoulders—the nicht's growin' cauld. An' I canna' find the sheep," he suddenly cried, half starting in his bed; "I hear them bleatin' on the hills—but I canna' find them a'."

Then his eyes, large and luminous with the light of the unseen, revolved slowly till they fixed themselves on Gordon. "Kneel doon, laddie," he said gently, yet with the majesty of a prophet, "kneel doon beside me."

Gordon knelt low by the bed; one trembling hand, outstretched, was laid upon his head. The dying eyes looked far beyond into the Unknown. "Gordon," he said, almost in a whisper, "I see yir mither—she's wi' us noo." I actually started and looked up, following the lifted gaze. "An' she's lookin' doon at ye, my son—an' the love is fair shinin' frae her een. It was her that made ye a minister, my laddie. When ye was a wee bit bairn, me and her gi'ed ye up to God; an' mony a night, when ye didna' ken, she bendit by yir bed an' pleaded wi' God to mak' ye a minister—a minister, my laddie, o' the Everlastin' Gospel. Div ye hear me, Gordon?"

"Yes, father, yes," and Gordon was sobbing now; "yes, I hear, father."

"An' she wants ye to keep the troth, my son. I'm gaein' to her noo—an' I'll tell her ye'll be a guid minister, Gordon, a guid minister o' the New Testament, leadin' puir sinners to the Cross. Wull ye no' bid me tell her that, my laddie?" and the dying lips paused for answer.

"Yes," faltered the broken man beside the bed, "yes, father, tell mother that."

The light of peace stole across the aged face. "I'm ready to gang noo," the gentle voice went on, "an' yir mither's beckonin'. I'm comin', mither; I'll be wi' ye soon. An' Gordon's comin' tae—an' Helen—an' they'll bring baith the bairns wi' them." Then his eyes turned slowly upon Gordon. "I'm ready to gang noo in peace," he said faintly—"but there's yin puir lammie," a troubled expression looking out from the dying eyes, "there's yin puir lammie that I canna' find. Oh, my son," the voice rising again and the prophet-like eyes fastened upon Gordon, "tak' guid care o' the sheep—it's an awesome thing to be an unfaithfu' shepherd; tak' care o' the sheep, my laddie—an' where's Harold? Is the bairn no' hame the nicht?"

Then swift delirium seemed to seize him, and he rose violently where he lay, the last eddy of life swirling in the sullen stream of death. "I canna' find the lamb that's wannered," he cried, in a voice that startled us; "I canna' find it, an' the mirk is fallin'. Ettrick, come!—ho! Yarrow. Where are ye, Yarrow? Find it, my bonnie—find it and bring it hame." Then suddenly the dying lips pressed themselves together and a faint whistle floated out on the midnight air.

I seized Gordon by the shoulder. "Hush," said my husband, his face like death itself; "hush—he's calling his dogs."

"They're breakin'," he cried despairingly; "the sheep's scatterin'—they're gaein' to wanner—where's my crook? Gordon, bide ye here, my laddie, till yir faither turns them back. Come, Ettrick—Yarrow, come!" and again the dread whistle floated from his lips.