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 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN 
 
 DUEiAiWl 
 
 PIC ?f^ 
 
 Xi^i- 
 
 1992 
 
 L161— O-1096
 
 ROBERT FALCONER, 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 ROBERT FALCONER 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE MAC DONALD LLD. 
 
 AUTHOK OF 
 
 " ALEC FORBES OF HOWGLEN, 
 " DAVID ELGINBROD,' 
 
 &c. &c. 
 
 Countrymen, 
 My heart dotli joy that yet, in all my Ufa. 
 I fonad no man but he was true to me. 
 
 Bbutus in Juliu$ Cxsar. 
 
 m THREE VOLUMES 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 HUKST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1868. 
 
 Tiie right of Translation it reserved.
 
 %* The author desires to have it understood that not a 
 single poem in this tale is of his own composition. The 
 poems are, however, his property, and appear for the first 
 time in print. The careless work of a friend of his boy- 
 hood, he has not even trimmed them.
 
 ^ 
 ^ 
 
 2ZZ 
 v.l 
 
 TO 
 
 THE MEMORY 
 
 OF THE MAN WHO 
 
 STANDS HIGHEST IN THE ORATORY 
 
 \ OF MY MEMORY, 
 
 V ALEXANDER JOHN SCOTT, 
 
 I, DARING, PRESUME TO DEDICATE THIS BOOK
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 PART I.— HIS BOYHOOD. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. A Recollection 
 
 1 
 
 U. A Visitor 
 
 5 
 
 in. The Boar's Head .... 
 
 17 
 
 lY. Shargar ... . . 
 
 25 
 
 V. The Symposium 
 
 . 30 
 
 A"I. Mrs. Falconer 
 
 . 61 
 
 VII. Robert to the Rescue 
 
 . 76 
 
 VIII. The Angel Unawares 
 
 85 
 
 IX. A Discovery 
 
 . 94 
 
 X. Another Discovery in the Garret . 
 
 105 
 
 XL Private Interviews .... 
 
 129 
 
 XII. Robert's Plan of Salvation 
 
 150 
 
 XIII. Robert's Mother .... 
 
 172 
 
 XIV. Mary St. John 
 
 183 
 
 XV. Eric Ericson 
 
 189 
 
 XVI. Mr. Lammie's FAR>r 
 
 202 
 
 XVIT. Adventures 
 
 219
 
 yi 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 XVIII. Nature puts in a Claim 
 XIX. Robert Steals his own 
 XX. Jessie Hewson . 
 XXI. The Dragon 
 XXII. Dr. Anderson . 
 
 XXIII. An auto da fe . 
 
 XXIV. Boot for Bale . 
 XXV. The Gates of Paradise 
 
 PAGE 
 
 237 
 247 
 265 
 279 
 285 
 290 
 309 
 318
 
 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 PART L— HIS BOYHOOD. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A RECOLLECTIOX. 
 
 ROBERT FALCONER, schoolboy, aged four- 
 teen, thought he had never seen his father; 
 that is, thought he had no recollection ofha^^ing 
 ever seen him. But the moment when my story 
 begins, he had begun to doubt whether his belief 
 in the matter was correct. And, as he went on 
 thinking, he became more and more assured that 
 he had seen his father somewhere about six years 
 before, as near as a thoughtfid boy of his age 
 could judge of the lapse of a period that would 
 form half of that portion of liis existence which 
 was bound into one by the reticulations of me- 
 mory. 
 
 For there da^aied upon his mind the vision of 
 one Simday afternoon. Betty had gone to 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 church, and he was alone with his grandmother, 
 reading the Pilgriins Progress to her, when, just 
 as Chi'istian knocked at the wicket-gate, a tap 
 came to the street door, and he went to open it. 
 There he saw a tall, somewhat haggard-looking 
 man, in a shabby black coat (the vision gradual- 
 ly dawned upon him till it reached the minute- 
 ness of all these particulars), liis hat pulled down 
 on to liis projecting eyebrows, and his shoes 
 very dusty, as with a long journey on foot — it 
 was a hot Sunday, he remembered that — who 
 looked at him very strangely, and without a 
 word pushed him aside, and went straight into 
 his grandmother's parlour, shutting the door be- 
 liind him. He followed, not doubting that the 
 man must have a right to go there, but ques- 
 tioning very much his right to shut him out. 
 When he reached the door, however, he found it 
 bolted ; and outside he had to stay all alone, in 
 the desolate remainder of the house, till Betty 
 came home from church. 
 
 He could even recall, as he thought about it, 
 how drearily the afternoon had passed. First 
 he had opened the street door, and stood in it. 
 There was nothing alive to be seen, except a 
 sparrow picking up crumbs, and he would not 
 stop till he was tired of Mm. The " Royal Oak," 
 down the street to the right, had not even a 
 horseless gig or cart standing before it ; and 
 King Charles, grinning awfully in its branches on
 
 A RECOLLECTIOX. 3 
 
 the signboard, was iii^^sible from the distance at 
 which he stood. In at the other end of the 
 empty street, looked the distant nplands, whose 
 waving corn and grass were hkewise invisible, 
 and beyond them rose one bine truncated peak 
 in the distance, all of them wearily at rest this 
 weary Sabbath day. However, there was one 
 thing than which this was better, and that was 
 being at chui'ch, which, to this boy at least, was 
 the very fifth essence of dreariness. 
 
 He closed the door and went into the kitchen. 
 That was nearly as bad. The kettle was on the 
 fii-e, to be sm-e, in anticipation of tea ; but the 
 coals under it were black on the top, and it 
 made only faint efibrts, after immeasurable in- 
 tervals of silence, to break into a song, gi^T-Ug a 
 hum Hke that of a bee a mile off, and then relaps- 
 mg mto hopeless inacti^dty. Having just had his 
 dinner he was not hungry enough to find any 
 resource in the drawer where the oatcakes lay, 
 and, unfortunately, the old wooden clock in the 
 corner was going, else there would have been 
 some amusement in trying to torment it into de- 
 monstrations of life, as he had often done in less 
 desperate cncumstances than the present. At 
 last he went upstahs to the very room in which 
 he now was, and sat down upon the floor, just 
 as he was sitting now. He had not even brought 
 his Pilgrims Progress with him from his gTand- 
 mother's room. But, searching about m all holes 
 
 B 2
 
 4 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 and corners, he at length found Klopstock's if^s- 
 siali translated into English, and took refuge 
 there till Betty came home. Nor did he go 
 down till she called him to tea, when, expecting 
 to join his grandmother and the stranger, he 
 found, on the contrary, that he was to have his 
 tea with Betty in the kitchen, after which he 
 again took refuge with Klopstock in the garret, 
 and remamed there till it grew dark, when Betty 
 came in search of him, and put him to bed in the 
 gable-room, and not in his usual chamber. In the 
 morning, every trace of the visitor had vanished, 
 even to the thorn stick which he had set down 
 behind the door as he entered. 
 
 All this Robert Falconer saw slowly revive on 
 the palimpsest of his memory, as he washed it 
 with the vivifying waters of recollection.
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 A VISITOR. 
 
 IT was a very bare little room in which the boy- 
 sat, but it was his favourite retreat. Behind 
 the door, in a recess, stood an empty bedstead, 
 without even a mattress upon it. This was the 
 only piece of fiu-nitm-e in the room, unless some 
 shelves crowded with papers tied up in bundles, 
 and a cupboard in the wall, like^vise filled vdih 
 papers, could be called furniture. There was no 
 carpet on the floor, no mndows in the walls. 
 The only light came from the door, and from a 
 small skylight in the sloping roof, which show- 
 ed that it was a garret room. Nor did much 
 light come from the open door, for there was no 
 Tvdndow on the walled stau' to which it opened ; 
 only opposite the door a few steps led up into 
 another garret, larger, but with a lower roof, un- 
 ceiled, and perforated with two or three holes, 
 the panes of glass filling wliich were no larger 
 than the small blue slates which covered the
 
 6 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 roof: from these panes a little dim brown light 
 tumbled into the room where the boy sat on the 
 floor, with his head almost between his knees, 
 thinking. 
 
 But there was less light than usual in the 
 room now, tliough it was only half-past two 
 o'clock, and the sun would not set for more than 
 half an hour yet ; for if Robert had lifted his 
 head and looked up, it would have been at, not 
 through, the skylight. No sky was to be seen. 
 A thick covering of snow lay over the glass. A 
 partial thaw, followed by frost, had fixed it there 
 — a mass of imperfect cells and confused crys- 
 tals. It was a cold place to sit m, but the boy 
 had some faculty for enduring cold when it was 
 the price to be paid for solitude. And besides, 
 when he fell into one of liis thinking moods, he 
 forgot, for a season, cold and everything else 
 but what he was thinking about — a fliculty for 
 which he was to be envied. 
 
 If he had gone down the stair, which describ- 
 ed half the turn of a screw in its descent, and 
 had crossed the landing to which it brought him, 
 he could have entered another bedroom, called 
 the gable or rather ga'le room, equally at his 
 service for retirement ; but, though carpeted and 
 comfortably fm-nished, and having two wmdows 
 at right angles, commanding two streets, for it 
 was a corner house, the boy preferred the garret- 
 room — he could not tell why. Possibly, win-
 
 A VISITOR. 7 
 
 dows to the streets were not congenial to the 
 meditations in which, even now, as I have said, 
 the boy indulged. 
 
 These meditations, however, though sometimes 
 as abstruse, if not so continuous, as those of a me- 
 taphysician — for boys are not unfrequently more 
 given to metaphysics than older people are able 
 or, perhaps, willhig to believe — were not by any 
 means confined to such subjects : castle-buildhig 
 had its full share in the occupation of those lone- 
 ly hours ; and for this exercise of the construct- 
 ive faculty, what he knew, or rather what he 
 did not know, of his own history gave him scope 
 enough, nor was his brain slow in suppl}dng 
 him vnth. material corresponding in quantity to 
 the space afforded. His mother had been dead 
 for so many years that he had only the vaguest 
 recollections of her tenderness, and none of her 
 person. All he was told of his father was that 
 he had gone abroad. His grandmother would 
 never talk about him, although he was her own 
 son. AMien the boy ventui-ed to ask a question 
 about where he was, or when he would retui-n, 
 she always replied — " Bairns suld baud then- 
 tongues." Nor would she vouchsafe another 
 answer to any question that seemed to her from 
 the farthest distance to bear do^ni upon that 
 subject. "Bairns maun learn to hand their 
 tongues," was the sole variation of wliich the 
 response admitted. And the boy did learn to
 
 8 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 hold his tongue. Perhaps he would have thought 
 less about his father if he had had brothers or 
 sisters, or even if the nature of his grandmother 
 had been such as to admit of their relationship 
 being drawn closer — ^into personal confidence, or 
 some measure of familiarity. How they stood 
 with regard to each other will soon appear. 
 
 Whether the visions vanished from his brain 
 because of the thickening of his blood with cold, 
 or he merely acted from one of those undefined 
 and inexplicable impulses which occasion not a 
 few of our actions, I cannot tell, but all at once Ro- 
 bert started to his feet and hurried from the room. 
 At the foot of the garret stair, between it and 
 the door of the gable-room already mentioned, 
 stood another door at right angles to both, of 
 the existence of which the boy was scarcely 
 aware, simply because he had seen it all his life 
 and had never seen it open. Turning his back 
 on this last door, which he took for a blind one, 
 he went down a short broad stair, at the foot 
 of which was a wmdow. He then tmiied to 
 the left into a long flagged passage or transe, 
 passed the kitchen door on the one hand, and 
 the double-leaved street-door on the other ; but, 
 instead of going into the parlour, the door of 
 which closed the transe, he stopped at the pass- 
 age-window on the right, and there stood look- 
 ing out. 
 
 What might be seen from this window certainly
 
 A VISITOR. 9 
 
 coTild not be called a very pleasant prospect. A 
 broad street with low houses of cold gray stone 
 is perhaps as nninteresting a form of street as 
 any to be found in the world, and such was the 
 street Robert looked out upon. Not a smgle 
 member of the animal creation was to be seen in 
 it, not a pah' of eyes to be discovered looking 
 out at any of the windows opposite. The sole 
 motion was the occasional drift of a vapour-like 
 film of white powder, which the ^dnd would lift 
 hke dust from the snowy carpet that covered the 
 street, and wafting it along for a few yards, 
 drop again to its repose, till another stronger 
 gust, prelusiveof the vnnd about to rise at sun- 
 down, — a vnnd cold and bitter as death — ^would 
 rush over the street, and raise a denser cloud of 
 the white water-dust to sting the face of any im- 
 probable person who might meet it in its pas- 
 sage. It was a keen, knife-edged fi'ost, even 
 in the house, and what Robert saw to make 
 him stand at the desolate ^^dow, I do not 
 know, and I believe he could not himself have 
 told. There he did stand, however, for the space 
 of five minutes or so, with nothing better filling 
 his outer eyes at least than a bald spot on the 
 crown of the street, whence the wind had swept 
 away the snow, leaving it brown and bare, a 
 spot of March in the middle of January. 
 
 He heard the town-di-ummer in the distance, 
 and let the sound invade his passive ears, till it
 
 10 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 crossed the opening of the street, and vanished 
 *' down the town." 
 
 " There's Dooble Sanny," he said to himself — 
 " wi' siccan cauld han's, 'at he's playin' upo' the 
 drum-heid as gin he was Ion pin' in a bowie 
 (leaping in a cask)^ 
 
 Then he stood silent once more, with a look 
 as if anything would be welcome to break the 
 monotony. 
 
 While he stood a gentle timorous tap came to the 
 door, so gentle indeed that Betty in the kitchen 
 did not hear it, or she, tall and Roman-nosed as 
 she was, would have answered it before the long- 
 legged dreamer could have reached the door, 
 though he was not above three yards from it. 
 In lack of anything better to do, Robert stalked 
 to the summons. As he opened the door, these 
 words greeted him : 
 
 " Is Robert at eh ! it's Bob himsel' ! Bob, 
 
 I'm byous {exceedingly) cauld." 
 
 " What for dinna ye gang hame, than f 
 " What for wasna ye at the schuil the day ?" 
 " I spier ae queston at you, and ye answer me 
 wi' anither." 
 
 " Weel, I hae nae hame to gang till." 
 " Weel, and I had a sair held (a headache). But 
 whaur's yer hame gane till than f 
 
 " The hoose is there a' richt, but whaur my 
 mither is I dinna ken. The door's lockit, an' 
 Jeames Jaup, they tell me 's tane awa' the key.
 
 A VISITOR. 11 
 
 I doobt my mitlier's awa' npo' the tramp again, 
 and what's to come o' me, the Lord kens." 
 
 " "What's this o' 't ?" interposed a severe but 
 not immelodions voice, breaking into the con- 
 versation between the two boys ; for the parloiu- 
 door had opened T\dthont Robert's hearing it, and 
 Mrs. Falconer, his grandmother, had di-a^ai near 
 to the speakers. 
 
 " ^AHiat's this o' 't ?" she asked again. " Wha's 
 that ye're conversin' wi' at the door, Robert? 
 Gin it be ony decent laddie, tell him to come in, 
 and no stan' at the door in sic a day 's this." 
 
 As Robert hesitated Tvdth his reply, she looked 
 round the open half of the door, but no sooner 
 saw T^dth whom he was talking than her tone 
 changed. By this time Betty, wiping her hands 
 in her apron, had completed the group by takhig 
 her stand in the kitchen door. 
 
 " Na, na," said Mrs. Falconer. " We want 
 nane sic-like here. What does he want wi' you, 
 Robert ? Gie him a piece, Betty, and lat him 
 gang. — Eh, su-s ! the callant hasna a stockin'-fit 
 upo' 'im — and in sic weather ! " 
 
 For, before she had finished her speech, the 
 visitor, as if in terror of her nearer approach, had 
 turned his back, and literally showed her, if not 
 a clean pair of heels, yet a pah' of naked heels 
 from between the soles and uppers of his shoes : 
 if he had any stockings at all, they ceased be- 
 fore they reached liis ankles.
 
 12 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " What ails him at me ?" continued Mrs. Fal- 
 coner, " that he rins as gin I war a boodie ? But 
 it's nae wonner he canna bide the sicht o' a de- 
 ,cent body, for he 's no used till't. What does he 
 want wi' you, Robert V 
 
 But Robert had a reason for not telling his 
 grandmother what the boy had told him : he 
 thought the news about his mother would only 
 make her disapprove of him the more. In this 
 he judged wrong. He did not know his grand- 
 mother yet. 
 
 " He 's m my class at the schuil," said Robert, 
 evasively. 
 
 " Him ? What class, noo f 
 
 Robert hesitated one moment, but, compelled 
 to give some answer, said, with confidence, 
 
 " The Bible-class." 
 
 " I thocht as muckle ! What gars ye play at 
 hide and seek wi' me ? Do ye think I dinna 
 ken weel eneucli there's no a lad or a lass at the 
 schuil but 's i' the Bible-class ? What wants he 
 here?" 
 
 " Ye hardly gae him time to tell me, grannie. 
 Ye frichtit him." 
 
 " Me fricht him I What for suld I fricht liim, 
 laddie ? I 'm no sic ferlie (wonder) that onybody 
 needs be frichtit at me." 
 
 The old lady tm-ned with visible, though 
 by no means profound offence upon her calm 
 forehead, and walking back mto her parlour,
 
 A VISITOR. 13 
 
 where Robert could see the fire biu-ning light 
 cheerily, shut the door, and left hun and Betty 
 standing together in the transe. The latter re- 
 tm-ned to the kitchen, to resume the washing of 
 the dinner-dishes ; and the former retm-ned to 
 his post at the window. He had not stood more 
 than half a minute, thinking what was to be 
 done with his schoolfellow deserted of his mo- 
 ther, when the sound of a coach-horn drew his 
 attention to the right, down the street, where 
 he could see part of the other street which 
 crossed it at right angles, and in which the 
 gable of the house stood. A minute after, the 
 mail came in sight^ — scarlet, spotted with snoAv 
 — and disappeared, going up the hill towards 
 the chief hostelry of the town, as fast as four 
 horses th-ed with the bad footing they had had 
 thi-ough the whole of the stage, could draw it 
 after them. By this time the twilight was falling ; 
 for though the sim had not yet set, miles of 
 frozen vapour came between him and this part 
 of the world, and his light was never very 
 powei-ful so far north at this season of the year. 
 
 Robert turned into the kitchen, and began to 
 put on his shoes. He had made up his mind 
 what to do. 
 
 " Ye 're never gaein' oot, Robert ?" said Betty, 
 in a hoarse tone of expostulation. 
 
 " 'Deed am I, Betty. ^Tiat for no ?" 
 
 " You 'at's been in a' day Tvi' a sair heid !
 
 14 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 I'll jist gang benn the hoose and tell the mis- 
 tress, and syne we'll see what she'll please to 
 say till't." 
 
 " Ye'll do naething o' the km', Betty. Are ye 
 gaein' to turn clash-pyet {tell-tale) at your age?" 
 
 " What ken ye aboot my age ? There's never 
 a man-body i' the toon kens aught aboot my 
 age." 
 
 " It's ower muckle for onybody to mm' upo' 
 (remember), is 't, Betty?" 
 
 " Dinna be ill-tongued, Robert, or I'll jist gang 
 benn the hoose to the mistress." 
 
 "Betty, wha began wi' bein' ill-tongued? 
 Gin ye tell my grandmither that I gaed oot the 
 nicht, I'll gang to the schuilmaister o' Muckle- 
 drum, and get a sicht o' the kirstenin' buik ; an' 
 gin yer name binna there, I'll tell ilkabody I 
 meet 'at oor Betty was never kh'stened ; and 
 that'll be a sau' affront, Betty." 
 
 " Hoot ! was there ever sic a laddie I" said 
 Betty, attempting to laugh it off. " Be sure ye 
 be back afore tay-time, 'cause yer grannie 'ill be 
 spehin' efter ye, and ye wadna hae me lee aboot 
 yer 
 
 " I "wad hae naebody lee about me. Ye jist 
 needna lat on 'at ye hear her. Ye can be deif 
 eneuch when ye like, Betty. But I s' be back 
 afore tay-time, or come on the waur." 
 
 Betty, who was in far greater fear of her age 
 being discovered than of being michristianized
 
 A VISITOR. 15 
 
 in the search, though the fact was that 'she 
 knew nothing certahi about the matter, and had 
 no desu-e to be enhghtened, feelmg as if she was 
 thus left at Hberty to hint what she pleased, — 
 Betty, I say, never had any intention of going 
 "benn the hoose to the mistress." For the 
 thi'eat was merely the rod of terror which she 
 thought it convenient to hold over the back of 
 the boy, whom she always supposed to be about 
 some mischief except he were in her own pre- 
 sence and visibly reading a book : if he were 
 reading aloud, so much the better. But Robert 
 like^\dse kept a rod for his defence, and that was 
 Betty's age, which he had discovered to be such 
 a precious secret that one would have thought 
 her virtue depended in some cabaHstic manner 
 upon the concealment of it. And, certainly, 
 nature herself seemed to favour Betty's weak- 
 ness, casting such a mist about the number of 
 her years as the goddesses of old were wont to 
 cast about a wounded favomite ; for some said 
 Betty was forty, others said she was sixty-five, 
 and, m fact, almost everybody who knew her 
 had a different belief on the matter. 
 
 By this time Robert had conquered the diffi- 
 culty of induing boots as hard as a thorough 
 wetting and as thorough a drying could make 
 them, and now stood prepared to go. His ob- 
 ject in setting out was to find the boy whom his 
 grandmother had diiven from the door with a
 
 16 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 hastier and more abject flight than she had in the 
 least intended. But, if his grandmother should 
 miss him, as Betty suggested, and inquire where 
 he had been, what was he to say ? He did not 
 mind misleadmg his grannie, but he had a great 
 objection to telluig her a lie. His grandmother 
 herself delivered liim from this difficulty. 
 
 " Robert, come here," she called from the par- 
 lour door. And Robert obeyed. 
 
 " Is 't dingm' on, Robert f she asked. 
 
 " No, grannie ; it's only a starnie o' drift." 
 
 The meaning of this was that there was no 
 fresh snow falling, or heating on, only a little sur- 
 face snow blowing about. 
 
 " Weel, jist pit yer shune on, man, and rin up 
 to Miss Naper's upo' the Sqaaur, and say to Miss 
 Naper, wi' my compliments, that I wad be sair 
 obleeged till her gin she wad len' me that fine 
 receipt o' hers for crappit heids, and I'll sen' 't 
 back safe the morn's mornin'. Rin, noo." 
 
 This commission fell in admirably with Ro- 
 bert's plans, and he started at once.
 
 17 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE boar's head. 
 
 MISS NAPIER was the eldest of three maiden 
 sisters who kept the principal hostelry of 
 Rothieden, called The Boar's Head ; from which, 
 as Robert reached the square in the dusk, the 
 mail-coach was mo\TLng away vnth. a fresh qua- 
 ternion of horses. He found a good many 
 boxes standing upon the pavement close by the 
 archway that led to the mn-yard, and around 
 them had gathered a group of loungers, not too 
 cold to be mterested. These were lookmg to- 
 wards the windows of the inn, where the owner 
 of the boxes had evidently disappeared. 
 
 " Saw ye ever sic a sicht in oor toon afore !" 
 said Doohle Sanny^ as people generally called 
 him, his name being Alexander Alexander, pro- 
 nounced, by those who chose to speak of him 
 with the ordinary respect due from one mortal 
 to another, Sandy Elshender. Double Sandy 
 was a soutar, or shoemaker, remarkable for his 
 love of sweet sounds and whisky. He was, be- 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 18 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 sides, the town-crier, who went about with a 
 drum at certain hours of the morning and even- 
 ing, like a perambulating clock, and also made 
 public announcements of sales, losses, &c. ; for 
 the rest — a fierce, fighting fellow when in anger 
 or in drink, which latter included the former. . 
 
 "What's the sicht, Sandy?" asked Robert, 
 coming up with his hands in the pockets of his 
 trows ers. 
 
 " Sic a sicht as ye never saw, man," returned 
 Sandy ; " the bonniest leddy ever man set his 
 ee upo'. I culd na hae thocht there had been sic 
 a woman i' this warl'." 
 
 "Hoot, Sandy!" said Robert, "a body wad 
 think she was tint (lost) and ye had the cryin' o' 
 her. Speyk laicher, man ; she'll maybe hear ye. 
 Is she i' the inn there V 
 
 " Ay is she," answered Sandy. " See sic a 
 warl' o' kists as she's brocht wi' her," he con- 
 tinued, pointing towards the pile of luggage. 
 " Saw ye ever sic a bourach (heap) ? It jist 
 blecks (heats) me to think what ae body can du 
 wi' sae mony kists. For I mayna doobt but 
 there's something or ither m ilka ane o' them. 
 Naebody wad carry aboot toom (empty) kists wi' 
 them. I camio^ mak' it oot." 
 
 The boxes might well surprise Sandy, if we 
 may draw any conclusions from the fact that the 
 sole implement of personal adornment which he 
 possessed was two inches of a broken comb, for
 
 THE boar's head. 19 
 
 which he had to search when he happened to 
 want it, in the di'awer of his stool, among awls, 
 lumps of rosin for his violin, masses of the same 
 substance wi'ought into shoemaker's wax for his 
 ends, and packets of boar's bristles, commonly 
 called birse, for the same. 
 
 " Are thae a' ae body's ?" asked Robert. 
 
 " Troth are they. They're a' hers, I wat. 
 Ye wad hae thocht she had been gaein' to The 
 Bothie ; but gin she had been that, there wad 
 hae been a cairiiage to meet her," said Crookit 
 Caumil, the ostler. 
 
 The Bothie was the name facetiously given by 
 Alexander, Baron Bothie, son of the Marquis of 
 Boarshead, to a house he had built in the neigh- 
 bourhood, chiefly for the accommodation of his 
 bachelor friends from London duiing the shoot- 
 ing-season. 
 
 "Hand yer tongue, Caumil," said the shoe- 
 maker. " She's nae sic cattle, yon." 
 
 " Hand up the bit bowat {stahle'lantern)^ man, 
 and lat Robert here see the direction upo' them. 
 Maybe he'll mak' something o't. He's a fine 
 scholar, ye ken," said another of the bystanders. 
 
 The ostler held the lantern to the card upon 
 one of the boxes, but Robert found only an M., 
 followed by something not very definite, and a 
 J., which might have been an I., Rothieden, 
 Driftslnre, Scotland. 
 
 As he was not immediate with liis answer, 
 
 c2
 
 20 EGBERT FALCONER. 
 
 Peter Lumley, one of the group, a lazy ne'er-do- 
 weel, "who had known better days, but never 
 better manners, and was seldom quite drunk, 
 and seldomer still quite sober, struck in with, 
 
 " Ye dinna ken a' thing yet, ye see, Robbie." 
 
 From Sandy tliis would have been nothing but 
 a good-humoured attempt at facetiousness. 
 From Lumley it meant spite, because Robert's 
 praise was in his ears. 
 
 " I dinna preten' to ken ae hair mair than ye 
 do yersel', Mr. Lumley ; and that's nae sayin' 
 muckle, surely," returned Robert, irritated at 
 his tone more than at his words. 
 
 The bystanders laughed, and Lumley flew in 
 a rage. 
 
 *' Haud yer ill tongue, ye brat," he said. 
 " Wha' are ye to mak' sfb remarks upo' yer bet- 
 ters? A'body kens yer gran' father was nae- 
 thing but the blin' piper o' Portcloddie." 
 
 This was news to Robert — probably false, con- 
 sidering the quarter whence it came. But his 
 mother-wit did not forsake him. 
 
 " Weel, Mr. Lumley," he answered, "didna he 
 pipe weel ? Daur ye tell me 'at he didna pipe 
 weel ? — as weel's ye cud liae dune't yersel', noo, 
 Mr. Lumley?" 
 
 The laugh again rose at Lumley's expense, 
 who was well known to have tried his hand at 
 most things, and succeeded in nothing. Dooble 
 Sanny was especially delighted.
 
 THE boar's head. 21 
 
 " De'il hae ye for a de'il's brat ! 'At I suld 
 sweer !" was all Lumley's reply, as he sought to 
 conceal his mortification by attempting to join 
 in the laugh against himself. Robert seized the 
 opportunity of turning away and entering the 
 house, 
 
 " That ane's no to be di'oont or brimt aither," 
 said Lumley, as he disappeared. 
 
 " He'll no be hang't for closin' your mou', Mr. 
 Lumley," said the shoemaker. 
 
 Thereupon Lumley turned and followed Ro- 
 bert into the inn. 
 
 Robert had dehvered his message to Miss Na- 
 pier, who sat in an arm-chau' by the fii'e, in a 
 little comfortable parlom-, held sacred by all 
 about the house. She was paralytic, and un- 
 able to attend to her guests finther than by 
 giving orders when anything especial was re- 
 ferred to her decision. She was an old lady — 
 nearly as old as Mrs. Falconer — and wore 
 glasses, but they could not conceal the kindness 
 of her kindly eyes. Probably from giving less 
 heed to a systematic theology, she had nothing 
 of that sternness which fii'st struck a stranger 
 on seeing Robert's grandmother. But then she 
 did not know what it was to be contradicted ; 
 and if she had been married, and had had sons, 
 perhaps a sternness not dissimilar might have 
 shown itself in her natui'e. 
 
 " Noo ye mamma gang awa' till ye get some-
 
 22 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 thing," she said, after taking the receipt in re- 
 quest from a drawer within her reach, and lay- 
 ing it upon the table. But ere she could ring 
 the bell which stood by her side, one of her ser- 
 vants came in. 
 
 "Please, mem," she said, "Miss Letty and 
 Miss Lizzy's seein' efter the bonny leddy ; and 
 sae I maun come to you." 
 
 " Is she a' that bonny, Meg ?" asked her mis- 
 tress. 
 
 " Na, na, she's nae sae fearsome bonny ; but 
 Miss Letty's unco ta'en wi' her, ye ken. An' 
 we a' say as Miss Letty says i' this hoose. But 
 that's no the pint. Mr. Lumley's here, seekin' 
 a gill : is he to hae't f ' 
 
 " Has he had eneuch, already, do ye think, 
 Megf 
 
 " I dinna ken aboot eneuch, mem ; that's ill to 
 mizzer ; but I dinna think he's had ower muckle." 
 
 " Weel, lat him tak it. But dinna lat him sit 
 doon." 
 
 " Verra weel, mem," said Meg, and departed. 
 
 " What gars Mr. Lumley say 'at my gran'- 
 father was the blin' piper o' Portcloddie 1 Can 
 ye tell me. Miss Naper f asked Robert. 
 
 " Whan said he that, Robert ?" 
 
 " Jist as I cam in." 
 
 Miss Napier rang the bell. Another maid ap- 
 peared. 
 
 " Sen' Meg here direckly."
 
 THE boar's head. 23 
 
 Meg came, her eyes full of interrogation. 
 
 " Dinna gie Lmnley a drap. Set him np to 
 insult a yoimg gentleman at my door-cheek ! 
 He s' no hae a di'ap here the nicht. He s' had 
 ower muckle, Meg, already, an' ye oucht to hae 
 seen that." 
 
 " 'Deed, mem, he 's had mair than ower 
 muckle, than ; for there's anither gill ower the 
 thi'apple o' 'm. I div my best, mem, but, never 
 tastin' mysel', I canna aye tell hoo muckle 's i' 
 the wame o' a' body 'at comes in." 
 
 "Ye're no fit for the place, Meg; that's a fac'." 
 
 At this charge Meg took no offence, for she 
 had been in the place for twenty years. And 
 both mistress and maid laughed the moment 
 they parted company. 
 
 *' Y^Tia's this 'at's come the nicht. Miss Naper, 
 'at they're sae ta'en wi' ?" asked Robert. 
 
 " Atweel, I dinna ken yet. She's ower bonnie 
 by a' accoonts to be gaein' about her lane (alone). 
 It's a mercy the baron's no at hame. I wad hae 
 to lock her up wi' the forks and spunes." 
 
 " Wh^t for that?" asked Robert. 
 
 But Miss Napier vouchsafed no further expla- 
 nation. She stuffed his pockets with sweet bis- 
 cuits instead, dismissed him in haste, and rang 
 the bell. 
 
 *' Meg, whaur hae they putten the stranger- 
 leddy?" 
 
 ** She's no gaein' to bide at our hoose, mem."
 
 24 EGBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " What say ye, lass ? She's never gaein' ower 
 to Lucky Happit's, is she f 
 
 " Ow na, mem. She's a leddy, ilka inch o' her. 
 But she's some sib (relation) to the auld captain, 
 and she's gaein' doon the street as smie's Cau- 
 mil's ready to tak' her bit boxies i' the barrow. 
 But I doobt there'll be maist three barrowfa's 
 o' them." 
 
 " Atweel. Ye can gang."
 
 25 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 SHARGAR. 
 
 ROBERT went out into the thin drift, and 
 again crossing the wide desolate-looking 
 square, tm-ned down an entry leadhig to a kind 
 of coni't, which had once been inhabited by a well- 
 to-do class of the townspeople, but had now fal- 
 len in estimation. Upon a stone at the door of 
 what seemed an outhouse he discovered the ob-' 
 ject of his search. 
 
 " What are ye sittin' there for, Shargar ?" 
 
 Shargar is a word of Gaelic origin, appHed, 
 with some sense of the ridiculous, to a thin, 
 wasted, dried-up creatui-e. In the present case 
 it was the nickname by which the boy was 
 known at school ; and, indeed, where he was 
 known at all. 
 
 " What are ye sittin' there for, Shargar ? Did 
 naebody offer to tak ye in?" 
 
 " Na, nane o' them. I thhik they maun be a' 
 i' their beds. I'm most di^eidfti' cauld." 
 
 The fact was, that Shargar's character, whe-
 
 26 EGBERT FALCONER. 
 
 ther by imputation from his mother, or derived 
 from his own actions, was none of the best. 
 The consequence was, that although scarcely 
 one of the neighbours would have allowed him 
 to sit there all night, each was willing to wait 
 yet a while, in the hope that somebody else's 
 humanity Avould give in first, and save her from 
 the necessity of offering liim a seat by the fire- 
 side, and a share of the oatmeal porridge which 
 probably would be scanty enough for her own 
 household. For it must be borne in mind that 
 all the houses in the place were occupied by 
 poor people, with whom the one virtue. Charity, 
 was, in a measure, at home, and amidst many 
 sins, cardinal and other, managed to live in even 
 some degree of comfort. 
 
 " Get up, than, Shargar, ye lazy beggar ! Or 
 are ye frozen to the door-stane ? Is' awa' for a 
 kettle o' bilin' water to lowse ye." 
 
 "Na, na. Bob. I'm no stucken. I'm only 
 some stiff wi' the cauld ; for wow, but I am 
 cauld!" said Shargar, rising with difiiculty. 
 " Gie 's a baud o' yer han', Bob." 
 
 Robert gave him his hand, and Shargar was 
 straightway upon his feet. 
 
 " Come awa' noo, as fest and as quaiet 's ye 
 can." 
 
 " What are ye gaein' to du wi' me. Bob f 
 
 " What's that to you, Shargar ?" 
 
 " Naything. Only I wad like to ken."
 
 SHARGAK. 27 
 
 " Hae patience, and ye vnll ken. Only mind 
 ye do as I tell ye, and dinna speik a word." 
 
 Shargar followed in silence. 
 
 On the way Robert remembered that Miss 
 Napier had not, after all, given him the receipt 
 for which his grandmother had sent him. So he 
 retm-ned to The Boar's Head, and, while he went 
 in, left Shargar in the archway, to shiver, and 
 try in vain to warm his hands by the alternate 
 plans of slapping them on the opposite arms, 
 and hiding them under them. 
 
 AVhen Robert came out, he saw a man talking 
 to him under the lamp. The moment his eyes 
 fell upon the two, he was struck by a resem- 
 blance between them. Shargar was right under 
 the lamp, the man to the side of it, so that 
 Shargar was shadowed by its frame, and the 
 man was in its full light. The latter turned 
 away, and passing Robert, went into the inn. 
 
 " AVha's that ?" asked Robert. 
 
 " I dinna ken," answered Shargar. " He 
 spak to me or ever I kent he was there, and 
 garred my hert gie sic a loup 'at it maist fell 
 into my breeks." 
 
 " And what said he to ye ?" 
 
 " He said was the deevil at my lug, that I did 
 naething but caw my ban's to bits upo' my shoo- 
 thers." 
 
 "And what said ye to that?" 
 
 " I said I wissed he was, for he wad aibHns
 
 28 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 hae some spare heat aboot him, an' I hadna 
 freely {quite) eneuch." 
 
 "Weel dmie, Shargar! What said he to that?" 
 
 " He leuch, and speirt gin I wad Hst, and gae 
 me a shiUin'." 
 
 " Ye didna tak it, Shargar ? " asked Robert in 
 some alarm. 
 
 " Ay did I. Catch me no takin' a shillin' !" 
 
 "But they'll hand ye till 't." 
 
 "Na, na. I'm ower shochlin' (in-kneed) for a 
 sodger. But that man was nae sodger." 
 
 " And what mair said he ?" 
 
 " He speirt what I wad do wi' the sliillin'." 
 
 "And what said ye f 
 
 " Ow ! syne ye cam' oot, and he gaed awa'." 
 
 " And ye dinna ken wha it was ?" repeated 
 Robert. 
 
 " It was some like my brither, Lord Sandy ; 
 " but I dinna ken," said Shargar. 
 
 By this time they had arrived at Yule the 
 baker's shop. 
 
 " Bide ye here," said Robert, who happened 
 to possess a few coppers, "till I gang into 
 Eel's." 
 
 Shargar stood again and shivered at the door, 
 till Robert came out with a penny loaf in one 
 hand, and a twopenny loaf in the other. 
 
 "Gie's a bit. Bob," said Shargar. "I'm as 
 hungry as I am cauld." 
 
 " Bide ye still," returned Robert. " There's a
 
 SHARGAR. 29 
 
 time for a' thing, and your time 's no come to 
 forgather ^-i this loaf yet. Does na it smell 
 fine? It's new frae the bakehoose no ten 
 minutes ago. I ken by the fin' (feel) o' 't." 
 
 " Lat me fin' 't," said Shargar, stretching out 
 one hand, and feeling his shilling with the other. 
 
 " Xa. Yer han's canna be clean. And fowk 
 suld aye eat clean, whether they gang clean or 
 no." 
 
 " I'll awa' in an' buy ane oot o' my ain shilHn'," 
 said Shargar, in a tone of resolute eagerness. 
 
 "Ye '11 do naething o' the kin'," retmmed 
 Robert, darting his hand at his collar. " Gie me 
 the shillin'. Ye'll want it a' or lang." 
 
 Shargar yielded the coin and slimk behind, 
 while Robert again led the way till they came 
 to his grandmother's door. 
 
 " Gang to the ga'le o' the hoose there, Shar- 
 gar, and jist keek roon' the neuk at me; and gin 
 I whustle upo' ye, come up as quaiet 's ye can. 
 Gin I dinna, bide till I come to ye." 
 
 Robert opened the door cautiously. It was 
 never locked except at night, or when Betty had 
 gone to the well for water, or to the butcher's or 
 baker's, or the prayer-meeting, upon which occa- 
 sions she put the key in her pocket, and left her 
 mistress a prisoner. He looked fii'st to the right, 
 along the passage, and saw that his grand- 
 mother's door was shut ; then across the passage 
 to the left, and saw that the kitchen-door was
 
 30 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 likewise shut, because of the cold, for its normal 
 position was against the wall. Thereupon, closing 
 the door, but keeping the handle in his hand, and 
 the bolt drawn back, he turned to the street and 
 whistled soft and low. Shargar had, in a mo- 
 ment, dragged his heavy feet, ready to part 
 company with their shoes at any instant, to Ro- 
 bert's side. He bent his ear to Robert's whisper. 
 
 " Gang in there, and creep like a moose to the 
 fit o' the stair. I maun close the door ahin' 's," 
 said he, opening the door as he spoke. 
 
 "I'm fleyt (frightened), Robert." 
 
 " Dinna be a fule. Grannie winna bite aff yer 
 heid. She had ane till her denner, the day, an' 
 it was ill sung (singed)^ 
 
 " What ane o' ?" 
 
 " A sheep's heid, ye gowk (fool). Gang in 
 direckly." 
 
 Shargar persisted no longer, but, taking about 
 four steps a minute, slunk past the Idtchen 
 like a thief — not so carefully, however, but that 
 one of his soles yet looser than the other, gave 
 one clap upon the flagged passage, when Betty 
 straightway stood in the kitchen-door, a fierce 
 picture in a deal-frame. By this time Robert 
 had closed the outer door, and was following at 
 Shargar's heels. 
 
 " What's this f she cried, but not so loud as 
 to reach the ears of Mrs. Falconer ; for, with true 
 Scotch foresight, she would not willingly call in
 
 SHARGAR. 31 
 
 another power before the situation clearly de- 
 manded it. " ^Vham''s Shargar gaein' that gait?' 
 
 *' Wi' me. Dinna ye see me vn' him ? I'm 
 nae a thief, nor yet's Shargar." 
 
 " There may be twa opingons upo' that, Ro- 
 bert. I s' jist awa' benn to the mistress. I s' 
 hae nae sic doin's i' mi/ hoose." 
 
 " It's nae yom* hoose, Betty. Dinna lee." 
 
 *' Weel, I s' hae nae sic things gang by my 
 kitchie-door. There, Robert ! what '11 ye mak' 
 o' that ? There 's nae offence, there, I houp, gin 
 it suldna be a'thegither my ain hoose. Tak 
 Shargar oot o' that, or I s' awa' benn the hoose, 
 as I tell ye." 
 
 Meantime Shargar was standing on the stones, 
 looking like a terrified white rabbit, and shaking 
 from head to' foot ^dth cold and fright com- 
 bined. 
 
 " I '11 tak him oot o' this, but it 's up the stau*, 
 Betty. An' gin ye gang benn the hoose aboot 
 it, I swell' to ye, as sure 's death, I'll gang doon 
 to Muckledrum upo' Setter day i' the efternune." 
 
 " Gang awa' ^i' yer havers. Only g-in the 
 mistress speu's onything aboot it, w^hat am I to 
 say?" 
 
 "Bide till she speirs. Auld Spunkie says, 
 ' Ready-made answers are aye to seek.' And I 
 say, Betty, hae ye a cauld pitawta (potato) ?" 
 
 " I '11 luik and see. Wadna ye hke it het up?" 
 
 " Ow ay, gin ye binna lang aboot it."
 
 32 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 Suddenly a bell rang, shrill and peremptory, 
 right above Shargar's head, causing in liim a re- 
 sponsive increase of trembling. 
 
 " Hand oot o' my gait. There's the mistess's 
 bell," said Betty. 
 
 " Jist bide till we 're roon' the neuk and on to 
 the stair," said Robert, now leading the way. 
 
 Betty watched them safe round the corner 
 before she made for the parlour, little thinking 
 to what she had become an unwilling accomplice, 
 for she never imagined that more than an even- 
 ing's visit was intended by Shargar, wliich in 
 itself seemed to her strange and improper enough 
 even for such an eccentric boy as Robert to en- 
 courage. 
 
 Shargar followed in mortal terror, for, like 
 Christian in the Pilgrims Progress^ he had no 
 armour to his back. Once romid the corner, two 
 strides of three steps each took them to the top 
 of the first stair, Shargar knocking his head in 
 the darkness against the never-opened door. 
 Again three strides brought them to the top of 
 the second flight ; and turning once more, still 
 to the right, Robert led Shargar up the few steps 
 into the higher of the two garrets. 
 
 Here there was just glimmer enough from the 
 sky to discover the hollow of a close bedstead, 
 built in under the sloping roof, which served it 
 for a tester, while the two ends and most of the 
 front were boarded up to the roof. This bed-
 
 SHARGAR. 33 
 
 stead fortunately was not so bare as the one in 
 the other room, although it had not been used 
 for many years, for an old mattress covered the 
 boards T\dth which it was bottomed. 
 
 " Gang in there, Shargar. Ye '11 be warmer 
 there than upo' the door-step ony gait. Pit aff 
 yer shune." 
 
 Shargar obeyed, full of dehght at finding himself 
 in such good quarters. Robert went to a forsaken 
 press in the room, and brought out an ancient 
 cloak of tartan, of the same form as what is now 
 called an Inverness cape, a blue dress-coat, with 
 plain gilt buttons, which shone even now in the 
 all but darkness, and several other garments, 
 amongst them a kilt, and heaped them over 
 Shargar as he lay on the mattress. He then 
 handed him the twopenny and the penny loaves, 
 which were all his stock had reached to the pur- 
 chase of, and left liim, saying, — 
 
 " I maun awa' to my tay, Shargar. I'll fess 
 ye a cauld tawtie het again, gin Betty has ony. 
 Lie still, and whatever ye do, dinna come oot o' 
 that." 
 
 The last injunction was enth'ely unnecessary. 
 
 " Eh, Bob, I'm jist in haven ! " said the poor 
 creature, for his skin began to feel the precious 
 possibihty of re^dving warmth in the distance. 
 
 Now that he had gained a new burrow, the hu- 
 man animal soon recovered from his fears as well. 
 It seemed to him, in the novelty of the place, 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 that he had made so many doubhngs to reach it, 
 that there could be no danger of even the mis^ 
 tress of the house finding him out, for she could 
 hardly be supposed to look after such a remote 
 corner of her dominions. And then he was 
 boxed in with the bed, and covered with no end 
 of warm garments, while the friendly darkness, 
 closed him and his shelter all round. Except 
 the faintest blue gleam from one of the panes in 
 the roof, there was soon no hint of light any- 
 where ; and this was only sufficient to make the 
 darkness visible, and thus add artistic effect to 
 the operation of it upon Shargar's imagination 
 — a faculty certainly uneducated in Shargar, 
 but far, very far from being therefore non- 
 existent. It was, indeed, actively operative, 
 although, like that of many a fine lady and 
 gentleman, only in relation to such primary 
 questions as : " What shall we eat I And what 
 shall we drink? And wherewithal shall we be 
 clothed ?" But as he lay and devoured the new 
 " white breid," his satisfaction — the bare delight 
 of his animal existence — reached a pitch such as 
 even this unagination, stinted with poverty, and 
 frost-bitten with maternal oppression, had never 
 conceived possible. The power of enjoying the 
 present without anticipation of the future or re- 
 gard of the past, is the especial privilege of the 
 animal nature, and of the human nature in pro- 
 portion as it has not been developed beyond
 
 SHARGAR. 35 
 
 the animal. Herein lies the happiness of cab 
 horses and of tramps : to them the gift of for- 
 getfiilness is of worth inestimable. Shargar's 
 heaven was for the present gained. 
 
 1)
 
 36 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM. 
 
 ROBERT had scarcely turned out of the square 
 on his way to find Shargar, when a horse- 
 man entered it. His horse and he were both 
 apparently black on one side and grey on the 
 other, from the snow-drift settling to windward. 
 The animal looked tired, but the rider sat as 
 easy as if he were riding to cover. The reins 
 hung loose, and the horse went in a straight 
 line for The Boar's Head, stopping under the 
 archway only when his master drew bridle at 
 the door of the inn. 
 
 At that moment Miss Letty was standing at 
 the back of Miss Napier's chau% leaning her arms 
 upon it as she talked to her. This was her way 
 of resting as often as occasion arose for a chat 
 with her elder sister. Miss Letty's hair was 
 gathered in a great knot at the top of her head, 
 and little ringlets hung like tendrils down the 
 sides of her face, the benevolence of which was
 
 THE ST:^iPOsniM. • 37 
 
 less immediately striking tlian that of her sis- 
 ter's, because of the constant play of hmnom* 
 upon it, especially about the mouth. If a spirit 
 of satire could be supposed converted into some- 
 thing Christian by an infusion of the tender est 
 loving-kin dness and humanity, remaining still 
 recognizable notwithstanding that all its bitter- 
 ness was gone, such was the expression of Miss 
 Letty's mouth. It was always half puckered as 
 if in resistance to a comic smile, which showed 
 itself at the windows of the keen grey eyes, 
 however the mouth might be able to keep it 
 within doors. She was neatly dressed in black 
 silk, with a lace collar. Her hands were smaU 
 and white. 
 
 The moment the traveller stopped at the door, 
 Miss Napier stai-ted. 
 
 " Letty," she said, " wha's that ? I could amaist 
 sweir to Black Geordie's fit." 
 
 "A' four o' them, I think," retm-ned Miss 
 Letty, as the horse, notwithstanding, or perhaps 
 in consequence of his fatigue, began to paw and 
 move about on the stones impatiently. 
 
 The rider had not yet spoken. 
 
 " He'll be efter some o' 's deevil-ma'-care scul- 
 duddery. But jist rin to the door, Letty, or 
 Lizzy '11 be there afore ye, and maybe she wadna 
 be ower ceevil. What can he be efter noo ?" 
 
 " What wad the grew (grayhound) be efter but 
 maukin (hare) T retmmed Miss Letty.
 
 38 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " Hoot ! nonsense ! He kens naetliing aboot 
 her. Gang to the door, lassie." 
 
 Miss Letty obeyed. 
 
 *' Wha's there ?" she asked, somewhat sharp- 
 ly, as she opened it, "that neither chaps (knocks) 
 nor ca's ? — Preserve 's a' ! is't you, my lord ?" 
 
 " Hoo ken ye me. Miss Letty, withoot seein' 
 my face f 
 
 "A'body at the Boar's Heid kens Black Geor- 
 die as weel 's yer lordship's ain sel'. But whaur 
 comes yer lordship frae in sic a nicht as this ?" 
 
 " From Russia. Never dismounted between 
 Moscow and Aberdeen. The ice is bearing to- 
 night." 
 
 And the baron laughed inside the uptm^ned 
 collar of his cloak, for he knew that strangely 
 exaggerated stories were current about his feats 
 in the saddle. 
 
 " That's a lang ride, my lord, and a sliddery. 
 And what's yer lordship's wull ?" 
 
 " Muckle ye care aboot my lordship to stand 
 jawin' there in a night like this ! Is nobody 
 going to take my horse ?" 
 
 " I beg yer lordship's pardon. Caumil ! — Yer 
 lordship never said ye wanted yer lordship's 
 horse ta'en. I thocht ye micht be gaein' on to 
 The Bothie. — Tak Black Geordie here, Caumil. 
 — Come in to the parlour, my lord." 
 
 " How d'ye do. Miss Naper f said Lord Ro- 
 thie, as he entered the room. " Here's this jade
 
 THE SY^HPOSIIDI. 39 
 
 of a sister of yours asking me why I don't go 
 home to The Bothie, when I choose to stop and 
 water here." 
 
 " AMiat'll ye tak, my lord ? — Letty, fess the 
 brandy." 
 
 " Oh ! damn yom- brandy ! Bring me a gill 
 of good Glendi'onach." 
 
 " Bin, Letty. His lordship's cauld. — I canna 
 rise to offer ye the airm-cheh*, my lord." 
 
 " I can get one for myself, thank heaven !" 
 
 " Lang may yer lordship retm-n sic thanks." 
 
 " For I'm only new begmi, ye tlnnk, Miss 
 Naper. Well, I don't often trouble heaven with 
 my afiau's. By Jove ! I ought to be heard when 
 I do." 
 
 " Nae doobt ye vdll, my lord, whan ye seek 
 onything that's fit to be gien ye." 
 
 " True. Heaven s gifts are seldom much 
 worth the asking." 
 
 " Hand yer tongue, my lord, and dinna bring 
 doon a judgment upo' my hoose, for it wad be 
 missed oot o' Rothieden." 
 
 " You're right there, Miss Naper. And here 
 comes the whisky to stop my mouth." 
 
 The Baron of Rothie sat for a few minutes 
 with liis feet on the fender before Miss Betty's 
 blazing fii-e, without speaking, while he sipped 
 the whisky neat from a wine-glass. He was a 
 man about the middle height, rather fiill-figmred, 
 muscular and active, with a small head, and an
 
 40 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 eye whose brightness had not yet been dimmed 
 by the sensiiahty which might be read in the 
 condition rather than frame of his countenance. 
 But while he spoke so pleasantly to the Miss 
 Napiers, and his forehead spread broad and 
 smooth over the twinkle of his hazel eye, there 
 was a sharp curve on each side of his upper lip, 
 half-way between the corner and the middle, 
 which reminded one of the same curves in the 
 lip of his ancestral boar's-head, where it was 
 lifted up by the protruding tusks. These 
 curves disappeared, of course, when he smiled, 
 and his smile, being a lord's, was generally pro- 
 nounced irresistible. He was good-natured, 
 and nowise inclined to stand upon his rank, so 
 long as he had his own way. 
 
 " Any customers by the mail to-night, Mise 
 Naper ?" he asked, in a careless tone. 
 
 " Naebody particlar, my lord." 
 
 " I thought ye never let anybody in that 
 wasn't particularly particular. No foot-passen- 
 gers — ehf 
 
 " Hoot, my lord ! that's twa year ago. Gin I 
 had jaloosed him to be a frien' o' yer lordship's, 
 forby bein' a lord himsel', ye ken as weel 's I du 
 that I wadna hae sent him ower the gait to 
 Luckie Happit's, whaur he wadna even be ower 
 sure o' gettm' clean sheets. But gin lords an' 
 lords' sons will walk aiit like ither fowk, wha 's 
 to ken them frae ither fowk f
 
 THE SYMPOSITOI. 41 
 
 " Well, Miss Naper, he was no lord at all. 
 He was nothing but a factor-body doon frae 
 Glenbucket." 
 
 " There was sma' hairm dune than, my lord. 
 I 'm glaid to hear 't. But what '11 yer lordship 
 hae to yer supper f 
 
 " I would like a dish o' your chits and nears 
 (sweetbreads and hidneys)^ 
 
 " Noo, think o' that !" returned the landlady, 
 laughing. " You gi-eat fowk wad hae the verra 
 coorse o' natur' tm-ned upside doon to shuit 
 yersels. Wha ever heard o' caure (calves) at 
 this time o' the year ?" 
 
 " Well, anything you like. Who was it came 
 by the mail, did you say?" 
 
 " I said naebody particlar, my lord." 
 
 " Well, I '11 just go and have a look at Black 
 Geordie." 
 
 "Yerra weel, my lord. — Letty, rin an' luik 
 effcer him ; and as sune 's he 's roon' the neuk, 
 tell Lizzie no to say a word aboot the leddy. 
 As sure 's deith he 's efter her. Whaur cud he 
 hae heard tell o' her." 
 
 Lord Rothie came, a moment after, samitering 
 into the bar-parlour, where Lizzie, the thh-d 
 Miss Napier, a red-haired, round-eyed, white- 
 toothed woman of forty, was making entries in 
 a book. 
 
 " She 's a bonnie lassie that, that came in the 
 coach to-night, they say, Miss Lizzie."
 
 42 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " As ugly's sin, my lord," answered Lizzie. 
 
 " I hae seen some sin 'at was nane sae "ugly, 
 Miss Lizzie." 
 
 . " She wad hae clean scnnnert (disgusted) ye, 
 my lord. It's a mercy ye didna see her." 
 
 " If she be as ugly as all that, I would just 
 like to see her." 
 
 Miss Lizzie saw she had gone too far. 
 
 " Ow, deed ! gin yer lordship wants to see 
 her, ye may see her at yer wull. I s' gang and 
 tell her." 
 
 And she rose as if to go. 
 
 " No, no. Nothing of the sort. Miss Lizzie. 
 Only I heard that she Avas bonnie, and I wanted 
 to see her. You know I like to look at a pretty 
 
 girl." 
 
 " That's ower weel kent, my lord." 
 " Well, there's no harm in that, Miss Lizzie." 
 " There's no harm in that, my lord, though yer 
 lordship says 't." 
 
 The facts were that his lordship had been to 
 the county-town some forty miles off, and Black 
 Geordie had been sent toHillknowto meet him; 
 for in any weather that would let him sit, he 
 preferred horseback to every other mode of tra- 
 velling, though he seldom would be followed by 
 a groom. He had posted to Hillknow, and had 
 dined with a friend at the inn. The coach 
 stopping to change horses, he had caught a 
 glimpse of a pretty face, as he thought, from its
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM. 4S 
 
 ^^'indow, and had hoped to overtake the coach 
 before it reached Rothieden. But stopping to 
 diink another bottle, he had failed ; and it was 
 on the merest chance of seeing that pretty face, 
 that he stopped at the Boar's Head. In all 
 probability, had the marquis seen the lady, he 
 would not have thought her at all such a beauty 
 as she appeared in the eyes of Dooble Sanny ; 
 nor, I ventm-e to thmk, had he thought as the 
 shoemaker did, would he yet have dared to ad- 
 dress her in other than the words of such re- 
 spect as he could still feel in the presence of 
 that which was more noble than himself. 
 
 AMiether or not on his visit to the stable he 
 found anythuig amiss with Black Geordie, I can- 
 not tell, but he now begged Miss Lizzie to have 
 a bedroom prepared for him. 
 
 It happened to be the evening of Friday, one 
 devoted by some of the townspeople to a sym- 
 posium. To this, knowing that the talk will 
 throw a glimmer on several matters, I will now 
 mtroduce my reader, as a spectator through the 
 reversed telescope of my history. 
 
 A few of the more influential of the inhabit- 
 ants had grown, rather than formed themselves, 
 into a kind of club, which met weekly at the 
 Boar's Head. Although they had no exclu- 
 sive right to the room in which they sat, they 
 generally managed to retain exclusive posses- 
 sion of it ; for if any supposed objectionable
 
 44 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 person entered, they always got rid of him, 
 sometimes without his being aware of how they 
 had contrived to make him so uncomfortable. 
 They began to gather about seven o'clock, 
 when it was expected that boiling water would 
 be in readiness for the compound generally 
 called toddy, sometimes punch. As soon as six 
 were assembled, one was always voted into the 
 chair. 
 
 On the present occasion, Mr. Innes, the school- 
 master, was unanimously elected to that hon- 
 our. He was a hard-featured, sententious, 
 snuffy individual, of some learning, and great 
 respectability. 
 
 I omit the political talk with which their in- 
 tercommunications began ; for however inter- 
 esting at the time is the scaffolding by which 
 existing institutions arise, the poles and beams 
 when gathered again in the builder's yard are 
 scarcely a subject for the artist. 
 
 The first to lead the way towards matters of 
 nearer personality was William MacGregor, the 
 linen manufacturer, a man who possessed a 
 score of hand-looms or so — ^half of which, from 
 the advance of cotton and the decline of linen- 
 wear, now stood idle — but who had already a 
 sufficient deposit in the hands of Mr. Thomson 
 the banker — agent, that is, for the county- 
 bank — to secure him against any necessity for 
 taking to cotton shirts himself, which were an
 
 THE SYilPOSniM. 45 
 
 abomination and offence nnpardonable in his 
 eyes. 
 
 " Can ye tell me, ^Ii\ Cocker," he said, " what 
 mak's Sandy, Lord Eotliie, or AVrathy, or what 
 suld he be ca'd? — tak' to The Bothie at a time 
 like this, whan there's neither huntin', nor fishin', 
 nor shutin', nor onything o' the kin' aboot han' 
 to be playacks till him, the bonnie bairn — 'cep' 
 it be otters an' sic like ?" 
 
 WilHam was a shi'unken old man, with white 
 whiskers and a black "wdg, a keen black eye, al- 
 ways in search of the ludicrous in other people, 
 and a mouth ever on the move, as if masticat- 
 ing something comical. 
 
 '* You know just as well as I do," answered 
 Mr. Cocker, the Marquis of Boarshead's factor 
 for the suiTOunding estate. " He never was in 
 the way of giving a reason for anything, least 
 b*f all for his otvti movements." 
 
 " Somebody was sayin' to me," resumed Mac- 
 Gregor, who, in all probabihty, invented the 
 story at the moment, " that the prince took him 
 kissin' ane o' his servan' lasses, and kickit him 
 oot o' Carlton Hoose into the street, and he can- 
 na win' ower the disgTace o' 't." 
 
 " 'Deed for the kissin'," said Mr. Thomson, a 
 portly, comfortable-looking man, " that's neither 
 here nor there, though it micht hae been a 
 duchess or twa ; but for the kickin', my word ! 
 but Lord Sandy was mail* likly to kick oot the
 
 46 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 prince. Do ye min' hoo he did whan the Markis 
 taxed him wi' f 
 
 "Hand a qnaiet songh," interposed Mr. Crnick- 
 shank, the solicitor ; " there's a drap i' the 
 hoose." 
 
 This was a phrase well nnderstood by the 
 company, indicating the presence of some one 
 unknown, or unfit to be trusted. 
 
 As he spoke he looked towards the farther 
 end of the room, which lay ui obscurity ; for it 
 was a large room, lighted only by the four can- 
 dles on the table at which the company sat. 
 
 " Whaur, Mr. Cruickshankf asked the Domi- 
 nie in a whisper. 
 
 " There," answered Sampson Peddie, the 
 bookseller, who seized the opportunity of say- 
 ing something, and pointed furtively where the 
 solicitor had only looked. 
 
 A dim figure was descried at a table in the 
 farthest corner of the room, and they proce'eded 
 to carry out the plan they generally adopted to 
 get rid of a stranger. 
 
 " Ye made use o' a curious auld Scots phrase 
 this moment, Mr. Curshank : can ye explain hoo 
 it comes to beir the meanin' that it's weel kent 
 to beir f said the manufacturer. 
 
 " Not I, Mr. MacGregor," answered the solici- 
 tor. " I'm no philologist or antiquarian. Ask 
 the chah-man." 
 
 " Gentlemen," responded Mr. Innes, taking a
 
 THE SY:MPosnDi. 47 
 
 huge pinch of snufF after the word, and then, 
 passmg the box to Mr. Cocker, a sip from his 
 glass before he went on : " the phi'ase, gentle- 
 men, ' a di'ap i' the hoose,' no doobt refers to an 
 undesh-able presence, for ye're weel awam- that 
 it's a most unpleasin' discovery, in winter es- 
 pecially, to find a di'op o' water hangin' from 
 yer ceilmg ; a something, m short, whaur it has 
 no business to be, and is not accordingly looked 
 for, or prepared against." 
 
 " It seems to me, Mr. Innes," said MacGregor, 
 " that ye hae hit the nail, but no upo' the held. 
 What mak' ye o' the phrase, no confined to the 
 Scots tongue, I beheve, o' an eaves-drapper ? The 
 whilk, no doobt, represents a body that hings 
 aboot yer wmnock, like a di-ap hangin' ower 
 abune it frae the eaves — therefore called an 
 eaves-dropper ? But the sort of whilk we noo 
 speak, are a warn- sort a'thegither ; for they come 
 to the inside o' yer hoose, o' yer verra chaumer, 
 an' hing oot thefr lang lugs to hear what ye 
 carena to be hard save by a dooce fr-ien' or twa 
 ower a het tmn ler." 
 
 At the same moment the door opened, and a 
 man entered, who was received ^dth unusual 
 welcome. 
 
 " Bless my sowl ! " said the president, rising ; 
 " it's Mr. Lammie I — Come awa', Mr. Lammie. Sit 
 doon ; sit doon. Wham* hae ye been this mony 
 a day, like a pelican o' the ^\dlderness ?"
 
 48 EGBERT FALCONER. 
 
 Mr. Lammie was a large, mild man, with 
 florid cheeks, no whiskers, and a prominent 
 black eye. He was characterized by a certain 
 simple alacrity, a gentle, but outspeaking readi- 
 ness, which made him a favourite. 
 
 " I dinna richtly mak oot wha ye are," he an- 
 swered. *' Ye hae unco little licht here ! Hoo 
 are ye a', gentlemen ? I s' discover ye by de- 
 grees, and pay my respecks accordm'." 
 
 And he drew a chair to the table. 
 
 " 'Deed I wuss ye wad," returned MacGregor, 
 in a voice pretentiously hushed, but none the 
 less audible. — " There's a drap in yon en' o' the 
 hoose, Mr. Lammie." 
 
 " Hoot ! never min' the man," said Lammie, 
 looking round in the direction indicated. " Is' 
 warran' he cares as little aboot liiz as we care 
 aboot him. There's nae treason noo-a-days. I 
 carena wha hears what I say." 
 
 " For my pairt," said Mr. Peddie, " I canna 
 help wonnerin' gin it cud be oor auld frien' Mr. 
 Faukener." 
 
 " Speyk o' the de'il " said Mr. Lammie. 
 
 " Hoot ! na," returned Peddie, interrupting. 
 *^ He wasna a'thegither the de'il." 
 
 " Hand the tongue o' ye," retorted Lammie. 
 " Dinna ye ken a proverb whan ye hear 't ? De'il 
 hae ye ! ye're as sharpset as a missionar'. I was 
 only gaun to say that I'm doobtin' Andrew's 
 deid."
 
 THE SYMPOSnBI. 49 
 
 "Ay! ay!" commenced a chorus of questioning. 
 
 "MhmV' 
 
 "Aaay!" 
 
 " What gars ye think that f 
 
 " And sae he's deid !" 
 
 " He was a great favoui'ite, Anerew !" 
 
 " Wham- dee'd he ?" 
 
 " Aye some upsettin' though !" 
 
 " Ay. He was aye to be somebody wi' his 
 tale." 
 
 " A gude-hertit crater, but ye cudna hppen 
 tiU Mm." 
 
 " Speyk nae ill o' the deid. Maybe they'll 
 hear ye, and tui-n roon' i' their coffins, and that'll 
 whumle you i' youi* beds," said MacGregor, 
 with a twinkle in his eye. 
 
 " Rmg the bell for anither tum'ler, Sampson," 
 said the chairman. 
 
 " "V\niat'll be dune vn! that factory place, noo ? 
 It'll be i' the market?" 
 
 "It's been i' the market for mony a year. 
 But it's no his ava. It belangs to the auld leddy, 
 his mither," said the weaver. 
 
 " Why don't you buy it, Mr. MacGregor, and 
 set up a cotton mill ? There's not much doing 
 with the linen now," said Mr. Cocker. 
 
 " Me !" returned MacGregor, with indignation. 
 
 " The Lord forgie ye for mintin' (hinting) at sic 
 
 a thing, ]\Ir. Cocker I Me tak to coaton I I wad 
 
 as sune spm the hair frae Sawtan's hm*dies. Short 
 
 VOL. I. ' E
 
 50 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 fashionless dirt, that canna grow strauclit oot o' 
 the halesome yird, Hke the bonnie Hnt-bells, but 
 maun stick itsel' upo' a buss ! — set it up ! Coorse 
 vulgar stuff, 'at naebody wad weir but loup- 
 coonter lads that wad fain luik like gentlemen by 
 means o' the collars and rufEes — an' a' comin' 
 frae the auld loom ! They may weel affoord 
 se'enteen hunner linen to set it aff wi' 'at has 
 naething but coaton inside the breeks o' them." 
 
 " But Dr. Wagstaff says it's healtliier," inter- 
 posed Peddie. 
 
 " I'll wag a staff till him. De'il a bit o' t' 's 
 healthier ! an' that he kens. It's nae sae healthy, 
 an' sae it mak's him mair wark wi' 's poothers an' 
 his drauchts, an' ither stinkin' stuff. Healtliier ! 
 Whatneistr 
 
 " Somebody tellt me," said the bookseller, in- 
 wardly conscious of offence, " 'at hoo Lord Sandy 
 himsel' weirs cotton." 
 
 " Ow 'deed, maybe. And he sets mony a wor- 
 thy example fm-bye. Hoo mony, can ye tell me, 
 Mr. Peddie, has he pulled doon frae honest, if no 
 frae high estate, and sent oot to seek their livin' 
 as he taucht them ? Hoo mony f 
 
 "Hoot, hoot! Mr. MacGregor, his lordship 
 hasn't a cotton shh-t in his possession, I'll be 
 bound," said Mr. Cocker. "And, besides, you 
 have not to wash his dirty linen — or cotton 
 either." 
 
 " That's as muckle as to say, accordin' to
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM. 51 
 
 Cocker, that I'm no to speik a word against hini. 
 But I'll say what I like. He's no my maister," 
 said MacGregor, who could di'ink very little 
 without suffering in his temper and manners ; 
 and who, besides, had a certain shi-ewd suspi- 
 cion as to the person who stiU sat in the dark end 
 of the room, possibly because the entrance of 
 Mr. Lammie had interrupted the exorcism. 
 
 The chau'man interposed with soothing words ; 
 and the whole company, Cocker included, did its 
 best to pacify the manufactui-er ; for they all 
 knew what would be the penalty if they failed. 
 
 A good deal of talk followed, and a good deal 
 of whisky was di'unk. They were waited upon 
 by Meg, who, without then* being aware of it, 
 cast a keen parting glance at them every time 
 she left the room. At length the conversation 
 had turned again to Andrew Falconers death. 
 
 " AMiam- said ye he dee'd, Mr. Lammie f 
 
 '* I never said he was deid. I said I was fear- 
 ed 'at he was deid." 
 
 " An' what gars ye say that ? It micht be o' 
 consequence to hae't correck," said the solicitor. 
 
 " I had a letter frae my auld fi'ien' and his. 
 Dr. Anderson. Ye min' upo' him, Mr. Innes, 
 dunna ye ? He's heid o' the medical boord at 
 Calcutta noo. He says naething but that he 
 doobts he's gane. He gaed up the country, and 
 he hasna hard o' him for sae lang. We hae 
 keepit up a correspondence for mony a year 
 
 E 2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
 
 52 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 noo, Dr. Anderson an' me. He was a relation o' 
 Anerew's, ye ken — a second cousin, or some- 
 thing. He'll be hame or lang, I'm thinkin', wi' 
 a fine pension." 
 
 " He winna weir a cotton sark, I'll be boon'," 
 said MacGregor. 
 
 " What's the auld leddy gaein' to du wi' that 
 lang-leggit oye (grandson) o' hers, Anerew's 
 sonf asked Sampson. 
 
 " Ow ! he'll be gaein' to the college, I'm 
 thinkin'. He's a fine lad, and a clever, they tell 
 me," said Mr. Thomson. 
 
 " Indeed, he's all that, and more too," said the 
 schoolmaster. 
 
 " There's naething 'ull du but the college noo !" 
 said MacGregor, whom nobody heeded, for fear 
 of agam rousing his anger. 
 
 " Hoo 'ill she manage that, honest woman % 
 She maun hae but little to spare frae the cleed- 
 in' o' 'm." 
 
 " She's a gude manager. Mistress Faukner. 
 And, ye see, she has the bleach green yet." 
 
 " She doesna weir cotton sarks," growled Mac- 
 Gregor. " Mony's the wob o' mme she's bleached 
 and boucht tu !" 
 
 Nobody heeding him yet, he began to feel in- 
 sulted, and broke in upon the conversation with 
 intent. 
 
 " Ye haena telt's yet. Cocker," he said, " what 
 that maister o' yom-s is duin' here at this time
 
 THE SYMPOSIL^I. 53 
 
 o' the year. I wad ken that, giii ye please." 
 
 " How should I know, Mr. MacGregor ? " re- 
 turned the factor, taking no notice of the offen- 
 sive manner in which the question was put. 
 
 " He's no a hair better nor ane o' thae Alger- 
 ine pirates 'at Lord Exmooth's het the hips o' — 
 and that's my opingon." 
 
 " He's nae amo' your feet, MacGregor," said 
 the banker. " Ye micht jist lat him lie." 
 
 " Gin I had him doon, faith gin I wadna lat 
 him He ! I'll jist tell ye ae thing, gentlemen, 
 that cam' to my knowledge no a hunner year 
 ago. An' it's a' as true's gospel, though I hae 
 aye held my tongue aboot it till this verra nicht. 
 Ay ! ye'll a' hearken noo ; but it's no lauchin', 
 though there was sculduddery eneuch, nae 
 doobt, afore it cam' that len'th. And mony a 
 het di-ap did the pmr lassie greet, I can tell ye. 
 Faith ! it was no lauchin' to her. She was a 
 servan' o' oors, an' a ticht bonnie lass she was. 
 They ca'd her the weyver's bonny Mary — that's 
 the name she gaed by. Weel, ye see " 
 
 MacGregor was interrupted by a sound from 
 the fm-ther end of the room. The stranger, 
 whom most of them had by this time forgotten, 
 had risen, and was approaching the table where 
 they sat. 
 
 " Guid guide us !" interrupted several under 
 their breaths, as all rose, " it's Lord Sandy him- 
 sel' !"
 
 54 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 « 
 
 "I thank yon, gentlemen," he said, with a 
 mixture of irony and contempt, " for the interest 
 you take in my private history. I should have 
 thought it had been as little to the taste as it is 
 to the honour of some of you to listen to such a 
 farrago of lies." 
 
 " Lees ! my lord," said MacGregor, starting to 
 his feet. Mr. Cocker looked dismayed, and Mr. 
 Lammie sheepish — all of them dazed and dumb- 
 foundered, except the old weaver, who, as his 
 lordship turned to leave the room, added : 
 
 " Lang lugs (ears) suld be made o' leather, my 
 lord, for fear they grow het wi' what they hear." 
 
 Lord Rothie turned in a rage. He too had 
 been drinking. 
 
 " Kick that toad into the street, or, by heaven ! 
 it's the last drop any of you drink in this 
 house ! " he cried. 
 
 " The taed may tell the poddock {frog) what 
 the rottan (rat) did i' the taed's hole, my lord," 
 said MacGregor, whom independence, honesty, 
 bile, and drink combined to render fearless. 
 
 Lord Sandy left the room without another 
 word. His factor took his hat and /followed him. 
 The rest dropped into their seats in silence. 
 Mr. Lammie was the first to speak. 
 
 •' There's a pliskie !" he said. 
 
 " I cud jist say the word efter auld Simeon,'* 
 said MacGregor. " I never thocht to be sae fa- 
 voured ! Eh ! but I hae langed, and noo I hae
 
 THE sy:mposium. 55 
 
 gpoken!" with which worclshe sat do^vn, contented. 
 
 \Mien Mr. Cocker overtook his master, as 
 MacGregor had not unfitly styled him, he only 
 got a damning for his pains, and went home 
 considerably crestfallen. 
 
 Lord Rothie retm-ned to the landlady in her 
 parlour. 
 
 "AVhat's the maitter wi' ye, my lord ? ^Miat's 
 vexed ye ?" asked Miss Napier, with a twinkle 
 in her eyes, for she thought, from the Baron's 
 mortification, he must have received some rebuff, 
 and now that the honnie leddy was safe at Cap- 
 tain Forsyth's, enjoyed the idea of it. 
 
 " Ye keep an ill-tongued hoose. Miss Naper," 
 answered his lordsliip. 
 
 liliss Napier guessed at the truth at once — 
 that he had overheard some free remarks on 
 his well-known Hcence of behaviour. 
 
 " Weel, my lord, I do my best. A body canna 
 keep an inn and speir the carritchis {catechism) 
 at the door o' 't. But I beheve ye're i' the 
 richt, my lord ; for I heard an awfu' afi-gang o' 
 sweirin' i' the yard, jist afore yer lordship cam' 
 in. An' noo 'at I think o' 't, it wasna that on- 
 like yer lordship's ain word." 
 
 Lord Sandy broke into a loud laugh. He 
 could enjoy a joke against himself when it came 
 from a woman, and was founded on such a trifle 
 as a personal vice. 
 
 "I think I'll go to bed," he said when his
 
 56 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 laugh was over. " I believe it's the only safe 
 place from your tongue, Miss Naper." 
 
 " Letty," cried Miss Napier, " fess a can'le, 
 and show his lordship to the reid room." 
 
 Till Miss Letty appeared, the Baron sat and 
 stretched himself. He then rose and followed 
 her into the archway, and up an outside stair 
 to a door which opened immediately upon a 
 handsome old-fashioned room, where a blazing 
 fire lighted up the red hangings. Miss Letty set 
 down the candle, and bidding his lordship good 
 night, turned and left the room, shutting the door, 
 and lockmg it behind her — a proceeding of which 
 his lordship took no notice, for, however especi- 
 ally suitable it might be in his case, it was only, 
 from whatever ancient source derived, the cus- 
 tom of the house in regard to this particular 
 room and a corresponding chamber on the op- 
 posite side of the archway. 
 
 Meantime the consternation amongst the 
 members of the club was not so great as not to 
 be talked over, or to prevent the call for more 
 whisky and hot water. All but MacGregor, 
 however, regretted what had occurred. He 
 was so elevated with his victory and a sense of 
 courage and prowess, that he became more and 
 more facetious and overbearing. 
 
 " It's all very well for you, Mr. MacGregor," 
 said the dominie, with dignity ; " you have no- 
 thing to lose."
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM. 57 
 
 " Troth ! he canna brak the bank — eh, Mr. 
 Tamson ?" 
 
 " He may give me a hint to make you with- 
 draw yom- money, though, Mr. MacGregor." 
 
 " De'il care gin I do !" retm-ned the weaver. 
 " I can mak' better o' 't ony day." 
 
 "But there's yer hoose an' kail-yard," sug- 
 gested Peddie. 
 
 " They're ma ain I — a' ma ain ! He canna lay 
 's finger on onything o' mine but my servan' 
 lass," cried the weaver, slapping his thigh-bone 
 — for there was httle else to slap. 
 
 Meg, at the moment, was taking her exit- 
 glance. She went straight to Miss Napier. 
 
 " WilHe MacGregor's had eneuch, mem, an' a 
 drappy ower." 
 
 " Sen' Caumil doon to Mrs. MacGregor, to say 
 wi' my compliments that she wad do weel to 
 sen' for him," was the response. 
 
 Meantime he grew more than troublesome. 
 Ever on the outlook, when sober, after the foibles 
 of others, he laid himself open to endless ridi- 
 cule when in drink, which, to tell the truth, was 
 a rare occurrence. He was in the midst of a 
 prophetic denunciation of the vices of the no- 
 bility, and especially of Lord Rothie, when 
 Meg entering the room, went quietly behind his 
 chair and whispered : 
 
 "Maister MacGregor, there's a lassie come 
 for ye."
 
 58 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " I'm nae in," he answered, magnificently. 
 
 " But it's the mistress 'at's sent for ye. Some- 
 body's wantin' ye." 
 
 " Somebody maim want me, than. — As I was 
 sayin', Mr. Cheerman and gentlemen " 
 
 " Mistress MacGregor 'U be efter ye hersel', 
 gin ye dinna gang," said Meg. 
 
 '' Lat her come. Duv ye think I'm fleyt at 
 her 1 De'il a step '11 I gang till I please. Tell 
 her that, Meg." 
 
 Meg left the room, with a broad grin on her 
 good-humonred face. 
 
 "What's the bitch lanchin at f exclaimed 
 MacGregor, starting to his feet. 
 
 The whole company rose likewise, using then- 
 endeavour to persuade him to go home. 
 
 " Duv ye think I'm drunk, su^s ? I'll lat ye 
 ken I'm no drunk. I hae a wull o' mine ain 
 yet. Am I to gang hame wi' a lassie to hand 
 me oot o' the gutters ? Gin ye daur to alloo 
 that I'm drunk, ye ken hoo ye'll fare, for de'il a 
 fit '11 1 gang oot o' this till I hae anither tum'ler." 
 
 '^ I'm thinkin' there's mair o' 's jist want ane 
 mair," said Peddie. 
 
 A confirmatory murmur arose as each looked 
 into the bottom of his tumbler, and the bell was 
 instantly rung. But it only brought Meg back 
 with the message that it was time for them all 
 to go home. Every eye turned upon MacGre- 
 gor reproachfully.
 
 THE SY:srPOSiUM. 59 
 
 " Ye needna hiik at me that gait, sirs. I'm 
 no fou," said he. 
 
 " 'Deed no. Naebody taks ye to be," answer- 
 ed the chairman. " Meggie, there's naebody's 
 had ower muckle yet, and twa or three o' 's 
 hasna had freely eneuch. Jist gang an* fess a 
 mutchkin mair. An' there '11 be a shillin' to 
 yersel', lass." 
 
 Meg retu'ed, but straightway returned. 
 
 " Miss Naper says there's no a di'ap mair 
 drink to be had i' this hoose the nicht." 
 
 " Here, Meggie," said the chau-man, " there's 
 yer shillin' ; and ye jist gang to Miss Lettie, 
 and gie her my compliments, and say that Mr. 
 Lammie's here, and we haena seen him for a 
 lang time. And" — the rest was spoken in a 
 whisper — " I'll sweh to ye, Meggie, the wey\^er 
 body sanna hae ae di-ap o' 't." 
 
 Meg -^dthdi'ew once more, and returned. 
 
 " Miss Letty's compliments, sir, and Miss Na- 
 per has the keys, and she's gane till her bed, 
 and we maunna distm-b her. And it's time 'at 
 a' honest fowk was in then- beds tu. And gin 
 Mr. Lammie wants a bed i' this hoose, he maun 
 gang tiU 't. An' here's his can'le. Gude nicht 
 to ye a', gentlemen." 
 
 So saying, Meg set the lighted candle on the 
 sideboard, and finally vanished. The good- 
 tempered, who formed the greater part of the 
 company, smiled to each other, and emptied
 
 60 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 the last drops of their toddy first into their 
 glasses, and thence into their months. The ill- 
 tempered, numbering but one more than Mac- 
 Gregor, growled and swore a little, the former 
 declaring that he would not go home. But the 
 rest walked out and left him, and at last, appalled 
 by the silence, he rose with his wig awry, and 
 trotted — he always trotted when he was tipsy — 
 home to his wife.
 
 61 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 MRS. FALCOXER 
 
 MEANTIME Robert was seated iii the parlour 
 at the little dark mahogany table, in 
 which the lamp, shaded towards his grandmo- 
 ther's side, shone brilliantly reflected. Her face 
 being thus hidden both by the Hght and the 
 shadow, he could not observe the keen look of 
 stern benevolence with which, knowing that he 
 could not see her, she regarded him as he ate his 
 thick oat cake of Betty's skilled manufacture, 
 well loaded with the sweetest butter, and di'ank 
 the tea which she had pom-ed out and sugared 
 for him with liberal hand. It was a comforta- 
 ble Httle room, though its inlaid mahogany 
 chairs and ancient sofa, covered with horsehair, 
 had a certain look of hardness, no doubt. A 
 shepherdess and lamb, worked in silks whose 
 briUiance had now faded halfway to neutrality, 
 hung in a black frame, ^dth brass rosettes at 
 the corners, over the chimney-piece — the sole
 
 62 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 approach to the luxtiry of art in the homely little 
 place. Besides the muslin stretched across the 
 lower part of the window, it was undefended by 
 curtams. There was no cat in the room, nor 
 was there one in the kitchen even ; for Mrs. 
 Falconer had such a respect for humanity that 
 she grudged every morsel consumed by the 
 lower creation. She sat in one of the arm- 
 chairs belonghig to the hairy set, leaning back 
 in contemplation of her grandson, as she took 
 her tea. 
 
 She was a handsome old lady — little, but had 
 once been taller, for she was more than seventy 
 now. She wore a plain cap of muslin, lying 
 close to her face, and bordered a little way 
 from the edge with a broad black ribbon, which 
 went round her face, and then, turning at right 
 angles, went romid the back of her neck. Her 
 grey hah peeped a little way from under this 
 cap. A clear but short-sighted eye of a light 
 hazel shone under a smooth thoughtful fore- 
 head ; a straight and well-elevated, but rather 
 short nose, which left the firm upper lip long 
 and capable of expressing a world of dignified 
 ofience, rose over a well-formed mouth, reveal- 
 ing more moral than temperamental sweetness ; 
 wliile the chin was rather deficient than other- 
 wise, and took little share in indicating the re- 
 markable character possessed by the old lady. 
 
 After gazing at Robert for some time, she
 
 ^mS. FALCONER. 63 
 
 took a piece of oat cake from a plate by her 
 side, the only luxiuy in which she indulged, for 
 it was made with cream instead of water — it 
 was very little she ate of anything — and held it 
 out to Robert in a hand white, soft, and smooth, 
 but Tvith square finger tips, and squat though 
 pearly nails. " Ha'e, Robert," she said ; and 
 Robert received it T\4th a " thank you, gran- 
 nie ;" but when he thought she did not see 
 him, sUpped it imder the table and into his 
 pocket. She saw him well enough, however, and 
 although she would not condescend to ask him 
 why he put it away instead of eating it, the en- 
 deavour to discover what could have been his 
 reason for so doing cost her two hom'S of sleep 
 that night. She would always be at the bot- 
 tom of a thing if reflection could reach it, but 
 she generally declined taking the most ordinary 
 measm-es to expedite the process. 
 
 When Robert had finished his tea, instead of 
 rising to get his books and betake himself to 
 his lessons, in regard to which his grandmother 
 had seldom any cause to complain, although 
 she would have considered herself guilty of 
 high treason against the boy's future if she had 
 allowed herself once to acknowledge as much, 
 he drew his chaii* towards the fire, and said : 
 
 " Grandmamma." 
 
 " He's gaein' to tell me something," said Mrs. 
 Falconer to herself. " Will 't be aboot the pun*
 
 64 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 barfut crater they ca' Shargar, or will 't be aboot 
 the piece he pat intil 's pooch ?" 
 
 " Weel, laddie f she said aloud, willing to 
 encourage him. 
 
 " Is 't true that my gran'father was the blin' 
 piper o' Portcloddief 
 
 " Ay, laddie ; true eneuch. Hoots na ; nae 
 yer grandfather, but yer father's grandfather, 
 laddie — my husband's father." 
 
 " Hoo cam that aboot ? " 
 
 " Weel, ye see, he was oot i' thb Forty-five ; 
 and efter the battle o' Culloden, he had to rin 
 for 't. He wasna m' his ain clan at the battle, 
 for his father had broucht him to the Lawlands 
 whan he was a lad ; but he played the pipes 
 till a reg'ment raised by the Laird o' Portclod- 
 die. And for ooks (weeks) he had to hide amo' 
 the rocks. And they tuik a' his property frae 
 him. It wasna muckle — a wheen hooses, and a 
 kailyard or twa, wi' a bit fairmy on the tap o' a 
 cauld hill near the seashore ; but it was eneuch 
 and to spare ; and whan they tuik it frae him, 
 he had naething left i' the warl' but his sons. 
 Yer grandfather was born the verra day o' the 
 battle, and the verra day 'at the news cam, the 
 mother deed. But yer great-grandfather wasna 
 lang or he merried anither wife. He was sic a 
 man as ony woman micht hae been prood to 
 merry. She was the dother (daughte?') o' an 
 episcopalian minister, and she keepit a school in
 
 MRS. FALCONER. 65 
 
 Portcloddie. I saw liim first mysel' whan I was 
 aboot twenty — that was jist the year afore I was 
 men-ied. He was a gey {considerably) auld man 
 than, but as straucht as an ellwand, and jist 
 pooerfa' be^^on' Kelief. His shackle-bane (wHst) 
 was as thick as baith mine ; and years and years 
 effcer that, whan he tuik his son, my husband, 
 and his grandson, my Anerew " 
 
 " What ails ye, grannie ? What for dinna ye 
 gang on wi' the story ?" 
 
 After a somewhat lengthened pause, Mrs. Fal- 
 coner resumed as if she had not stopped at all. 
 
 " Ane in ilka han', jist for the fan o' 't, he 
 kneipit their heids thegither, as gin they hed 
 been twa carldoddies {stalks of rib-grass). But 
 maybe it w^as the laucliin' o' the twa lads, for 
 they thocht it unco fun. They were maist killed 
 wi' lauchin'. But the last time he did it, the puir 
 auld man hostit {coughed) san efterhin, and had 
 to gang and lie doon. He didna live lang efter 
 that. But it wasna that 'at killed him, ye ken." 
 
 " But hoo cam he to play the pipes I " 
 
 " He likit the pipes. And yer grandfather, he 
 tuik to the fiddle." 
 
 " But what for did they ca' him the blin' piper 
 o' Portcloddie?" 
 
 " Because he turned blm' lang afore his en' 
 cam, and there was naethmg ither he cud do. 
 And he wad aye mak an honest baubee whan 
 he cud ; for siller was fell scarce at that time o' 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 QQ ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 day amo' the Falconers. Sae he gaed tlirou 
 the toon at five o'clock ilka mornin' playin' his 
 pipes, to lat them 'at war up ken they war up in 
 time, and them 'at warna, that it was time to 
 rise. And syne he played them again aboot 
 aucht o'clock at night, to lat them ken 'at it was 
 time for dacent fowk to gang to their beds. Ye 
 see, there wasna sae mony clocks and watches by 
 half than as there is noo." 
 
 " Was he a guid piper, grannie ? " 
 
 " What for speir ye that?" 
 
 " Because I tauld that sunk, Lumley " 
 
 " Ca' naebody names, Robert. But what richt 
 had ye to be speikin' to a man like that f 
 
 " He spak to me first." 
 
 " Whaur saw ye him f 
 
 " At the Boar's Heid." 
 
 "And what richt had ye to gang stan'in' 
 aboot ? Ye oucht to ha' gane in at ance." 
 
 "There was a half-dizzen o' fowk stan'in' 
 aboot, and I bude (behoved) to speik whan I was 
 spoken till." 
 
 " But ye budena stop an' mak ae fale mair." 
 
 " Isna that ca'in' names, grannie f 
 
 " 'Deed, laddie, I doobt ye hae me there. But 
 what said the fallow Lumley to ye ?" 
 
 " He cast up to me that my grandfather was 
 naething but a blin' piper." 
 
 " And what said ye I" 
 
 " I dam-ed him to say 'at he didna pipe weel."
 
 MRS. FALCONER. 67 
 
 " Weel dune, laddie I And ye miclit say 't m' 
 a gude conscience, for he wadna hae been piper 
 till 's regiment at the battle o' Culloden gin he 
 hadna pipit weel. Yon's his kilt hingin' np i' 
 the press i' the garret. Ye'll hae to grow, Ro- 
 bert, my man, afore ye fill that." 
 
 " And whase was that blue coat m' the bonny 
 gowd buttons upo' 't?" asked Robert, who 
 thought he had discovered a new approach to an 
 impregnable hold, which he would gladly storm 
 if he could. 
 
 " Lat the coat sit. ^Miat has that to do wi' 
 the kilt ? A blue coat and a tartan kilt gang na 
 weel thegither." 
 
 " Excep' in an auld press wham- naebody sees 
 them. Ye wadna care, grannie, wad ye, gin I 
 was to cut aif the bonnie buttons ?" 
 
 " Dinna lay a finger upo' them. Ye wad be 
 gaein' playin' at pitch and toss or ithersic ploys 
 wi' them. Na, na, lat them sit." 
 
 " I wad only niffer them for bools (exchange 
 them for marhles)." 
 
 " I dam- ye to touch the coat or onything 'ither 
 that's i' that press." 
 
 " Weel, weel, grannie. I s' gang and get my 
 lessons for the morn." 
 
 " It's time, laddie. Ye hae been jabberin' 
 ower muckle. Tell Betty to come and tak' awa' 
 the t ay things." 
 
 Robert went to the kitchen, got a couple of 
 
 F 2
 
 68 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 hot potatoes and a candle, and carried them np 
 stairs to Shargar, who was fast asleep. But 
 the moment the light shone upon his face, he 
 started up, with his eyes, if not Iris senses, wide 
 awake. 
 
 " It wasna me, mither ! I tell ye it wasna 
 me !" 
 
 And he covered his head with both arms, as if 
 to defend it from a shower of blows. 
 
 " Hand yer tongue, Shargar. It's me." 
 
 But before Shargar could come to his senses, 
 the light of the candle falling upon the blue coat 
 made the buttons flash confused suspicions into 
 his mind. 
 
 " Mither, mither," he said, "ye hae gane ower 
 far this time. There's ower mony o' them, and 
 they're no the safe colour. We'll be baith hangt, 
 as sure's there's a deevil in hell." 
 
 As he said thus, he went on trying to pick 
 the buttons from the coat, taking them for sove- 
 reigns, though how he could have seen a sove- 
 reign at that time in Scotland I can only con- 
 jecture. But Robert caught him by the shoul- 
 ders, and shook him awake with no gentle hands, 
 upon which he began to rub his eyes, and mut- 
 ter sleepily : 
 
 " Is that you, Bob ? I hae been dreamin', I 
 doobt." 
 
 " Gin ye dinna learn to dream quaieter, ye'll 
 get you and me tu into mair trouble nor I
 
 MRS. FALCONER. 69 
 
 care to hae aboot ye, ye rascal. Hand the 
 tongue o' ye, and eat this tawtie, gin ye want 
 onything mair. And here's a bit o' reamy 
 cakes tu ye. Ye winna get that in ilka hoose 
 i' the toon. It's my grannie's especial." 
 
 Robert felt relieved after this, for he had 
 eaten all the cakes Miss Napier had given him, 
 and had had a pain in his conscience ever 
 since. 
 
 " Hoo got ye a hand o' 't ?" asked Shargar, 
 evidently supposing he had stolen it. 
 
 " She gies me a bit noo and than." 
 
 " And ye didna eat it yersel' ? Eh, Bob !" 
 
 Shargar was somewhat overpowered at this 
 fresh proof of Robert's friendship. But Robert 
 was still more ashamed of what he had not 
 done. 
 
 He took the blue coat carefully from the bed, 
 and hung it in its place again, satisfied now, 
 from the way his grannie had spoken, or, rather, 
 declmed to speak, about it, that it had belonged 
 to his father. 
 
 '' Am I to rise ?" asked Shargar, not under- 
 standing the action. 
 
 "Na, na, lie still. Ye'U be warm eneuch 
 wantin' thae sovereigns. I'll lat ye oot i' the 
 mornin' afore grannie's up. And ye maun mak' 
 the best o't efter that till it's dark again. We'll 
 sattle a' aboot it at the schuil the morn. Only 
 we maun be circumspec', ye ken."
 
 70 ' EGBERT FALCONER. 
 
 "Ye cudna lay yer ban's upo' a drap o' 
 whusky, cud ye, Bob ?" 
 
 Robert stared in borror. A boy like that 
 asking for whisky! and in his grandmother's 
 house, too ! 
 
 " Shargar," he said solemnly, " there's no a 
 drap o' whusky i' this boose. It's awfu' to hear 
 ye mention sic a thing. My grannie wad smell 
 the verra name o' 't a mile awa'. I doobt that's 
 her fit upo' the stair a'ready." 
 
 Robert crept to the door, and Shargar sat 
 staring with horror, liis eyes looking from the 
 gloom of the bed like those of a half-strangled 
 dog. But it was a false alarm, as Robert pre- 
 sently returned to announce. 
 
 " Gm ever ye sae muckle as mention whusky 
 again, no to say drink ae drap o' 't, you and me 
 pairt company, and that I tell you^ Shargar," 
 said he, emphatically. 
 
 "I'll never luik at it; I'll never mint at 
 dreamin' o' 't," answered Shargar, coweringly. 
 " Gin she pits 't intil my moo', I'll spit it oot. 
 But gin ye strive wi' me, Bob, I'll cut my throat 
 — I will ; an' that '11 be seen and heard tell o'." 
 
 All this time, save during the alarm of Mrs. 
 Falconer's approach, when he sat with a mouth- 
 ful of hot potato, unable to move his jaws for 
 terror, and the remnant arrested half way in its 
 progress from his mouth after the bite — all this 
 time Shargar had been devouriag the provisions
 
 MRS. FALCONER. 71 
 
 Robert had brought him, as if he had not seen 
 food that day. As soon as they were finished, 
 he begged for a drink of water, which Robert 
 managed to procure for him. He then left him 
 for the night, for his longer absence might 
 have brought his grandmother after him, who 
 had perhaps only too good reasons for being 
 doubtful, if not suspicious, about boys in gene- 
 ral, though certamly not about Robert in par- 
 ticular. He carried with him his books h-om 
 the other garret room where he kept them, and 
 sat down at the table by his grandmother, pre- 
 paring his latin and geography by her lamp, 
 wliile she sat knitting a white stocking with 
 fingers as rapid as thought, never looking at her 
 work, but staring into the fire, and seeing visions 
 there which Robert would have given every- 
 thing he could call his own to see, and then 
 would have given his life to blot out of the 
 world if he had seen them. Quietly the even- 
 ing passed, by the peaceftd lamp and the cheer- 
 ful fire, ^vith the Latin on the one side of the 
 table, and the stocking on the other, as if ripe 
 and pm-ified old age and hopeful unstained 
 youth had been the only extremes of humanity 
 known to the world. But the bitter wind was 
 howling by fits in the chimney, and the offspring 
 of a nobleman and a gipsy lay asleep in the 
 garret, covered \\ath the cloak of an old High- 
 land rebel.
 
 72 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 At nine o'clock, Mrs. Falconer rang the bell 
 for Betty, and they had worship. Robert read 
 a chapter, and his grandmother prayed an ex- 
 tempore prayer, in which they that looked at 
 the wine when it was red in the cup, and they 
 that worshipped the woman clothed in scarlet 
 and seated upon the seven hills, came in for a 
 strange mixture, in which the vengeance yielded 
 only to the pity. 
 
 "Lord, lead them to see the error of their 
 ways," she cried. " Let the rod of thy wrath 
 awake the worm of their conscience, that they 
 may know verily that there is a God that ruleth 
 in the earth. Dinna lat them gang to hell, 
 Lord, we beseech thee." 
 
 As soon as prayers were over, Robert had a 
 tumbler of milk and some more oatcake, and 
 was sent to bed ; after which it was impossible 
 for him to hold any further communication with 
 Shargar. For his grandmother, little as one 
 might suspect it who entered the parlour in the 
 daytime, always slept in that same room, in a 
 bed closed in with doors like those of a large 
 press in the wall, while Robert slept in a little 
 closet, looking into a garden at the back of the 
 house, the door of which opened from the par- 
 lour close to the head of his grandmother's bed. 
 It was just large enough to hold a good-sized 
 bed with curtains, a chest of drawers, a bui'eau, 
 a large eight-day clock, and one chak, leaving
 
 MRS. FALCONER. 73 
 
 in the centre about five feet square for him to 
 move about in. There was more room as well 
 as more comfort in the bed. He was never al- 
 lowed a candle, for light enough came through 
 from the parlom-, his grandmother thought ; so 
 he Avas soon extended between the whitest of 
 cold sheets, mth his knees up to his chin, and 
 liis thoughts following his lost father over all 
 space? of the earth with which his geography- 
 book had made him acquamted. 
 
 He was in the habit of leaving his closet and 
 creeping through his gTandmother's room before 
 she was awake — or at least before she had 
 given any signs to the small household that she 
 was restored to consciousness, and that the life 
 of the house must proceed. He therefore found 
 no difficulty m hberating Sharger from his pri- 
 son, except what arose from the boy's own un- 
 willingness to forsake his comfortable quarters 
 for the fierce encounter of the January blast 
 which awaited him. But Robert did not turn 
 him out before the last moment of safety had 
 arrived ; for, by the aid of signs known to 
 himself, he watched the progress of his grand- 
 mother's dressing — an operation which did not 
 consume miich of the morning, scrupulous as 
 she was with regard to neatness and cleanliness 
 — until Betty was called ia to give her careful 
 assistance to the final disposition of the mutch^ 
 when Shargar's exit could be delayed no Ion-
 
 74 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 ger. Then he mounted to the foot of the second 
 stair, and called m a keen whisper, 
 " Noo, Shargar, cut for the life o' ye." 
 And down came the poor fellow, with long 
 gliding steps, ragged and reluctant, and, with- 
 out a word or a look, launched himself out into 
 the cold, and sped away he knew not whither. 
 As he left the door, the only suspicion of light 
 was the dull and doubtful shimmer of the snow 
 that covered the street, keen particles of which 
 were blown in his face by the wind, which, hav- 
 ing been up all night, had grown very cold, 
 and seemed delighted to find one unprotected 
 human being whom it might badger at its own 
 bitter will. Outcast Shargar ! Where he spent 
 the interval between Mrs. Falconer's door and 
 that of the school, I do not know. There was 
 a report amongst liis school-fellows that he had 
 been found by Scroggie, the fish-cadger, lying 
 at full length upon the back of his old horse, 
 which, either from compassion or indifference, 
 had not cared to rise up under the burden. 
 They said likewise that, when accused by 
 Scroggie of housebreaking, though nothing had 
 to be broken to get in, only a string with a pe- 
 culiar knot, on the invention of whicli the cad- 
 ger prided himself, to be undone, all that Shar- 
 gar had to say in his self-defence was, that he 
 had a terrible sair wame, and that the horse 
 was warmer nor the stanes i' the yard ; and he
 
 MRS. FALCONER. 75 
 
 had dune him nae ill, nae even drawn a hair 
 frae his tale — which would have been a difficult 
 feat, seeing the horse's tail was as bare as his 
 hoof.
 
 76 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 ROBERT TO THE RESCUE I 
 
 THAT Shargar was a parish scholar-— 
 which means that the parish paid his fees, 
 although, indeed, they were hardly worth pay- 
 ing — made very little difference to his posi- 
 tion amongst his school-fellows. Nor did the 
 fact of his being ragged and dirty affect his 
 social reception to his discomfort. Bnt the ac- 
 cumulated facts of the oddity of his personal 
 appearance, his supposed imbecility, and the bad 
 character borne by his mother, placed him in a 
 very unenviable relation to the tyrannical and 
 vulgar-minded amongst them. Concerning his 
 person, he was long, and, as his name implied, 
 lean, with pale-red hair, reddish eyes, no visible 
 eyebrows or eyelashes, and very pale face — in 
 fact, he was half way to an Albino. His arms 
 and legs seemed of equal length, both exceed- 
 ingly long. The handsomeness of his mother 
 appeared only in his nose and mouth, which
 
 ROBERT TO THE RESCUE. 77 
 
 were regular and good, though expressionless ; 
 and the Hrth of his father only in his small 
 deHcate hands and feet, of which any ghl who 
 cared only for smallness, and heeded neither 
 character nor strength, might have been proud. 
 His feet, however, were supposed to be enor- 
 mous, from the difficulty with which he dragged 
 after him the huge shoes m which in winter they 
 were generally encased. 
 
 The imbecihty, like the large feet, was only 
 imputed. He certainly was not bi'illiant, but 
 neither did he make a fool of himself in any 
 of the few branches of learning of wliich the 
 parish-scholar came in for a share. That which 
 gained him the imputation was the fact that his 
 nature was ^dthout a particle of the aggressive, 
 and all its defensive of as purely negative a cha- 
 racter as was possible. Had he been a dog, he 
 would never have thought of doing anything 
 for his own protection beyond tui'ning up his 
 fom- legs in silent appeal to the mercy of the 
 heavens. He was an absolute sepulchi-e in the 
 swallowing of oppression and ill-usage. It van- 
 ished in hun. There was no echo of complaint, 
 no murmur of resentment from the hollows of 
 that soul. The blows that fell upon him re- 
 sounded not, and no one but God remembered 
 them. 
 
 His mother made her living as she herself 
 best knew, with occasional well-begrudged as-
 
 7B ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 sistance from the parish. Her chief resource 
 was no doubt begging from house to house for 
 the handful of oatmeal which was the recognized, 
 and, in the court of custom-taught conscience, 
 the legalized dole upon which every beggar had 
 a claim ; and if she picked up at the same time 
 a chicken, or a boy's rabbit, or any other stray 
 luxury, she was only following the general rule 
 of society, that your first duty is to take care of 
 yom-self. She was generally regarded as a 
 gipsy, but I doubt if she had any gipsy blood 
 in her veins. She was simply a tramper, with 
 occasional fits of localization. Her worst fault 
 was the way she treated her son, whom she 
 starved apparently that she might continue able 
 to beat him. 
 
 The particular occasion which led to the re- 
 cognition of the growing relation between Ro- 
 bert and Shargar was the following. Upon a 
 certaui Satm-day — some sidereal power inimical 
 to boys must have been in the ascendant — a 
 Saturday of brilliant but intermittent sunshine, 
 the white clouds seen from the school windows 
 indicating by their rapid transit across those fields 
 of vision that fresh breezes friendly to kites, or 
 draigons^ as they were called at Rothieden, were 
 frolicking in the upper regions — nearly a dozen 
 boys were kept in for not being able to pay down 
 from memory the usual instalment of Shorter 
 Catechism always due at the close of the week.
 
 EGBERT TO THE RESCUE. 79 
 
 Amongst these boys were Robert and Shargar. 
 Sky-revealing windows and locked door were 
 too painful ; and in proportion as the feeling of 
 having nothing to do increased, the more mi- 
 easy did the active element in the boys become, 
 and the more ready to break out into some ab- 
 normal manifestation. Everything — sun, Avind, 
 clouds — was busy out of doors, and calling to 
 them to come and join the fun ; and activity at 
 the same moment excited and restrained natm- 
 ally tm-ns to mischief. Most of them had al- 
 ready learned the obnoxious task — one quarter 
 of an hour was enough for that — and now what 
 should they do next ? The eyes of three or four 
 of the eldest of them fell simultaneously upon 
 Shargar. 
 
 Robert was sitting plunged in one of his day- 
 dreams, for he, too, had learned his catechism, 
 when he was roused from his reverie by a ques- 
 tion from a pale-faced little boy, who looked up 
 to him as a great authority. 
 
 " What for 's 't ca'd the Shorter Carritchis, 
 
 Bobr 
 
 " 'Cause it's no fiilly sae lang's the Bible," an- 
 swered Robert, without gi\dng the question the 
 consideration due to it, and was proceeding to 
 turn the matter over in his mind, when the men- 
 tal process was arrested by a shout of laughter. 
 The other boys had tied Shargar's feet to the 
 desk at which he sat — ^likewise his hands, at full
 
 80 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 stretch; then, having attached about a dozen 
 strings to as many elf-locks of his pale-red hair, 
 which was never cut or trimmed, had tied them 
 to various pegs in the wall behind him, so that 
 the poor fellow could not stir. They were now 
 crusliing up pieces of waste paper, not a few 
 leaves of stray school-books bemg regarded in 
 that light, into bullets, dipping them in ink and 
 aiming them at Shargar's face. 
 
 For some time Shargar did not utter a word; 
 and Robert, although somewhat indignant at 
 the treatment he was receiving, felt as yet no 
 impulse to interfere, for success was doubtful. 
 But, indeed, he was not very easily roused to 
 action of any kind ; for he was as yet mostly in 
 the larva-condition of character, when everything 
 is transacted inside. But the fun grew more 
 furious, and spot after spot of ink gloomed upon 
 Shargar's white face. Still Robert took no no- 
 tice, for they did not seem to be hurting him 
 much. But when he saw the tears stealing down 
 his patient cheeks, making channels through 
 the ink which now nearly covered them, he could 
 bear it no longer. He took out his knife, and 
 under pretence of joining in the sport, drew 
 near to Shargar, and, with rapid hand, cut the 
 cords — all but those that bound his feet, which 
 were less easy to reach without exposing him- 
 self defenceless. 
 
 The boys of course turned upon Robert. But
 
 ROBERT TO THE RESCUE. 81 
 
 ere they came to more than abusive words a di- 
 version took place. 
 
 Mrs. Innes, the schoolmaster's wife — a stout, 
 kind-hearted woman, the fine condition of whose 
 temperament was clearly the result of her phy- 
 sical prosperit}^ — appeared at the door which 
 led to the dwelling-house above, bearing in her 
 hands a huge tureen of potato-soup, for her 
 motherly heart could not longer endure the 
 thought of dinnerless boys. Her husband being 
 engaged at a parish meeting, she had a chance 
 of interfering with success. 
 
 But ere Xancy, the servant, could follow with 
 the spoons and plates. Wattle Morrison had 
 taken the tureen, and out of spite at Robert, 
 had emptied its contents on the head of Shar- 
 gar, who was still tied by the feet, with the 
 words : " Shargar, I anoint thee king over us, 
 and here is thy crown," giving the tm-een, as 
 he said so, a push on to his head, where it re- 
 mained. 
 
 Shargar did not move, and for one moment 
 could not speak, but the next he gave a slniek 
 that made Robert think he was far Avorse scald- 
 ed than tm-ned out to be the case. He darted 
 to him in rage, took the tureen from his head, 
 and, his blood being fahly up now, flung it with 
 all his force at Morrison, and felled him to the 
 earth. At the same moment the master entered 
 by the street-door and his wife by the house- 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 door, which was du^ectly opposite. In the mid- 
 dle of the room the prisoners surrounded the 
 fallen tyrant — Robert, with the red face of wrath, 
 and Shargar, with a complexion the mingled 
 result of tears, ink, and soup, which latter 
 clothed him from head to foot besides, standing 
 on the outskirts of the group. I need not fol- 
 low the story farther. Both Robert and Morri- 
 son got a lickin ; and if Mr. Innes had been like 
 some schoolmasters of those times, Shargar 
 would not have escaped his share of the evil 
 things going. 
 
 From that day Robert assumed the acknow- 
 ledged position of Shargar's defender. And if 
 there was pride and a sense of propriety mingled 
 with his advocacy of Shargar's rights, nay, even 
 if the relation was not altogether free from some 
 amount of show-off on Robert's part, I cannot 
 yet help thinking that it had its share in that 
 development of the character of Falconer which 
 has chiefly attracted me to the office of his bio- 
 grapher. There may have been in it the exer- 
 cise of some patronage ; probably it was not 
 pure from the pride of beneficence ; but at least 
 it was a loving patronage and a vigorous bene- 
 ficence; and, under the reaction of these, the 
 good which in Robert's nature was as yet only 
 in a state of solution, began to crystallize into 
 character. 
 
 But the efiect of the new relation was far more
 
 ROBERT TO THE RESCUE. 83 
 
 remarkable on Shargar. As incapable of self- 
 defence as ever, he was yet in a moment roused 
 to fiiry by any attack upon the person or the 
 dignity of Robert : so that, indeed, it became 
 a new and favom-ite mode of teasing Shargar to 
 heap abuse, real or pretended, upon his fiiend. 
 From the day when Robert thus espoused his 
 part, Shargar was Robert's dog. That very 
 evening, when she went to take a parting peep 
 at the external before locking the door for the 
 night, Betty fomid him sitting upon the door- 
 step, only, however, to send him off, as she de- 
 scribed it, "wi' a flech* in 's lug (a flea in his ear)^ 
 For the character of the mother was always as- 
 sociated with the boy, and avenged upon him. 
 I must, however, allow that those delicate dh-ty 
 fingers of his could not with safety be warranted 
 from occasional picking and stealing. 
 
 At this period of my story, Robert himself 
 was rather a grotesque-looking animal, very 
 tall and lanky, with especially long arms, which 
 excess of length they retained after he was ftdl- 
 grown. In this respect Shargar and he were 
 alike ; but the long legs of Shargar were un- 
 matched in Robert, for at this time liis body was 
 pecuKarly long. He had large black eyes, deep 
 
 * In Scotch the cli and gh are almost always guttural. 
 The gh according to INlr. Alexander Ellis, the sole authority 
 in the past pronunciation of the country, was guttural in 
 England in the time of Shakspere, 
 
 G 2
 
 84 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 sunk even then, and a Roman nose, the size of 
 which in a boy of his years looked portentous. 
 For the rest, he was dark-complexioned, with 
 dark hair, destined to grow darker still, with 
 hands and feet well modelled, but which would 
 have made four feet and four hands such as 
 Shar gar's. 
 
 When his mind was not oppressed with the 
 consideration of any important metaphysical 
 question, he learned his lessons well ; when such 
 was present, the Latin grammar, with all its at- 
 tendant servilities, was driven from the presence 
 of the lordly need. That once satisfied in spite 
 of pandies and imprisonments, he returned with 
 fresh zest, and, indeed, with some ephemeral 
 ardour, to the rules ofsyntax or prosody, though 
 the latter, in the mode in which it was then and 
 there taught, was almost as useless as the task 
 set himself by a worthy lay-preacher in the 
 neighbourhood — of learnmg the first nine chap- 
 ters of the first Book of the Chronicles, in atone- 
 ment for having, in an evil hour of freedom of 
 spirit, ventured to suggest that such lists of 
 names, even although forming a portion of Holy 
 Writ, could scarcely be reckoned of equally di- 
 vine authority with St. Paul's Epistle to the 
 Romans,
 
 85 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE ANGEL UNAWAEES. 
 
 ALTHOUGH Betty seemed to hold little com- 
 nmnication with the outer world, she yet 
 contrived somehow or other to bring home what 
 gossip was going to the ears of her mistress, 
 who had very few visitors ; for, while her neigh- 
 bours held Mrs. Falconer in great and evident 
 respect, she was not the sort of person to sit 
 down and have a neivs T\dth. There was a cer- 
 tain sedate self-contained dignity about her 
 which the common mind felt to be chilling and 
 repellent ; and from any gossip of a personal 
 natm-e — what Betty brought her always except- 
 ed — she would turn away, generally with the 
 words, " Hoots ! I canna bide clashes." 
 
 On the evening following that of Shargar's 
 introduction to Mrs. Falconer's house, Betty 
 came home from the butcher's — for it was 
 Saturday night, and she had gone to fetch 
 the beef for their Sunday's broth — with the 
 news that the people next door, that is, round
 
 86 EGBERT FALCONER. 
 
 the corner in the next street, had a visitor. 
 
 The house in question had been built by Robert's 
 father, and was, compared with Mrs. Falconer's 
 one-story-house, large and handsome. Robert 
 had been born, and had spent a few years of his 
 life in it, but could recall nothing of the facts of 
 those early days. Some time before the period 
 at which my history commences it had passed 
 into other hands, and it was now quite strange 
 to him. It had been bought by a retired naval 
 officer, who lived in it with his wife — the only 
 Englishwoman in the place, until the arrival, at 
 the Boar's Head, of the lady so much admired 
 by Dooble Sanny. 
 
 Robert was up stairs when Betty emptied her 
 news-bag, and so heard nothing of this bit of 
 gossip. He had just assured Shargar that as 
 soon as his grandmother was asleep he would 
 look about for what he could find, and carry it 
 up to him in the garret. As yet he had confined 
 the expenditure out of Shargar's shilling to two- 
 pence. 
 
 The household always retired early — earlier 
 on Saturday night in preparation for the Sab- 
 bath — and by ten o'clock grannie and Betty 
 were in bed. Robert, indeed, was in bed too ; 
 but he had lain down in his clothes, waiting for 
 such time as might afibrd reasonable hope of his 
 grandmother being asleep, when he might both 
 ease Shargar's hunger and get to sleep himself.
 
 THE ANGEL UX AWAKES. 87 
 
 Several times he got up, resolved to make his 
 attempt ; but as often his courage failed and he 
 lay down again, sure that grannie could not be 
 asleep yet. \Mien the clock beside him struck 
 eleven, he could bear it no longer, and finally 
 rose to do his endeavour. 
 
 Opening the door of the closet slowly and 
 softly, he crept upon his hands and knees into 
 the middle of the parlour, feeling very much 
 like a thief, as, indeed, in a measure he was, 
 though from a blameless motive. But just as he 
 had accomplished half the distance to the door, he 
 was arrested and fixed with terror ; for a deep 
 sigh came fi'om grannie's bed, followed by the 
 voice of words. He thought at first that she 
 had heard him, but he soon found that he was 
 mistaken. Still, the fear of discovery held him 
 there on all fours, like a chained animal. A dull 
 red gleam, faint and dull, from the erabers of 
 the fii'e, w^as the sole fight in the room. Every- 
 thing so common to his eyes in the dayfight 
 seemed now strange and ee7ne in the dying coals, 
 and at what w^as to the boy the miearthly hour 
 of the night. 
 
 He felt that he ought not to Hsten to grannie, 
 but terror made him unable to move. 
 
 "Och hone! och hone!" said grannie fi'om the 
 bed. " I've a sair, sair hert. I've a sail' hert i' 
 my breist, Lord! thoo knowest. My ain 
 Anerew ! To think o' my bairnie that I cairriet
 
 88 EGBERT FALCONER. 
 
 i' my ain body, that sookit my breists, and leucli 
 i' my face — to think o' 'im bein' a reprobate ! 
 Lord! cudna he be eleckit yet? Is there nae 
 turning' o' thy decrees ? Na, na ; that wadna 
 do at a'. But while there's hfe there's houp. 
 But wha kens whether he be ahve or no ? Nae- 
 body can telL Glaidly wad I luik upon 's deid 
 face gin I cud beHeve that liis sowl wasna amang 
 the lost. But eh ! the torments o' that place ! 
 and the reik that gangs up for ever an' ever, 
 smorin' (smothering) the stars ! And my Anerew 
 do on i' the hert o' 't cryin' ! And me no able to 
 win till him ! Lord ! I carina say thy will be 
 done. But dinna lay 't to my chairge ; for gin 
 ye was a mitlier yersel' ye wadna pit him there. 
 Lord ! I'm verra ill-fashioned. I beg yer 
 pardon. I'm near oot o' my min'. Forgie me, 
 Lord ! for I hardly ken what I'm sayin'. He 
 was my ain babe, my ain Anerew, and ye gae 
 hun to me yersel'. And noo he's for the finger 
 o' scorn to pint at ; an ootcast an' a wan'erer 
 frae his ain country, an' daurna come within sicht 
 o' 't for them 'at wad tak' the law o' 'm. An' it's 
 a' drink — drink an' ill company ! He wad hae 
 dune weel eneuch gin they wad only hae latten 
 him be. What for maun men be aye drink- 
 drinkin' at something or ither 1 1 never want 
 it. Eh ! gin I war as young as whan he was 
 born, I wad be up an' awa' this verra nicht to 
 luik for him. But it's no use me tryin' 't.
 
 THE AXGEL UNAWARES. 89 
 
 God ! ance mair I pray thee to turn him frae the 
 error o' 's ways afore he goes hence an' isna 
 more. And dinna lat Robert gang efter him, 
 as he's hke eneuch to do. Gie me grace to hand 
 him ticht, that he may be to the praise o' thy 
 glory for ever an' ever. Amen." 
 
 Whether it was that the weary woman here 
 fell asleep, or that she was too exhausted forfoi'ther 
 speech, Robert heard no more, though he remained 
 there frozen Avith horror for some minutes after 
 his grandmother had ceased. This, then, was 
 the reason why she would never speak about his 
 father ! She kept all her thoughts about him 
 for the silence of the night, and loneliness with 
 the God who never sleeps, but watches the 
 wicked all thi-ough the dark. And his father 
 was one of the wdcked ! And God was against 
 him ! And w^hen he died he woidd go to hell ! 
 But he w^as not dead yet : Robert was sm-e of 
 that. And when he grew a man, he would go 
 and seek him, and beg him on his knees to re- 
 pent and come back to God, who w^ould forgive 
 him then, and take him to heaven when he died. 
 And there he would be good, and good people 
 w^ould love him. 
 
 Something like this passed through the boy's 
 mhid ere he moved to creep from the room, for 
 his was one of those natm-es which are active in 
 the generation of hope. He had almost for- 
 gotten w^hat he came there for ; and had it not
 
 90 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 been that he had promised Shargar, he would 
 have crept back to his bed and left him to bear his 
 hunger as best he could. But now, first his right 
 hand, then his left knee, like any other quadru- 
 ped, he crawled to the door, rose only to his 
 knees to open it, took almost a minute to the 
 operation, then dropped and crawled again, till 
 he had passed out, turned, and drawn the door 
 to, leaving it slightly ajar. Then it struck him 
 awfully that the same terrible passage must be 
 gone through again. But he rose to his feet, 
 for he had no shoes on, and there was little 
 danger of making any noise, although it was 
 pitch dark — ^lie knew the house so well. With 
 gathering courage, he felt his way to the kit- 
 chen, and there groped about ; but he could find 
 nothing beyond a few quarters of oat-cake, which, 
 with a mug of water, he proceeded to carry up 
 to Shargar in the garret. 
 
 When he reached the kitchen-door, he was 
 struck with amazement and for a moment with 
 fresh fear. A light was shining into the transe 
 from the stair which went up at right angles from 
 the end of it. He knew it could not be grannie, and 
 he heard Betty snoring in her own den, which 
 opened from the kitchen. He thought it must be 
 Shargar who had grown impatient ; but how he 
 had got hold of a light he could not think. As soon 
 as he turned the corner, however, the doubt was 
 changed into mystery. At the top of the broad 
 
 ^
 
 THE AXGEL UNAWARES. 91 
 
 low stair, stood a woman-form with a candle in 
 her hand, gazing about her as if w^ondering 
 which way to go. The Hght fell full upon her 
 face, the beauty of which was such that, with 
 her dress, which w^as white — being, in fact, a 
 nightgown — and her hau*, w^hich was hanging 
 loose about her shoulders and dowTi to her waist, 
 it led Robert at once to the conclusion (his rea- 
 soning faculties already shaken by the events of 
 the night) that she was an angel come down to 
 comfort his grannie ; and he kneeled involuntar- 
 ily at the foot of the stair, and gazed up at her, 
 with the cakes in one hand, and the mug of 
 water in the other, like a meat-and-drink of- 
 fering. Whether he had closed his eyes or bowed 
 his head, he could not say ; but he became sud- 
 denly aware that the angel had vanished — he 
 knew not when, how, or whither. This for a 
 time confirmed his assurance that it was an angel. 
 And although he w^as undeceived before long, 
 the impression made upon him that night was 
 never efiaced. But, indeed, whatever Falconer 
 heard or saw was something more to him than 
 it would have been to anybody else. 
 
 Elated, though awed, by the vision, he felt his 
 way up the stah- in the new darkness, as if walk- 
 ing in a holy dream, trod as if upon sacred 
 ground as he crossed the landing where the 
 angel had stood — went up and up, and found 
 Shargar wide awake wdth expectant hunger.
 
 92 ROBEET FALCONER. 
 
 He, too, had caught a glimmer of the light. But 
 Robert did not tell him what he had seen. That 
 was too sacred a subject to enter upon with 
 Shargar, and he was intent enough upon his 
 supper not to be inquisitive. 
 
 Robert left him to finish it at his leisure, and 
 returned to cross his grandmother's room once 
 more, half expecting to find the angel standing 
 by her bedside. But all was dark and still. 
 Creeping back as he had come, he heard her 
 quiet, though deep, breathing, and his mind was 
 at ease about her for the night. What if the 
 angel he had surprised had only come to appear 
 to grannie in her sleep ? Why not ? There were 
 such stories in the Bible, and grannie was cer- 
 tainly as good as some of the people in the Bible 
 that saw angels — Sarah, for instance. And if the 
 angels came to see grannie, why should they not 
 have some care over his father as well? It 
 might be — who could tell ? 
 
 It is perhaps necessary to explain Robert's 
 vision. The angel was the owner of the boxes 
 he had seen at the Boar's Head. Looking around 
 her room before going to bed, she had seen a 
 trap in the floor near the wall, and, raising it, 
 had discovered a few steps of a stair leading 
 down to a door. Curiosity naturally led her to 
 examine it. The key was in the lock. It opened 
 outwards, and there she found herself, to her 
 surprise, in the heart of another dwelling, of
 
 THE AXGEL UNAWARES. 93 
 
 lowlier aspect. She never saw Robert; for while 
 he approached with shoeless feet, she had been 
 glancing through the open door of the gable- 
 room, and when he knelt, the light which she 
 held in her hand had, I presume, hidden him from 
 her. He, on his part, had not observed that the 
 moveless door stood open at last. 
 
 I have already said that the house adjoining 
 had been built by Robert's father. The lady's 
 room was that which he had occupied with his 
 wife, and in it Robert had been born. The door, 
 with its trap-stah', was a natmal invention for 
 uniting the levels of the two houses, and a desir- 
 able one in not a few of the forms which the 
 weather assumed in that region. When the larger 
 house passed into other hands, it had never 
 entered the minds of the simple people who oc- 
 cupied the contiguous dwellings, to build up 
 the doorway between.
 
 94 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A DISCOVERY. 
 
 THE friendship of Robert had gained Shargar 
 the favotU'able notice of others of the 
 Bchool-pubHc. These were chiefly of those who 
 came from the country, ready to follow an ex- 
 ample set them by a town boy. When his de- 
 sertion was known, moved both by their com- 
 passion for him, and their respect for Robert, 
 they began to give him some portion of the din- 
 ner they brought with them; and never in his 
 life had Shargar fared so well as for the first 
 week after he had been cast upon the world. 
 But in proportion as their interest faded w4th 
 the novelty, so their appetites reasserted former 
 claims of use and wont, and Shargar began once 
 more to feel the pangs of hunger. For all that 
 Robert could manage to procure for him without 
 attracting the attention he was so anxious to 
 avoid, was little more than sufficient to keep his 
 hunger alive, Shargar being gifted with a great 
 appetite, and Robert having no allowance of
 
 A DISCO^^RY. 95 
 
 pocket-money from his grandmother. The three 
 pence he had been able to spend on hun were 
 what remamed of sixpence Mr. Imies had given 
 him for an exercise which he wrote in blank 
 verse instead of in prose — an achievement of 
 which the schoolmaster was proud, both from 
 his reverence for Milton, and from his inability 
 to compose a metrical line himself. And how and 
 when he should ever possess another penny was 
 even unimaginable. Shargar's shilling was like- 
 wise spent. So Robert could but go on pocket- 
 ing instead of eating all that he dared, watch- 
 ing anxiously for opportimity of evading the 
 eyes of his grandmother. On her dimness of 
 sight, however, he depended too confidently 
 after all ; for either she was not so blind as he 
 thought she was, or she made up for the|defect of 
 her vision by the keenness of her observation. 
 She saw enough to cause her considerable an- 
 noyance, though it suggested nothing inconsis- 
 tent with rectitude on the part of the boy, fur- 
 ther than that there was something underhand 
 going on. One supposition after another arose 
 in the old lady's brain, and one after another 
 was dismissed as improbable. First, she tried 
 to persuade herself that he wanted to take the 
 provisions to school T\dth him, and eat them 
 there — a proceeding of which she certainly did 
 not approve, but for the reproof of which she 
 was unwilhng to betray the loopholes of her
 
 96 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 eyes. Next she concluded, for half a day, that 
 he must have a pan- of rabbits hidden away in 
 some nook or other — possibly in the little strip 
 of garden belonging to the house. And so con- 
 jecture followed conjectui-e for a whole week, 
 during which, strange to say, not even Betty 
 knew that Shargar slept in the house. For so 
 careful and watchful were the two boys, that al- 
 though she could not help suspecting something 
 from the expression and beha^dour of Robert, 
 what that something might be she could not 
 imagine ; nor had she and her mistress as yet 
 exchanged confidences on the subject. Her ob- 
 servation coincided with that of her mistress as 
 to the disappearance of odds and ends of eat- 
 ables — potatoes, cold porridge, bits of oatcake ; 
 and even, on one occasion, when Shargar hap- 
 pened to be especially ravenous, a yellow, or 
 cm-ed and half-dried, haddock, which the lad 
 devoured raw, vanished from her domain. He 
 went to school in the morning smelling so strong 
 in consequence, that they told him he must have 
 been passing the night in Scroggie's cart, and 
 not on his horse's back this time. 
 
 The boys kept their secret well. 
 
 One evening, towards the end of the week, 
 Robert, after seeing Shargar disposed of for the 
 night, proceeded to carry out a project which 
 had grown in his brain within the last two days, 
 in consequence of an occurrence with wliich his
 
 A DISCOVERY. 97 
 
 relation to Shargar had had something to do. 
 It was this : 
 
 The housing of Shargar in the garret had led 
 Robert to make a close acquaintance with the 
 place. He was familiar with all the outs and 
 ins of the little room which he considered his 
 own, for that was a civiHzed, being a plastered, 
 ceiled, and comparatively well-lighted little 
 room, but not ^\dth the other, which was three 
 times its size, very badly lighted, and showing 
 the naked couples from roof-tree to floor. Be- 
 sides, it contained no end of dark corners, wdth 
 which his childish imagination had associated 
 undefijied horrors, assuming now one shape, 
 now another. Also there were several closets 
 in it, constructed in the angles of the place, and 
 several chests — two of which he had ventured 
 to peep into. But although he had found them 
 filled, not with bones, as he had expected, but 
 one with papers, and one with garments, he had 
 yet dared to carry liis researches no fiu'ther. 
 One evening, however, when Betty was out, and 
 he had got hold of her candle, and gone up to 
 keep Shargar company for a few minutes, a sud- 
 den impulse seized him to have a peep into all 
 the closets. One of them he knew a little about, 
 as containing, amongst other thmgs, his father's 
 coat with the gilt buttons, and his great-grand- 
 father's kilt, as well as other garments useful 
 to Shargar : now he would see what was in the 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 rest. He did not find anytliing very interesting, 
 however, till lie arrived at the last. Out of it he 
 drew a long queer-shaped box into the light of 
 Betty's dip. 
 
 " Luik here, Shargar !" he said under his breath, 
 for they never dared to speak aloud in these 
 precincts — ^luik here ! What can there be in this 
 box? Is 't a bairnie's coffin, duv ye think ? Luik 
 at it." 
 
 In this case Shargar, having roamed the coun- 
 try a good deal more than Robert, and having 
 been present at some merrymakings with his 
 mother, of which there were comparatively few 
 in that country-side, was better informed than 
 his fiiend. 
 
 " Eh ! Bob, duvna ye ken what that is ? I 
 thocht ye kent a' thing. That's a fiddle." 
 
 " That's buff an' styte (stuff and nonsense), 
 Shargar. Do ye think I dinna ken a fiddle 
 whan I see ane, wi' its guts ootside o' 'ts wame, 
 an' the thoomacks to screw them up wi' an'gar't 
 skirl f ' 
 
 " Buff an' styte yersel' !" cried Shargar, in in- 
 dignation, from the bed. " Gie's a baud o' 't." 
 
 Robert handed him the case. Shargar undid 
 the hooks in a moment, and revealed the crea- 
 ture lying in its shell like a boiled bivalve. 
 
 " I tellt ye sae ! " he exclaimed triiunphantly. 
 " Maybe ye'll lippen to me (trust me) neist time." 
 
 " An' I tellt you,'' retorted Robert, with an
 
 A DISCOVERY. 99 
 
 equivocation altogether unworthy of his grow- 
 ing honesty. " I was cocksure that cudna be 
 a fiddle. There's the fiddle i' the hert o' 't ! 
 Losh! I min' noo. It maun be my grand- 
 father's fiddle 'at I hae heard tell o'." 
 
 " No to ken a fiddle-case !" reflected Shargai , 
 with as much of contempt as it was possible for 
 him to show. 
 
 " I tell ye what, Shargar," returned Robert, in- 
 dignantly; " ye may ken the box o' a fiddle better 
 nor I do, but de'il hae me gin I dinna ken the 
 fiddle itsel' raither better nor ye do in a fortnicht 
 frae this time. I s' tak it to Dooble Sanny ; he 
 can play the fiddle fine. An' I'll play 't too, or 
 the de'il s' be in't." 
 
 " Eh, man, that '11 be gran' !" cried Shargar, 
 incapable of jealousy. " We can gang to a' the 
 markets thegither and gaither baubees {half- 
 pence)" 
 
 To this anticipation Robert returned no reply, 
 for, hearing Betty come in, he judged it time to 
 restore the violin to its case, and Betty's candle 
 to the kitchen, lest she should invade the upper 
 regions in search of it. But that very night he 
 managed to have an interview with Doohle Sanny, 
 the shoemaker, and it was arranged between 
 them that Robert should bring his violin on the 
 evening at which my story has now arrived. 
 
 Whatever motive he had for seeking to com- 
 mence the study of music, it holds even in 
 
 h2
 
 100 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 more important matters that, if the thing pursued 
 be good, there is a hope of the pursuit purifying 
 the motive. And Robert no sooner heard the 
 fiddle utter a few mournfal sounds in the hands 
 of the soutar, who was no contemptible performer, 
 than he longed to establish such a relation be- 
 tween himself and the strange instrument, that, 
 dumb and deaf as it had been to him hitherto, 
 it would respond to his touch also, and tell him 
 the secrets of its queerly-twisted skull, full of 
 sweet sounds instead of brams. From that 
 moment he would be a musician for music's own 
 sake, and forgot utterly what had appeared to 
 him, though I doubt if it was, the sole motive of 
 his desire to learn — namely, the necessity of re- 
 taining his superiority over Shargar. 
 
 What added considerably to the excitement of 
 his feelings on the occasion, was the expression 
 of reverence, almost ol awe, with which the shoe- 
 maker took the instrument from its case, and the 
 tenderness with which he handled it. The fact 
 was that he had not had a violin in his hands for 
 nearly a year, havmg been compelled to pawn 
 his own in order to alleviate the sickness brought 
 on his wife by his own ill-treatment of her, once 
 that he came home drunk from a wedding. It 
 was strange to think that such dirty hands should 
 be able to bring such somids out of the instrument 
 the moment he got it safely cuddled under his 
 cheek. So duty were they, that it was said
 
 A DISCOVERY. 101 
 
 Dooble Sanny never required to carry any roein 
 with him for fiddler's need, his own fingers having 
 always enough upon them for one bow at least. 
 Yet the points of those fingers never lost the 
 deHcacy of then touch. Some people thought 
 this was in vntue of their being washed only 
 once a week — a custom Alexander justified on 
 the ground that, in a trade like his, it was of no 
 use to wash oftener, for he would be just as 
 dirty again before night. 
 
 The moment he began to play, the face of the 
 Boutar grew ecstatic. He stopped at the very 
 first note, notwithstanding, let fall his arms, the 
 one with the bow, the other -^-ith the violin, at 
 his sides, and said, with deep-di'awn respu-ation 
 and lengthened utterance : 
 
 "Eh!" 
 
 Then after a pause, dm-ing which he stood 
 motionless : 
 
 " The crater maun be a Ciy Moany I Hear 
 till her !" he added, drawing another long note. 
 
 Then, after another pause : 
 
 "She's a Straddle Vawrious at least! Hear till 
 her I I never had sic a combination o' timmer 
 and catgut atween my cleuks (claws) afore." 
 
 As to its being a Stradivarius, or even a Cremona 
 at all, the testimony of Dooble Sanny was not 
 worth much on the point. But the shoemaker's 
 admiration roused in the boy's mind a reverence 
 for the individual instrument which he never lost.
 
 102 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 From that day the two were friends. 
 
 Suddenly the soutar started off at full speed 
 in a strathspey, which was soon lost in the wail 
 of a Highland psalm-tune, giving place in its 
 turn to *' Sic a wife as Willie had !" And on he 
 went without pause, till Robert dared not stop 
 any longer. The fiddle had bewitched the fiddler. 
 
 " Come as aften 's ye like, Robert, gin ye fess 
 this leddy wi' ye," said the soutar. 
 
 And he stroked the back of the violin tenderly 
 with his open palm. 
 
 " But wad ye hae ony objection to lat it lie 
 aside ye, and lat me come whan I can f 
 
 " Objection, laddie? I wad as sune objeck to 
 lattin my ain wife lie aside me." 
 
 " Ay," said Robert, seized with some anxiety 
 about the violin as he remembered the fate of 
 the wife, "but ye ken Elspet comes aff a' the 
 waur sometimes." 
 
 Softened by the proximity of the wonderful 
 violin, and stung afresh by the boy's words as 
 his conccience had often stung him before, for he 
 loved his wife dearly save when the demon of 
 drink possessed him, the tears rose in Elshen- 
 der's eyes. He held out the violin to Robert, 
 saying, with unsteady voice : 
 
 " Hae, tak her awa'. I dinna deserve to hae 
 sic a thing i' my hoose. But hear me, Robert, 
 and lat hearin' be believin'. I never was sae 
 drunk but I cud tune my fiddle. Mair by token,
 
 A DISCOVERY. 103 
 
 ance they fand me lyin' o' my back i' the Corrie, 
 an' the watter, they say, was ower a' but the 
 mou' o' me; but I was haudin' my fiddle up 
 abune my heid, and de'il a spark o' watter was 
 upo' her,'' 
 
 " It's a pity yer wife wasna yer fiddle, than, 
 Sanny," said Robert, with more presumption 
 than wit. 
 
 " 'Deed ye're i' the richt, there, Robert. Hae, 
 tak yer fiddle." 
 
 " Deed no," returned Robert. *' I maun jist 
 lippen (trust) to ye, Sanders. I canna bide 
 langer the nicht ; but maybe ye'll tell me hoo to 
 baud her the neist time 'at I come — will ye ?" 
 
 " That I wull, Robert, come whan ye like. 
 An' gin ye come o' ane 'at cud play this fiddle 
 as this fiddle deserves to be playt, ye'll do me 
 credit." 
 
 " Ye min' what that sumph Lumley said to me 
 the ither nicht, Sanders, aboot my grandfather f 
 
 " Ay, weel eneuch. A dish o' drucken havers !" 
 
 " It was true eneuch aboot my great-grand- 
 father, though." 
 
 "No! Was'trafily?" 
 
 " Ay. He was the best piper in 's regiment 
 at Culloden. Gin they had a' fouchten as he 
 pipit, there wad hae been anither tale to tell. 
 And he was toon-piper forby, jist like you, San- 
 ders, efter they took frae him a' 'at he had." 
 
 " Na ! heard ye ever the like o' that ! Weel,
 
 104 EGBERT FALCONER. 
 
 wha wad hae thocht it? Faith! we maun hae 
 yoii fiddle as weel as yer lucky-daiddy pipit. — 
 But here's the King o' Bashan comin' efter his 
 butes, an' them no half dune yet !" exclaimed 
 Dooble Sanny, settling in haste to his awl and 
 his lingel (Fr. ligneul). He'll be roarin' mair like 
 a bull o' the country than the king o' 't." 
 
 As Robert departed, Peter Ogg came in, and 
 as he passed the window, he heard the shoe- 
 maker averring : 
 
 " I haena risen frae my stule sin' ane o'clock ; 
 but there's a sicht to be dune to them, Mr. Ogg." 
 
 Indeed, Alexander ah Alexandro, as Mr. Innes 
 facetiously styled him, was in more ways than 
 one worthy of the name of Dooble. There 
 seemed to be two natures in the man, which all 
 his music had not yet been able to blend.
 
 105 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 ANOTHER DISCOVERY IN THE GARRET. 
 
 LITTLE did Robert dream of the reception 
 that awaited him at home. Almost as soon 
 as he had left the house, the follo^ong events 
 began to take place. 
 
 The mistress's bell rang, and Betty "gaed 
 benn the hoose to see what she end be wantin'," 
 whereupon a conversation ensued. 
 
 "AATiawas that at the door, Betty f asked 
 Mrs. Falconer; for Robert had not shut the 
 door so carefully as he ought, seeing that the 
 deafness of his grandmother was of much the 
 same faculty as her blindness. 
 
 Had Robert not had a hold of Betty by the 
 forelock T)f her years, he would have been un- 
 able to steal any liberty at all. Still Betty 
 had a conscience, and although she would not 
 offend Robert if she could help it, yet she would 
 not lie. 
 
 " 'Deed, mem, I canna jist distinckly say 'at I 
 heard the door," she answered.
 
 106 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " Whaur's Robert ? " was her next question. 
 
 " He's generally up the stair aboot this hoor, 
 mem — that is, whan he's no i' the parlour at 's 
 lessons." 
 
 " What gangs he sae muckle up the stair for, 
 Betty, do ye ken ? It's something by ordinar' 
 wi' 'm." 
 
 " 'Deed I dinna ken, mem. I never tuik it 
 into my heid to gang considerin' aboot it. He'll 
 hae some ploy o' 's ain, nae doobt. Laddies will 
 be laddies, ye ken, mem." 
 
 " I doobt, Betty, ye'll be aidin' an' abettin'. 
 An' it disna become yer years, Betty." 
 
 "My years are no to fin' faut wi', mem. 
 They're weel eneuch." 
 
 " That's naething to the pint, Betty. What's 
 the laddie aboot ?" 
 
 ** Do ye mean whan he gangs up the stair, 
 memf 
 
 " Ay. Ye ken weel eneuch what I mean." 
 
 " Weel, mem, I tell ye I dinna ken. An' ye 
 never heard me tell ye a lee sin' ever I was i' 
 yer service, mem." 
 
 "Na, nae doonricht. Ye gang gfcboot it 
 an' aboot it, an' at last ye come sae near leein' 
 that gin ye spak anither word, ye wad be at it ; 
 and it jist fleys {frights) me frae speirin' ae ither 
 queston at ye. An that's hoo ye win oot o' 't. 
 But noo 'at it's aboot my ain oye {grandson), I'm 
 no gaein' to tyne {lose) him to save a woman o'
 
 ANOTHER DISCOVERY IX THE GARRET. 107 
 
 your years, wha oucht to ken better ; an' sae Fll 
 epeir at ye, though ye suld be diiven to lee like 
 Sawtan himsel'. — What's he aboot whan he 
 gangs up the stair ? Noo !" 
 
 *' Weel, as sui-e's deith, I dinna ken. Ye drive 
 me to sweirin', mem, an' no to leein'." 
 
 " I carena. Hae ye no idea aboot it, than, 
 Betty?" 
 
 "Weel, mem, I think sometimes he canna be 
 weel, and maun hae a tod (fox) in's stamack, or 
 something o' that nater. For what he eats is 
 awfu'. An' I think whiles he jist gangs up the 
 stair to eat at 's ain wull." 
 
 " That jumps wi' my ain observations, Betty. 
 Do ye think he micht hae a rabbit, or maybe a 
 pair o' them, in some boxie i' the garret, noo ?" 
 
 " And what for no, gin he had, mem ?" 
 
 "AATiat for no ? Nesty stmkm' thmgs ! But 
 that's no the pint. I aye hae to baud ye to the 
 pint, Betty. The pint is, whether he has ral- 
 bits or no T 
 
 " Or guinea-pigs," suggested Betty. 
 
 "Weel." 
 
 " Or maybe a pup or twa. Or I kent a lad- 
 die ance 'at keepit a haill faimily o' kittlins. Or 
 maybe he micht hae a bit lammie. There was 
 an uncle o' min' ain " 
 
 " Hand yer tongue, Betty ! Ye hae ower 
 muckle to say for a' the sense there's intil 't." 
 
 " Weel, mem, ye speii't questons at me."
 
 108 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 "Weel, I hae had eneiicli d' yer answers, 
 Betty. Gang and tell Robert to come here di- 
 reckly." 
 
 Betty went, knowing perfectly that Robert 
 had gone out, and returned with the informa- 
 tion. Her mistress searched her face with a 
 keen eye. 
 
 " That maun hae been himsel' efter a' whan 
 ye thocht ye hard the door gang," said Betty. 
 
 " It's a strange thing that I suld hear him 
 benn here wi' the door steekit, an' your door 
 open at the verra door-cheek o' the ither, an' 
 you no hear him, Betty. And me sae deif as 
 weell" 
 
 "'Deed, mem," retorted Betty, losing her 
 temper a little, " I can be as deif 's ither fowk 
 mysel' whiles." 
 
 When Betty grew angry, Mrs. Falconer inva- 
 riably grew calm, or, at least, put her temper 
 out of sight. She was silent now, and continued 
 silent tUl Betty moved to return to her kitchen, 
 when she said, in the tone of one who had just 
 arrived at an important resolution : 
 
 " Betty, we'll jist awa' up the stair an' luik." 
 
 " Weel, mem, I hae nae objections." 
 
 " Nae objections ! What for suld you or ony 
 ither body hae ony objections to me gaein' 
 whaur I like i' my ain hoose ? Umph I" ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Falconer, turning and facing her 
 maid.
 
 ANOTHER DISCOVERY IX THE GARRET. 109 
 
 " In coorse, mem. I only meant I had nae 
 objections to gang wi' ye." 
 
 " And what for suld you or ony ither woman 
 that I paid twa pmi' five i' the half-year till, 
 daur to hae objections to gaein' whaur I wantit 
 ye to gang i' my ain hoose !" 
 
 " Hoot, mem ! it was but a slip o' the tongue 
 — naething mair." 
 
 " Slip me nae sic slips, or ye'll come by a fa' 
 at last, I doobt, Betty," concluded Mrs. Falconer, 
 in a mollified tone, as she turned and led the 
 way fi'om the room. 
 
 They got a candle in the kitchen and pro- 
 ceeded up stairs, Mrs. Falconer still leading, 
 and Betty foUowhig. They did not even look 
 into the ga'le-room, not doubting that the dig- 
 nity of the best bed-room was in no danger of 
 being violated even by Robert, but took their 
 way upwards to the room in which he kept his 
 school-books — almost the only articles of pro- 
 perty which the boy possessed. Here they 
 found nothing suspicious. All was even in the 
 best possible order — not a very wonderful fact, 
 seeing a few books and a slate were the only 
 tilings there besides the papers on the shelves. 
 
 What the feelhigs of Shargar must have been 
 when he heard the steps and voices, and saw 
 the light approaching his place of refuge, we 
 will not change our pomt of view to inquu-e. 
 He certainly was as little to be envied at that
 
 110 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 moment as at any moment dm-ing the whole of 
 his existence. 
 
 The first sense Mrs. Falconer made use of in 
 the search after possible animals lay in her nose. 
 She kept snuffing constantly, but, beyond the 
 usual musty smell of neglected apartments, had 
 as yet discovered nothing. The moment she 
 entered the upper garret, however — 
 
 " There's an ill-faured smell here, Betty," she 
 said, believing that they had at last found the 
 trail of the mystery ; " but it's no like the smell 
 o' rabbits. Jist luik i' the nuik there ahin' the 
 door." 
 
 " There's naething here," responded Betty. 
 
 " Roon the en' o' that kist there. I s' luik 
 into the press." 
 
 As Betty rose from her search behind the 
 chest and turned towards her mistress, her eyes 
 crossed the cavernous opening of the bed. 
 There, to her horror, she beheld a face like that 
 of a galvanized corpse staring at her from the 
 darkness. Shargar was in a sitting posture, 
 paralysed with terror, waiting, like a fascinated 
 bird, till Mrs. Falconer and Betty should make 
 the final spring upon him, and do whatever was 
 equivalent to devouring him upon the spot. He 
 had sat up to listen to the noise of their ascend- 
 ing footsteps, and fear had so overmastered 
 him, that he either could not, or forgot that he 
 could lie down and cover liis head with some
 
 ANOTHER DISCOVERY IN THE GARRET. Ill 
 
 of the many garments scattered around him. 
 
 " I didna say whmky^ did I ?" he kept repeat- 
 ing to himself, in utter imbecility of fear. 
 
 " The Lord preserve 's !" exclaimed Betty, 
 the moment she could speak ; for dm^ing the 
 first few seconds, having caught the infection of 
 Shargar's expression, she stood equally para- 
 lysed. " The Lord preserve 's !" she repeated. 
 
 " Ance is eneuch," said Iklrs. Falconer, sharp- 
 ly, turning round to see what the cause of Bet- 
 ty's ejaculation might be. 
 
 I have said that she was dim-sighted. The 
 candle they had was little better than a penny 
 dip. The bed was darker than the rest of the 
 room. Shargar's face had none ot the more dis- 
 tinctive characteiistics of manhood upon it. 
 
 " Gude preserve 's !" exclaimed Mi's. Falconer 
 in her turn : " it's a wumman." 
 
 Poor deluded Shargar, thinking himself safer 
 under any form than that which he actually 
 bore, attempted no protest against the mistake. 
 But, indeed, he was incapable of speech. The 
 two women flew upon him to drag him out of 
 the bed. Then first recovering his powers of 
 motion, he sprung up in an agony of terror, and 
 darted out between them, overturning Betty in 
 his course. 
 
 "Ye rouch limmer!" cried Betty, from the 
 floor; " Ye lang-leggit jaud !" she added, as 
 she rose — and at the same moment Shargar
 
 112 EGBERT FALCONER. 
 
 banged the street-door behind him in his terror 
 — " I wat ye dinna carry yer coats ower syde 
 (too long) !" 
 
 For Shargar, having discovered that the way 
 to get the most warmth from Robert's great- 
 grandfather's kilt was to wear it in the manner 
 for which it had been fabricated, was in the 
 habit of fastening it round his waist before he 
 got into bed ; and the eye of Betty, as she fell, 
 had caught the swing ol this portion of his at- 
 tire. 
 
 But poor Mrs. Falconer, with sunken head, 
 walked out of the garret in the silence of de- 
 spair. She went slowly down the steep stair, 
 supporting herself against the wall, her round- 
 toed shoes creaking solemnly as she went, took 
 refuge in the ga'le-room, and burst into a vio- 
 lent fit of weeping. For such depravity she 
 Avas not prepared. What a terrible curse hung 
 over her family ! Surely they were all repro- 
 bate from the womb, not one elected for salva- 
 tion from the guilt of Adam's fall, and therefore 
 abandoned to Satan as his natural prey, to be 
 led captive of him at his will. She threw her- 
 self on her knees at the side of the bed, and 
 prayed heart-brokenly. Betty heard her as she 
 Ihnped past the door on her way back to her 
 kitchen. 
 
 Meantime Shargar had rushed across the 
 next street on his bare feet into the Crookit
 
 ANOTHER DISCOVERY IN THE GARRET. 113 
 
 Wynd, terrifying poor old Kii'stan Peerie, the 
 divisions betwixt the compartments of whose 
 memory had broken down, into the exclamation 
 to her next neighbonr, Tam Rhin, T\dth whom 
 she was trying to gossip : 
 
 " Eh, Tammas ! that '11 be ane o' the slaiich- 
 tert at Culloden." 
 
 He never stopped till he reached his mother's 
 deserted abode — strqji.^e instinct ! There he 
 ran to earth like a hunted fox. Rushing at the 
 door, forgetful of everything but refuge, he 
 found it unlocked, and closing it behind him, 
 stood panting like the hart that has found the 
 water-brooks. The owner had looked in one 
 day to see whether the place was worth repair- 
 ing, for it was a mere outhouse, and had for- 
 gotten to turn the key when he left it. Poor 
 Shargar ! Was it more or less of a refuge that 
 the mother that bore liim was not there either 
 to curse or welcome his return ? Less — if w^e 
 may judge from a remark he once made in my 
 hearing many long years after ; 
 
 *' For, ye see," he said, " a mither's a mither, 
 be she the verra de'il." 
 
 Searching about in the dark, he found the 
 one article unsold by the landlord, a stool, with 
 ^ but two of its natural thi-ee legs. On this he 
 balanced himself and waited — simply for what 
 Robert would do ; for liis faith in Robert was 
 unbounded, and he had no other hope on earth. 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 But Shargar was not miserable. In that 
 wretched hovel, his bare feet clasping the clay- 
 floor in constant search of a wavering equilibri- 
 um, with pitch darkness around him, and inca- 
 pable of the simplest philosophical or religious 
 reflection, he yet found life good. For it had 
 mterest. Nay, more, it had hope. I doubt, 
 however, whether there is any interest at all 
 without hope. 
 
 While he sat there, Robert, thinking liim 
 snug in the garret, was walking quietly home 
 from the shoemaker's ; and his first impulse on 
 entering was to run up and recount the parti- 
 culars of his interview with Alexander. Arrived 
 in the dark garret, he called Shargar, as usual, 
 in a whisper — received no reply — thought he 
 was asleep — called louder (for he had had a 
 penny from his grandmother that day for bring- 
 ing home two pails of water for Betty, and 
 had just spent it upon a loaf for him) — but no 
 Shargar replied. Thereupon he went to the 
 bed to lay hold of him and shake him. But his 
 searching hands fomid no Shargar. Becoming 
 alarmed, he ran down stairs to beg a light from 
 Betty. 
 
 AVhen he reached the kitchen, he found Bet- 
 ty's nose as much in the air as its construction 
 would permit. For a hook-nosed animal, she 
 certainly was the most harmless and ovine 
 creature in the world, but tlxis was a case in
 
 ANOTHER DISCOVERY IN THE GARRET. 115 
 
 which feminine modesty was both concerned 
 and aggrieved. She showed her resentment no 
 further, however, than by simply returning no 
 answer in syllable, or sound, or motion, to Ro- 
 bert's request. She was washing up the tea- 
 things, and went on ^\dth her work as if she 
 had been in absolute solitude, saving that her 
 countenance could hardly have kept up that 
 expression of injui-ed dignity had such been the 
 case. Robert plainly saw, to his great concern, 
 that his secret had been discovered in his ab- 
 sence, and that Shargar had been expelled w4th 
 contumely. But, with an instinct of facing the 
 worst at once which accompanied him through 
 life, he went straight to his grandmother's par- 
 lour. 
 
 " Well, grandmamma," he said, trying to 
 speak as cheerfully as he could. 
 
 Grannie's prayers had softened her a little, 
 else she would have been as silent as Betty ; for 
 it Avas from her mistress that Betty had learned 
 tliis mode of tortuiing a criminal. So she was 
 just able to return his greeting in the words, 
 " Weel, Robert," pronomiced \vdth a finality of 
 tone that indicated she had done her utmost, 
 and had nothing to add. 
 
 " Here's a browst {hreicage) I" thought Robert 
 to himself; and, still on the principle of flying 
 at the fii'st of miscliief he saw — the best mode 
 of meeting it, no doubt — addi'essed his grand- 
 
 i2
 
 116 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 mother at once. The effort necessary gave a 
 tone of defiance to his words. 
 
 " What for willna ye speik to me, grannie ?" 
 he said. " I'm no a haithen, nor yet a papist." 
 
 " Ye're waur nor baith in ane, Robert." 
 
 " Hoots ! ye winna say baith, grannie," re- 
 turned Robert, who, even at the age of fourteen, 
 when once compelled to assert himself, assumed 
 a modest superiority. 
 
 " Nane o' sic impidence !" retorted Mrs. Fal- 
 coner. " I wonner whaur ye learn that. But 
 it's nae wonner. Evil communications corrupt 
 gude mainners. Ye're a lost prodigal, Robert, 
 like yer father afore ye. I hae jist been sittin' 
 here thinkin' wi' mysel' whether it wadna be 
 better for baith o' 's to lat ye gang an' reap the 
 fruit o' yer doin's at ance ; for the hard ways is 
 the best road for transgressors, i'm no bund to 
 keep ye." 
 
 " Weel, weel, I s' awa' to Shargar. Him and 
 me 'ill hand on thegither better nor you an' me, 
 grannie. He's a puir cratur, but he can stick 
 till a body." 
 
 " What are ye haverin' aboot Shargar for, ye 
 heepocreet loon ? Ye'll no gang to Shargar, I s' 
 warran' ! Ye'll be efter that vile limmer that's 
 turnt my honest hoose intil a sty this last fort- 
 nicht." 
 
 *' Grannie, I dinna ken what ye mean." 
 
 " She kens, than. I sent her aff like ane o'
 
 ANOTHER DISCOVERY IN THE GARRET. 117 
 
 Samson's foxes, wi' a fii-ebraiicl at her tail. It's 
 a pity it wasna tied atween the twa o' ye." 
 
 " Preserve 's, grannie ! Is 't possible ye hae 
 ta'en Shargar for ane o' wumman-kin' ?" 
 
 " I ken naething aboot Shargar, I tell ye. I 
 ken that Betty an' me tiiik an ill-faiu'ecl dame i' 
 the bed i' the garret." 
 
 " Cud it be his mither V thought Robert in 
 bewilderment ; but he recovered himself in a 
 moment, and answered, 
 
 " Shargar maj/ be a quean efter a', for ony- 
 thing 'at I ken to the contrauy ; but I aye tuik 
 him for a loon. Faith, sic a quean as he'd mak!" 
 
 And careless to resist the ludicrousness of the 
 idea, he biu-st hito a loud fit of laughter, which 
 did more to reassure his gTannie than any 
 amount of protestation could have done, how- 
 ever she pretended to take offence at his ill- 
 timed merriment. 
 
 Seeing his grandmother staggered, Robert 
 gathered corn-age to assume the offensive. 
 
 *' But, granny! hoo ever Betty, no to say you, 
 cud hae driven oot a pun* half-stervit cratiu- like 
 Shargar, even supposin' he oucht to hae been in 
 coaties, and no in troosers — and the mither o' 
 him run awa' an' left him — ^it's man* nor I can 
 unnerstan'. I misdoobt me sah* but he's gane 
 and di'oont himsel'." 
 
 Robert loiew well enough that Shargar would 
 not drown himself mthout at least bidding liim
 
 118 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 good-bye ; but he knew, too, that his grand- 
 mother could be wrought u.pon. Her conscience 
 was more tender than her feehngs ; and this pe- 
 cuharity occasioned part of the mutual non- 
 understanding rather than misunderstanding 
 between her grandson and herself. The first 
 relation she bore to most that came near her 
 was one of severity and rebuke; but underneath 
 her cold outside lay a warm heart, to which con- 
 science acted the part of a somewhat capricious 
 stoker, now quenching its heat with the cold 
 water of duty, now stirring it up with the poker 
 of reproach, and ever treating it as an mferior 
 and a slave. But her conscience was, on the 
 whole, a better friend to her race than her 
 heart ; and, indeed, the conscience is always a 
 better friend than a heart whose motions are 
 undirected by it. From Falconer's account of 
 her, however, I cannot help thinking that she 
 not unfrequently took refuge in severity of tone 
 and manner from the threatened ebullition of a . 
 feeling which she could not otherwise control, 
 and which she was ashamed to manifest. Pos- 
 sibly conscience had spoken more and more 
 gently as its behests were more and more read- 
 ily obeyed, until tlie heart began to gather cour- 
 age, and at last, as in many old people, took 
 the upper hand, which was outwardly inconve- 
 nient to one of Mrs. Falconer's temperament. 
 Hence, in doing the kindest tiling m the world.
 
 ANOTHER DISCOVERY IN THE GARRET. 119 
 
 she would speak in a tone of command, even of 
 . rebuke, as if she were compelhng the perform- 
 ance of the most unpleasant duty in the person 
 who received the kindness. But the human 
 heart is hard to analyse, and, indeed, will not 
 submit quietly to the operation, however gently 
 performed. Nor is the result at all easy to put 
 into words. It is best shown m actions. 
 
 Again, it may appear rather strange that Ro- 
 bert should be able to talk in such an easy man- 
 ner to his grandmother, seeing he had been 
 guilty of concealment, if not of deception. But 
 she had never been so actively severe towards 
 Robert as she had been towards her o^vn chil- 
 dren. To him she was wonderfully gentle for 
 her nature, and sought to exercise the saving 
 fiarshness which she still believed necessary, 
 solely in keepmg from him every enjoyment of 
 life which the narrowest theories as to the rule 
 and will of God could set down as worldly. 
 Frivolity, of which there was httle in this sober 
 boy, was m her eyes a vice ; loud laughter al- 
 most a crime ; cards, and novelles, as she called 
 them, were such in her estimation, as to be be- 
 yond my powers of characterization. Her com- 
 monest mjunction was, "Noo be douce,^^ — that 
 is, sober — uttered to the soberest boy she could 
 ever have known. But Robert was a large- 
 hearted boy, else this life would never have had 
 to be wiitten ; and so, through all tliis, his
 
 120 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 deepest nature came into miconscious contact 
 with that of his noble old grandmother. There 
 was nothing small about either of them. Hence 
 Eobert was not afraid of her. He had got more 
 of her nature in him than of her son's. She 
 and his own mother had more share in him than 
 his father, though from him he inherited good 
 qualities likewise. 
 
 He had concealed his doings with Shargar 
 simply because he believed that they could not 
 be done if liis grandmother knew of his plans. 
 Herein he did her less than justice. But so un- 
 pleasant was concealment to his nature, and so 
 much did the dread of discovery press upon 
 him, that the moment he saw the thing had 
 come out into the daylight of her knowledge, 
 such a reaction of relief took place as, operating 
 along with his deep natural humour and the 
 comical circumstance of the case, gave him an 
 ease and freedom of communication which he 
 had never before enjoyed with her. Likewise 
 there was a certain courage in the boy which, if 
 his own natural disposition had not been §o 
 quiet that he felt the negations of her rule the 
 less, might have resulted in underhand domgs 
 of a very different kind, possibly, from those of 
 benevolence. 
 
 He must have been a strange being to look 
 at, I always think, at this point of his develop- 
 ment, with his huge nose, his black eyes, his
 
 ANOTHER DISCOVERY IX THE GARRET. 121 
 
 lanky figiu'e, and his sober countenance, on 
 which a smile was rarely visible, but from which 
 burst occasional guffaws of laughter. 
 
 At the words " droont himsel'," Mrs. Falconer 
 started. 
 
 " Rin, laddie, rin," she said, *' an' fess him 
 back direckly! Betty I Betty I gang m' Robert 
 and help him to luik for Shargar. Ye auld, 
 blin', doited body, 'at says ye can see, and canna 
 tell a lad frae a lass I" 
 
 "Xa, na, grannie. I'm no gaein' oot wi' a 
 dame like her trailin' at my fiit. She wad be a 
 sair hinnerance to me. Gin Shargar be to be 
 gotten — that is, gin he be in life — I s' get him 
 wantin' Betty. And gin ye dinna ken him for 
 the crater ye fand i' the garret, he maun be sair 
 changed sin' I left him there." 
 
 "Weel, weel, Robert, gang yer wa's. But 
 
 gin ye be deceivin' me, may the Lord for- 
 
 gie ye, Robert, for sail* ye'll need it." 
 
 "Nae fear o' that, grannie," retm-ned Robert, 
 from the street-door, and vanished. 
 
 Mrs. Falconer stalked Xo, I ^ill not use 
 
 that word of the gait of a woman like my 
 friend's grandmother. " Stately stept she butt 
 the hoose " to Betty. She felt strangely soft 
 at the heart, Robert not being yet proved a re- 
 probate ; but she was not therefore prepared to 
 drop one atom of the dignity of her relation to 
 her servant.
 
 122 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " Betty," she said, " ye hae made a mistak." 
 
 "What's that, memf returned Betty. 
 
 " It wasna a lass ava : it was that crater 
 Shargar." 
 
 *' Ye said it was a lass yersel' first, mem." 
 
 " Ye ken weel eneuch that I'm short-sichtit, 
 an' hae been frae the day o' my birth." 
 
 " I'm no auld eneuch to min' upo' that, mem," 
 retm-ned Betty revengefully, but in an under- 
 tone, as if she did not intend her mistress to 
 hear. And although she heard well enough, 
 her mistress adopted the subterfuge. " But I'll 
 sweir the crater /saw was in cwytes {petticoats) T 
 
 " Sweir not at all, Betty. Ye hae made a 
 mistak ony gait." 
 
 " Wha says that, mem ?" 
 
 " Robert." 
 
 " Aweel, gin he be tellin' the trowth " 
 
 " Daur ye mint {insinuate) to me that a son o' 
 mine wad tell onything but the trowth f 
 
 " Na, na, mem. But gin that wasna a quean, 
 ye canna deny but she luikit unco like ane, and 
 no a blate {bashful) ane eytlier." 
 
 " Gin he was a loon, he wadna luik like a 
 hlate lass, ony gait, Betty. And there ye're 
 wrang." 
 
 " Weel, weel, mem, hae 't yer ain gait," mut- 
 tered Betty. 
 
 " I Avull hae 't my ain gait," retorted her mis- 
 tress, " because it's the richt gait, Betty. An'
 
 ANOTHER DISCOVERY IX THE GARRET. 123 
 
 noo ye maun jist gang up the stair, an' get the 
 place cleant oot an' put in order." 
 
 " I vmll do that, mem." 
 
 "Ay ^voill ye. An' luik weel aboot, Betty, 
 you that can see sae weel, in case there suld be 
 ony cattle aboot ; for he's nane o' the cleanest, 
 yon dame !" 
 
 " I vraW do that, mem." 
 
 " An' gang dii'eckly, afore he comes back." 
 
 "Wha comes back?" 
 
 " Robert, of coorse." 
 
 "What for that?" 
 
 " 'Cause he 's comin' wi' 'im." 
 
 " AVhat he 's comin' wi' 'im ?" 
 
 " Ca' 't she, gm ye Hke. It's Shargar." 
 
 " Wha says that ?" exclaimed Betty, sniffing 
 and starting at once. 
 
 "/say that. An' ye gang an' du what I tell 
 ye, this minute." 
 
 Betty obeyed instantly ; for the tone in which 
 the last words were spoken was one she was 
 not accustomed to dispute. She only muttered 
 as she went, " It '11 a' come upo' me as usual." 
 
 Betty's job was long ended before Robert re- 
 turned. Never dreamuig that Shargar could 
 have gone back to the old haunt, he had looked 
 for him everywhere before that occurred to him 
 as a last chance. Nor would he have found 
 him even then, for he would not have thought 
 of liis being inside the deserted house, had
 
 124 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 not Sliargar heard his footsteps in the street. 
 
 He started up from his stool saying, " That's 
 Bob 1" but was not sure enough to go to the 
 door : he might be mistaken ; it might be the 
 landlord. He heard the feet stop and did not 
 move; but when he heard them begin to go 
 away agam, he rushed to the door, and bawled 
 on the chance at the top of his voice, " Bob ! 
 Bob!" 
 
 " Eh ! ye crater !" said Robert, " ir ye there 
 eftera'?" 
 
 " Eh ! Bob," exclaimed Shargar, and burst 
 into tears. " I thocht ye wad come efter me." 
 
 " Of coorse," answered Robert, coolly. " Come 
 awa' hame." 
 
 " Whaur til f asked Shargar, in dismay." 
 
 " Hame to yer ain bed at my grannie's." 
 
 " Na, na," said Shargar, hurriedly, retreating 
 within the door of the hovel. " Na, na. Bob, 
 lad, I s' no du that. She's an awfu' wuman, 
 that grannie o' yours. I canna think hoo ye can 
 bide wi' her. I'm weel oot o' her grups, / can 
 tell ye." 
 
 It required a good deal of persuasion, but at 
 last Robert prevailed upon Shargar to return. 
 For was not Robert his tower of strength? And 
 if Robert was not frightened at his grannie, or 
 at Betty, why should he be ? At length they 
 entered Mrs. Falconer's parlour, Robert dragging 
 in Shargar after him, having failed altogether
 
 AXOTHER DISCOVERY IX THE GARRET. 125 
 
 in encoiiragiiig him to enter after a more digni- 
 fied fashion. 
 
 It must be remembered that although Shargar 
 was still kilted, he was not the less trowsered, 
 such as the trowsers were. It makes my heart 
 ache to think of those trowsers — not believing 
 trowsers essential to blessedness either, but 
 knowing the superiority of the old Roman cos- 
 tume of the kilt. 
 
 No sooner had Mrs. Falconer cast her eyes 
 upon him than she could not but be con\Tnced 
 of the truth of Robert's averment. 
 
 " Here he is, grannie ; and gin ye bena saitis- 
 feed yet " 
 
 " Hand yer tongue, laddie. Ye hae gi'en me 
 nae cause to doobt yer word." 
 
 Indeed, dm-ing Robert's absence, liis grand- 
 mother had had leisure to perceive of what an 
 absurd folly she had been guilty. She had also 
 had time to make up her mind as to her duty 
 with regard to Shargar ; and the more she 
 thought about it, the more she admh-ed the con- 
 duct of her grandson, and the better she saw 
 that it would be right to follow his example. 
 No doubt she was the more inclined to this be- 
 nevolence that she had as it Avere received her 
 grandson back from the jaws of death. 
 
 When the two lads entered, fr-om her arm- 
 chair Mrs. Falconer examined Shargar from head 
 to foot with the eye of a queen on her thi'one,
 
 126 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 and a countenance immoveable in stern gentle- 
 ness, till Shargar would gladly have sunk into 
 the shelter of the volummous kilt from the gaze 
 of those quiet hazel eyes. 
 At length she spoke : 
 " Robert, tak him awa'.'^ 
 " Whaur'll I tak him till, grannie ?" 
 "Tak him up to the garret. Betty 'ill ha' 
 ta'en a tub o' het water up there 'gen this time, 
 and ye maun see that he washes himsel' frae heid 
 to fut, or he s' no bide an 'oor i' my hoose. Gang 
 awa' an' see till 't this minute." 
 
 But she detamed them yet awhile with various 
 directions in regard of cleansmg, for the carry- 
 ing out of which Robert was only too glad to 
 give his word. She dismissed them at last, and 
 Shargar by and by found himself in bed, clean, 
 and, for the first time in his life, between a pair 
 of linen sheets — not altogether to his satisfac- 
 tion, for mere order and comfort were substi- 
 tuted for adventure and success. 
 
 But greater trials awaited him. In the morn- 
 ing he was visited by Brodie, the tailor, and 
 Elshender, the shoemaker, both ofwhomheheld 
 in awe as his superiors in the social scale, and 
 by them handled and measured from head to 
 feet, the latter included ; after which he had to 
 lie in bed for three days, till his clothes came 
 home ; for Betty had carefully committed every 
 article of his former dress to the kitchen fire,
 
 ANOTHER DISCOVERY IN THE GARRET. 127 
 
 not without a sense of pollution to the bottom 
 of her kettle. Nor would he have got them for 
 double the time, had not Robert haunted the 
 tailor, as well as the soutar, like an evil con- 
 science, till they had finished them. Thus griev- 
 ous was Shargar s introduction to the comforts 
 of respectability. Nor did he Hke it much l^etter 
 when he was di'essed, and able to go about ; for 
 not only w^as he uncomfortable in his new clothes, 
 which, after the very easy fit of the old ones, 
 felt like a suit of plate-armom-, but he was liable 
 to be sent for at any moment by the aw^ful 
 sovereignty in whose dominions he found himself, 
 and wliich, of com'se, proceeded to mstruct him 
 not merely in his own rehgious duties, but in the 
 religious theories of his ancestors, if, indeed, 
 Shargar's ancestors ever had any. And now the 
 Shorter Catechism seemed likely to be changed 
 into the Longer Catechism ; for he had it Sun- 
 days as well as Satm'days, besides Alleme's 
 Alarm to the Unconverted, Baxter's SaMs Best, 
 Erskine's Gospel Sonnets, and other books of a 
 like kind. Nor was it any relief to Shargar that 
 the gloom was broken by the incomparable 
 Pilgrirns Progress and the Holy War, for he 
 cared for none of these tilings. Indeed, so 
 dreary did he find it all, that his love to Robert 
 was never put to such a severe test. But for 
 that, he would have run for it. Twenty times a 
 day was he so tempted.
 
 128 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 At school, though it was better, yet it was bad. 
 For he was ten times as much laughed at for his 
 new clothes, though they were of the plainest, 
 as he had been for his old rags. Still he bore 
 all the pangs of unwelcome advancement with- 
 out a grumble, for the sake of his friend alone, 
 whose dog he remained as much as ever. But 
 his past life of cold and neglect, and hunger and 
 blows, and homelessness and rags, began to 
 glimmer as in the distance of a vaporous smiset, 
 and the loveless freedom he had then enjoyed 
 gave it a bloom as of summer-roses. 
 
 I wonder whether there may not have been 
 in some unknown corner of the old lady's mind 
 this lingering remnant of paganism, that, in re- 
 claiming the outcast from the error of his ways, 
 she was making an offering acceptable to that 
 God whom her mere prayers could not move to 
 look with favour upon her prodigal son Andrew. 
 Nor from her own acknowledged religious belief 
 as a backgromid would it have stuck so fiery off 
 either. Indeed, it might have been a partial 
 corrective of some yet more dreadful articles of 
 her creed, — which she held, be it remembered, 
 because she could not help it.
 
 129 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 PEIYATE INTERVIEWS. 
 
 THE winter passed slowly away. Robert and 
 Sliargar went to school together, and 
 learned theii* lessons together at Mrs. Falconer s 
 table. Shargar soon learned to behave ^wdth 
 tolerable propriety ; was obedient, as far as eye- 
 service went; looked as queer as ever; did what 
 he pleased, which was nowise very wicked, the 
 moment he was out of the old lady's sight ; was 
 well fed and well cared for ; and when he was 
 asked how he was, gave the invariable answer : 
 " Middlia'." He was not very happy. 
 
 There was little communication in words be- 
 tween the two boys, for the one had not much 
 to say, and the pondering fits of the other grew 
 rather than relaxed in frequency and intensity. 
 Yet amongst chance acquaintances m the town 
 Robert had the character of a wag, of which he 
 was totally unaware himself. Indeed, although 
 he had more than the ordinary share of humour, 
 I suspect it was not so much his fun as liis 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 ISO ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 earnest that got him the character ; for he would 
 say such altogether unheard-of and strange things, 
 that the only way they were capable of account- 
 ing for him was as a humorist. 
 
 "Eh!" he said once to Elshender, during a 
 pause common to a thunder-storm and a lesson 
 on the violin, " eh ! wadna ye like to be up in 
 that clood wi' a spaud, turnin' ower the divots 
 and catchin the flashes lyin' aneath them like 
 lang reid fiery worms I" 
 
 " Ay, man, but gin ye luik up to the cloods 
 that gait, ye'll never be muckle o' a fiddler." 
 
 This was merely an outbreak of that insolence 
 of advice so often shown to the young from no 
 vantage-ground but that of age and faithlessness, 
 reminding one of the "jigging fool" who inter- 
 fered between Brutus and Cassius on the sole 
 ground that he had seen more years than they. 
 As if ever a fiddler that did not look up to the 
 clouds would be anything but a catgut-scraper ! 
 Even Elshender's fiddle was the one angel that 
 held back the heavy curtain of his gross nature, 
 and let the sky shine through. He ought to 
 have been set fiddling every Sunday morning, 
 and from his fiddling dragged straight to church. 
 It was the only thing man could have done for 
 his conversion, for then his heart was open. But 
 I fear the prayers would have closed it before 
 the sermon came. He should rather have been 
 compelled to take his fiddle to church with him.
 
 PRIVATE INTERVIEWS. 131 
 
 and have a gentle scrape at it in the pauses of 
 the service ; only there are no such pauses in the 
 service, alas ! And Dooble Sanny, though not 
 too religious to get drunk occasionally, was a 
 great deal too religious to play his fiddle on 
 the Sabbath : he would not willingly anger the 
 powers above; but it was sometimes a sore 
 temptation, especially after he got possession of 
 old Mr. Falconer's wonderftd instrument. 
 
 "Hoots, man!" he would say to Robert; 
 " dinna han'le her as gin she war an egg-box. 
 Tak haud o' her as gin she war a leevin' crater. 
 Ye maun jist straik her canny, an' wile the 
 music oot o' her ; for she's like ither women: gui 
 ye be rouch wi' her, ye winna get a word oot o' 
 her. An' dinna han'le her that gait. She canna 
 bide to be contred an' pu'd this gait and that 
 gait. — Come to me, my bonny leddy. Ye'll tell 
 me yer story, winna ye, my dauty (pet) f 
 
 And with every gesture as if he were humour- 
 ing a shy and invalid girl, he would, as he said, 
 wile the music out of her in sobs and wailing, 
 till the instrument, gathering courage in his 
 embrace, grew gently merry in its confidence, 
 and broke at last into airy laughter. He always 
 spoke, and apparently thought, of his violin as 
 a woman, just as a sailor does of his craft. But 
 there was nothing about him, except his love for 
 music and its instruments, to suggest other than 
 a most uncivilized nature. That which was fine 
 
 K 2
 
 132 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 in him was constantly cliecked and held down 
 by the gross ; the merely animal overpowered 
 the spiritual ; and it was only npon occasion 
 that his heavenly companion, the violin, could 
 raise him a few feet above the mire and the clay. 
 She never succeeded in setting his feet on a 
 rock ; while, on the contrary, he often dragged 
 her with him into the mire of questionable com- 
 pany and cu-cumstances. Worthy Mr. Falconer 
 would have been horrified to see his umquhile 
 modest companion m such society as that into 
 which she was now introduced at times. But 
 nevertheless the soutar was a good and patient 
 teacher; and although it took Robert rather more 
 than a fortnight to redeem his pledge to Shar- 
 gar, he did make progress. It could not, how- 
 ever, be rapid, seeing that an hour at a time, 
 two evenings in the week, was all that he could 
 give to the violin. Even with this moderation, 
 the risk of his absence exciting his grand- 
 mother's suspicion and inquuy was far from small. 
 And now, were those really faded old memo- 
 ries of his grandfather and his merry kindness, 
 all so different from the solemn benevolence of 
 liis grandmother, which seemed to revive in his 
 bosom with the revivification of the violin? 
 The instrument had surely laid up a story ui its 
 hollow breast, had been dreaming over it all the 
 time it lay hidden away in the closet, and was 
 now telling out its dreams about the old times
 
 PRIYATE IXTERYIEWS. 133 
 
 in the ear of the hstenmg boy. To him also it 
 began to assume something of that mystery and 
 life which had such a softening, and, for the mo- 
 ment at least, elevating influence on his master. 
 
 At length the love of the violin had grown 
 upon him so, that he could not but cast about 
 how he might enjoy more of its company. It 
 would not do, for many reasons, to go offcener 
 to the shoemaker's, especially now that the days 
 were getting longer. Nor was that what he 
 wanted. He wanted opportunity for practice. 
 He wanted to be alone with the creature, to see 
 if she would not say sometliing more to him than 
 she had ever said yet. Wafts and odoui-s of me- 
 lodies began to steal upon him ere he was aware 
 in the half lights between sleeping and waking : 
 if he could only entice them to creep out of the 
 violin, and once " bless his humble ears " ^dth 
 the bodily hearing of them ! Perhaps he might 
 — who could tell ? But how 1 But where ? 
 
 There was a building in Rothieden not old, 
 yet so deserted that its very history seemed to 
 have come to a standstill, and the dust that filled 
 it to have fallen from the plumes of passing cen- 
 tm'ies. It was the property of Mrs. Falconer, 
 left her by her husband. Trade had gradually 
 ebbed away from the town till the thread-factory 
 stood unoccupied, ^dth all its machmery rustmg 
 and mouldermg, just as the work-people had 
 risen and left it one hot, midsummer day, when
 
 134 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 they were told that their services were no longer 
 required. Some of the thread even remained 
 upon the spools, and in the hollows of some of 
 the sockets the oil had as yet dried only into a 
 paste ; although to Robert the desertion of the 
 place appeared immemorial. It stood at a fur- 
 long's distance from the house, on the outskirt of 
 the town. There was a large, neglected garden 
 behind it, with some good fruit-trees, and plenty 
 of the bushes which boys love for the sake of 
 their berries. After grannie's jam-pots were 
 properly filled, the remnant of these, a gleaning 
 far greater than the gathering, was at the dis- 
 posal of Robert, and, philosopher although in 
 some measure he was already, he appreciated 
 the privilege. Haunting this garden in the pre- 
 vious summer, he had for the first time made ac- 
 quaintance with the interior of the deserted fac- 
 tory. The door to the road was always kept 
 locked, and the key of it lay in one of grannie's 
 drawers ; but he had then discovered a back en- 
 trance less secm'ely fastened, and with a strange 
 mingling of fear and curiosity had from time to 
 time extended his rambles over what seemed to 
 him the huge desolation of the place. Half 
 of it was well built of stone and lime, but of 
 the other ^half the upper part was built of wood, 
 which now showed signs of considerable decay. 
 One room opened into another through the length 
 of the place, revealing a vista of machines, stand-
 
 PRIVATE INTERVIEWS. 135 
 
 ing with an air of the last folding of the T\Tngs 
 of silence over them, and the sense of a deeper 
 and deeper sinking into the soundless abyss. 
 But their activity was not so far vanished but 
 that by degrees Robert came to fancy that he 
 had some time or other seen a woman seated at 
 each of those silent powers, whose single hand set 
 the whole frame in motion, with its numberless 
 spindles and spools rapidly revolving — a vague 
 mystery of endless threads in orderly complica- 
 tion, out of which came some desired, to him un- 
 known, result, so that the whole place was full 
 of a bewildering tumult of work, .every little 
 reel contributing its share, as the water-di'ops 
 clashing together make the roar of a tempest. 
 Now all was still as the chm-ch on a week-day, 
 still as the school on a Saturday afternoon. 
 Nay, the silence seemed to have settled down 
 Uke the dust, and grown old and thick, so dead 
 and old that the ghost of the ancient noise had 
 arisen to haunt the place. 
 
 Thither would Robert carry his violin, and 
 there would he woo her. 
 
 "I'm thinkin' I maun tak her wi' me the 
 nicht, Sanders," he said, holding the fiddle 
 lovingly to his bosom, after he had finished his 
 next lesson. 
 
 The shoemaker looked blank. 
 
 " Ye're no gaein' to desert me, are ye ?" 
 
 " Na, weel I wat !" returned Robert. " But I
 
 136 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 want to try her at hame. I maun get used till her 
 a bittie, ye ken, afore I can du onything wi' 
 her." 
 
 "I wiss ye had na brought her here ava. AVhat 
 I am to du wantin' her !" 
 
 " What for dmna ye get yer am back V' 
 
 " I haena the siller, man. And, forbye, I doobt 
 I wadna be that sair content wi' her noo gin I 
 had her. I used to think her gran'. But I'm 
 clean oot o' conceit o' her. That bonnie leddy's 
 ta'en 't clean oot o' me." 
 
 " But ye canna hae her aye, ye ken, Sanders. 
 She's no mine. She's my grannie's, ye ken." 
 
 " What's the use o' her to her F She pits nae 
 vailue upon her. Eh, man, gin she wad gie her 
 to me, I wad hand her i' the best o' shune a' the 
 lave o' her days." 
 
 " That wadna be muckle, Sanders, for she 
 hasna had a new pair sin' ever I mind." 
 
 " But I wad haud Betty in shune as weel." 
 
 " Betty pays for her ain shune, I reckon." 
 
 "Weel, I wad haud you in shune, and yer 
 bairns, and yer bairns' bairns," cried the soutar, 
 mth enthusiasm. 
 
 *' Hoot, toot, man ! Lang or that ye'll be fid- 
 . dlin' i' the new Jerooslem." 
 
 " Eh, man !" said Alexander, lookmg up — he 
 had just cracked the roset-ends off his hands, for 
 he had the upper leather of a boot in the grasp 
 of the clams, and his right hand hung arrested
 
 PRIVATE IXTERYIEWS. 137 
 
 on its blind way to the awl — " cluv ye think 
 there '11 be fiddles there ? I thocht they war a' 
 hau'ps, a tiling 'at I never saw, but it canna be 
 up till a fiddle." 
 
 "I duma ken," answered Robert; "but ye 
 suld mak a pint o' seein' for yersel'. 
 
 " Gin I thoucht there wad be fiddles there, 
 faith I wad hae a try. It wadna be muckle o' a 
 Jeroozlem to me wantin my fiddle. But gin 
 there be fiddles, I daursay they '11 be gran' anes. 
 I dam'say they wad gi' me a new ane — I mean 
 ane as auld as Noah's 'at he played i' the ark 
 whan the de'il cam' in by to hearken. I wad 
 fain hae a try. Ye ken a' aboot it wi' that gran- 
 nie o' yom-s : hoo's a body to begin ?" 
 
 " By giein' up the diink, man." 
 
 "Ay — ay — ay — I reckon ye're richt. Weel, 
 I'll tliink aboot it whan ance I'm thi'ou T\d' this 
 job. That '11 be neist ook, or thereabouts, or 
 -aiblins twa days efter. I'll hae some leiser 
 than." 
 
 Before he had finished speaking he had caught 
 up his awl and begun to work vigorously, boring 
 his holes as if the nerves of feelmg were con- 
 tmued to the point of the tool, inserting the 
 bristles that served him for needles with a deli- 
 cacy worthy of soft-skinned fingers, draA\'ing 
 through the rosmed threads ^^dth a whisk, and 
 untvdning them vrith a crack fi.'om the leather 
 that guarded his hands.
 
 138 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " Gude nicht to ye," said Robert, with the 
 fiddle-case under his arm. 
 
 The shoemaker looked up, with his hands 
 bound in his threads. 
 
 " Ye're no gaein' to tak her frae me the 
 nicht?" 
 
 " Ay am I, but I'll fess her back again. I'm 
 no gaein' to Jericho wi' her." 
 
 " Gang to Hecklebirnie wi' her, and that's 
 three mile ayont hell." 
 
 " Na ; we maun win farther nor that. There 
 canna be muckle fiddlm' there." 
 
 " Weel, tak her to the new Jeroozlem. I s' 
 gang doon to Lucky Leary's, and fill mysel' 
 roarin' fou, an' it '11 be a' your wyte (blarneys 
 
 " I doobt 3/e'll get the straiks (blows) though. 
 Or maybe ye think Bell 'ill tak them for ye." 
 
 Dooble Sanny caught up a huge boot, the sole 
 of which was filled with broad-headed nails as 
 thick as they could be driven, and, in a rage, 
 threw it at Robert as he darted out. Through 
 its clang against the door-cheek, the shoemaker 
 heard a cry from the instrument. He cast every- 
 thing from him and sprang after Robert. But 
 Robert was down the wynd like a long-legged 
 grayhound, and Elshender could only follow 
 like a fierce mastifi*. It was love and grief, though, 
 and apprehension and remorse, not vengeance, 
 that winged his heels. He soon saw that pur- 
 suit was vain.
 
 PRIVATE INTERVIEWS. 139 
 
 *' Robert ! Robert !" he cried ; " I canna win 
 up wi' ye. Stop, for God's sake ! Is she hui'tit ?" 
 
 Robert stopped at once. 
 
 " Ye hae made a bonny leddy o' her — a la- 
 meter {cripple) I doobt, like yer wrife," he an- 
 swered, wdth indignation. 
 
 "Dinna be aye flingin' a man's fau'ts in 's 
 face. It jist maks him 'at he canna bide himsel' 
 or you eyther. Lat's see the bonny crater." 
 
 Robert complied, for he too was anxious. 
 They were now standing in the space in front 
 of Shargar's old abode, and there was no one to 
 be seen. Elshender took the box, opened it 
 carefully, and peeped in with a face of great 
 apprehension. 
 
 " I thocht that was a' ! " he said with some 
 satisfaction. " I kent the string whan I heard it. 
 But we '11 sune get a new thairm till her," he 
 added, in a tone of sorrowful commiseration and 
 condolence, as he took the violin from the case, 
 tenderly as if it had been a hurt child. 
 
 One touch of the bow, drawing out a goul of 
 grief, satisfied him that she was uninjured. Next 
 a huiiied inspection showed him that there was 
 enough of the catgut twisted round the peg to 
 make up for the part that was broken off. In a mo- 
 ment he had fastened it to the tail-piece, tighten- 
 ed and tuned it. Forthwith he took the bow from 
 the case-lid, and in jubilant guise he expatiated 
 upon the wrrong he had done his bonny leddy,
 
 140 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 till the doors and windows around were crowded 
 with heads peering through the dark to see 
 whence the sounds came, and a little child tod- 
 dled across from one of the lowliest houses with 
 a ha'penny for the fiddler. Gladly would Robert 
 have restored it with interest, but, alas 1 there 
 was no interest in his bank, for not a ha'- 
 penny had he in the world. The incident re- 
 called Sandy to Rothieden and its cares. He 
 restored the violin to its case, and while Robert 
 was fearing he would take it under his arm 
 and walk away with it, handed it back with a 
 humble sigh and a " Praise be thankit ;" then 
 without another word, turned and went to his 
 lonely stool and home " untreasured of its mis- 
 tress." Robert went home too, and stole like a 
 thief to his room. 
 
 The next day was a Saturday, which, indeed, 
 was the real old Sabbath, or at least the half of 
 it, to the schoolboys of Rothieden. Even 
 Robert's grannie was Jew enough, or rather 
 Christian enough, to respect this remnant of the 
 fourth commandment — divine antidote to the rest 
 of the godless money-making and soul-saving 
 week — and he had the half-day to himself. So 
 as soon as he had had his dinner, he managed 
 to give Shargar the slip, left him to the inroads 
 of a desolate despondency, and stole away to 
 the old factory-garden. The key of that he had 
 managed to purloin from the kitchen where it
 
 PRIVATE INTERVIEWS. 141 
 
 hung ; nor was there much danger of its absence 
 being discovered, seeing that in winter no one 
 thought of the garden. The smuggling of the 
 violin out of the house was the " dearest danger " 
 — the more so that he would not run the risk'of 
 carrying her out unprotected, and it was alto- 
 gether a bulky venture vdth the case. But by 
 spying and speeding he managed it, and soon 
 found himself safe within the high walls of the 
 garden. 
 
 It was early spring. There had been a heavy 
 fall of sleet in the morning, and now the wind 
 blew g-ustfally about the place. The neglected 
 trees shook showers upon him as he passed 
 under them, trampling down the rank growth 
 of the grass-walks. The long twigs of the wall- 
 trees, which had never been nailed up, or had 
 been torn down by the snow and the blasts of 
 wdnter, went trailing away in the moan of the 
 fitful wind, and swtmg back as it sunk to a sigh. 
 The currant and gooseberry bushes, bare and 
 leafless, and " shivering all for cold," neither re- 
 minded him of the feasts of the past summer, 
 nor gave him any hope for the next. He strode 
 careless through it all to gain the door at the 
 bottom. It yielded to a push, and the long 
 grass streamed in over the threshold as he en- 
 tered. He mounted by a broad stair in the 
 main part of the house, passing the silent clock 
 in one of its corners, now expiating in motion-
 
 142 EGBERT FALCONER. 
 
 lessness the false accusations it had brought 
 against the work-people, and turned into the 
 chaos of machinery. 
 
 I fear that my readers will expect, from the 
 minuteness with which I recount these particu- 
 lars, that, after all, I am going to describe a 
 rendezvous with a lady, or a ghost at least. I 
 will not plead in excuse that I, too, have been 
 infected with Sandy's mode of regarding her, 
 but I plead that in the mind of Robert the pro- 
 ceeding was involved in something of that awe 
 and mystery with which a youth approaches the 
 woman he loves. He had not yet arrived at 
 the period when the feminine assumes its para- 
 mount influence, combining in itself all that 
 music, colour, form, odour, can suggest, with 
 something infinitely higher and more divine; 
 but he had begun to be haunted with some 
 vague aspirations towards the infinite, of which 
 his attempts on the violin were the outcome. 
 And now that he was to be alone, for the first 
 time, with this wonderful realizer of dreams and 
 awakener of visions, to do with her as he would, 
 to hint by gentle touches at the thoughts that 
 were fluttering in his soul, and listen for her 
 voice that by the echoes in which she strove to 
 respond he might know that she understood 
 him, it was no wonder if he felt an etherial fore- 
 taste of the expectation that haunts the approach 
 of souls.
 
 PRIVATE INTERVIEWS. 143 
 
 But I am not even going to descnbe his first Ute- 
 a-tete with his violin. Perhaps he returned from 
 it somewhat disappointed. Probably he found 
 her coy, unready to acknowledge his demands 
 on her attention. But not the less willingly 
 did he retm-n with her to the soHtude of the 
 ruinous factory. On every safe occasion, be- 
 coming more and more frequent as the days 
 grew longer, he repaired thither, and every time 
 retm-ned more capable of di-awing the coherence 
 of melody from that matrix of sweet soimds. 
 
 At length the people about began to say that 
 the factory was haunted ; that the ghost of old 
 Mr. Falconer, unable to repose wlnle neglect was 
 ruining the precious results of his industry, 
 visited the place night after night, and solaced 
 his disappointment by renewing on his favourite 
 violin strains not yet forgotten by him in his 
 grave, and remembered well by those who had 
 been in his service, not a few of whom lived in 
 the neighbom-hood of the forsaken building. 
 
 One gusty afternoon, like the first, but late in 
 the spring, Robert repau-ed as usual to this his 
 secret haunt. He had played for some time, 
 and now, from a sudden pause of unpulse, had 
 ceased, and begun to look around him. The 
 only light came from two long pale cracks in 
 the rain-clouds of the west. The wind was 
 blowing through the broken -windows, wlrich 
 stretched away on either hand. A dreary.
 
 144 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 windy gloom, therefore, pervaded the desolate 
 place ; and m the dusk, and then settled order, 
 the machines looked multitudinous. An eerie 
 sense of discomfort came over him as he gazed, 
 and he lifted his violin to dispel the strange 
 unpleasant feeling that grew upon liim. But at 
 the first long stroke across the strings, an awful 
 sound arose in a foi'ther room; a somid that 
 made him all but drop the bow, and cling to his 
 violm. It went on. It was the old, all but for- 
 gotten whirr of bobbins, mingled with the 
 gentle groans of the revolving horizontal wheel, 
 but magnified in the silence of the place, and 
 the echoing imagination of the boy, into some- 
 thing preternatm-ally awful. Yielding for a 
 moment to the growth of goose-skin, and the 
 insurrection of hair, he recovered himself by a 
 violent effort, and walked to the door that con- 
 nected the two compartments. Was it more or 
 less fearful that the jenny was not going of 
 itself? that the figure of an old woman sat 
 solemnly turning and tm-ning the hand-wheel ? 
 Not without calling in the jury of his senses, 
 however, would he yield to the special plea of 
 his imagination, but went nearer, half expecting 
 to find that the mutely with its big flapping 
 borders, glimmering white in the gloom across 
 many a machine, surrounded the face of a skull. 
 But he was soon satisfied that it was only a blind 
 woman everybody knew — so old that she had
 
 PRIVATE INTERVIEWS. 145 
 
 become childish. She had heard the reports of 
 the factory bemg haunted, and, groping about 
 with her half-withered bram full of them, had 
 found the garden and the back door open, and 
 had climbed to the fii'st-floor by a farther stau*, 
 w^ell known to her when she used to work that 
 very machine. She had seated herself mstmct- 
 ively, according to ancient wont, and had set it 
 in motion once more. 
 
 Yielding to an impulse of experiment, Robert 
 began to play again. Thereupon her disordered 
 ideas broke out in words. And Robert soon 
 began to feel that it could hardly be more 
 ghastly to look upon a ghost than to be taken 
 for one. 
 
 "• Ay, ay, sir," said the old woman, in a tone 
 of commiseration, " it maun be sair to bide. I 
 dinna wonner 'at ye canna He still. But what 
 gars ye gang daunerin aboot this place ? It's no 
 yours ony langer. Ye ken whan fowk's deid, 
 they tyne the grip {lose hold). Ye suld gang 
 hame to yer wife. She micht say a w^ord to 
 quaiet yer auld banes, for she's a douce an' a 
 wice woman — the mistress." 
 
 Then followed a pause. There was a horror 
 about the old woman's voice, already half dis- 
 solved by death, in the desolate place, that 
 almost took from Robert the power of motion. 
 But his violin sent forth an accidental twang, 
 and that set her going again. 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 EGBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " Ye was aye a douce honest gentleman yer- 
 sel', an' I dinna wonner ye canna bide it. But 
 I wad hae thoucht glory miclit liae hauden ye 
 in. But yer ain son ! Eh ay ! And a braw 
 lad and a bonnie ! It's a sod thmg he bude to 
 gang the wrang gait ; and it's no wonner, as I 
 say, that ye lea' the worms to come an' luik 
 effcer him. I doobt — I doobt it winna be to you 
 he'll gang at the lang last. There winna be 
 room for him aside ye in Awbrahawm's boasom. 
 And syne to behave sae ill to that winsome wife 
 o' his ! I dinna wonner 'at ye maun be up ! Eh 
 na! But, sir, sin ye are up, I wish ye wad 
 speyk to John Thamson no to tak' aff the day 
 'at I was awa' last ook, for 'deed I was verra 
 unweel, and bude to keep my bed." 
 
 Robert was beginning to feel uneasy as to 
 how he should get rid of her, when she rose, 
 and saying, " Ay, ay, I ken it 's sax o'clock," 
 went out as she had come in. Robert followed, 
 and saw her safe out of the garden, but did not 
 return to the factory. 
 
 So his father had behaved ill to his mother 
 too! 
 
 ''But what for hearken to the havers o' a 
 dottled auld wife?" he said to himself, ponder- 
 ing as he walked home. 
 
 Old Janet told a strange story of how she had 
 seen the ghost, and had had a long talk with 
 him, and of what he said, and of how he groaned
 
 PRIVATE INTERVIEWS. 147 
 
 and played the fiddle between. And finding 
 that the report had reached his grandmother's 
 ears, Robert thought it prudent, much to his 
 discontent, to intermit his visits to the factory. 
 Mrs. Falconer, of course, received the rumour 
 with indignant scorn, and peremptorily refused 
 to allow any examination of the premises. 
 
 But how have the violin by him and not hear 
 her speak ? One evenmg the longing after her 
 voice grew upon him till he could resist it no 
 longer. He shut the door of his garret-room, 
 and, with Shargar by him, took her out and 
 began to play softly, gently — oh so softly, so 
 gently ! Shargar was enraptured. Robert went 
 on playing. 
 
 Suddenly the door opened, and his grannie 
 stood awfully revealed before them. Betty had 
 heard the violin, and had flown to the parlour 
 in the belief that, unable to get any one to heed 
 him at the factory, the ghost had taken Janet's 
 advice, and come home. But his wife smiled a 
 smile of contempt, went with Betty to the 
 kitchen — over which Robert's room lay — heard 
 the sounds, put off" her creaking shoes, stole up- 
 stairs on her soft white lambsAvool stockings, 
 and caught the pair. The violin was seized, 
 put in its case, and carried off; and Mrs. Fal- 
 coner rejoiced to think she had broken a gin set 
 by Satan for the unwary feet of her poor Robert. 
 Little she knew the wonder of that violin — 
 
 L 2
 
 148 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 how it had kept the soul of her husband alive ! 
 Little she knew how dangerous it is to shut an 
 open door, with ever so narrow a peep into the 
 eternal, in the face of a son of Adam! And 
 little she knew how determinedly and restlessly 
 a nature like Robert's would search for another, 
 to open one possibly which she might consider 
 ten times more dangerous than that which she 
 had closed. 
 
 When Alexander heard of the affair, he was 
 at first overwhelmed with the misfortune ; but 
 gathering a little heart at last, he set to " work- 
 ing," as he said himself, "like a verra deevil;" 
 and as he was the best shoemaker in the town, 
 and for the time abstained utterly from whisky, 
 and all sorts of drink but well-water, he soon 
 managed to save the money necessary, and re- 
 deem the old fiddle. But whether it was from 
 fancy, or habit, or what, even Robert's inexpe- 
 rienced ear could not accommodate itself, save 
 under protest, to the instrument which once 
 his teacher had considered all but perfect ; and 
 it needed the master's finest touch to make its 
 tone other than painful to the sense of the neo- 
 phyte. 
 
 No one can estimate too highly the value of 
 such a resource to a man like the shoemaker, or 
 a boy like Robert. Whatever it be that keeps 
 the finer faculties of the mind awake, wonder 
 alive, and the mterest above mere eatmg and
 
 PRR^ATE IXTERYIEWS. 149 
 
 drinking, money-making and money-saving; 
 whatever it be that gives gladness, or sorrow, 
 or hope — this, be it violin, pencil, pen, or, high- 
 est of all, the love of woman, is simply a divine 
 gift of holy influence for the salvation of that 
 being to whom it comes, for the lifting of him 
 out of the mire and up on the rock. For it 
 keeps a way open for the entrance of deeper, 
 holier, grander influences, emanating from the 
 same riches of the Godhead. And though many 
 have genius that have no grace, they will only 
 be so much the worse, so much the nearer to 
 the brute, if you take from them that w^hich cor- 
 responds to Dooble Sanny's fiddle.
 
 150 
 
 CHAPTER XIL 
 
 ROBERT'S PLAN OF SALVATION. 
 
 FOR some time after the loss of his friend, 
 Robert went loitering and mooning about, 
 quite neglecting the lessons to which he had 
 not, it must be confessed, paid much attention 
 for many weeks. Even when seated at his 
 grannie's table, he could do no more than fix 
 his eyes on his book : to learn was impossible ; it 
 was even disgusting to him. But his was a 
 nature which, foiled in one direction, must, ab- 
 solutely helpless against its own vitality, 
 straightway send out its searching roots in an- 
 other. Of all forces, that of growth is the one 
 irresistible, for it is the creating power of God, 
 the law of life and of being. Therefore no ac- 
 cumulation of refusals, and checks, and turnings, 
 and forbiddings, from all the good old grannies 
 in the world, could have prevented Robert from 
 strikmg root downward, and bearing fruit up- 
 ward, though, as in all higher natures, the fruit 
 was a long way off yet. But his soul was only
 
 ROBERT'S PLAN OF SALVATION. 151 
 
 sad and hungry. He was not unhappy, for he had 
 been guilty of nothing that weighed on his con- 
 science. He had been domg many tilings of late, 
 it is true, without asking leave of his grandmo- 
 ther, but wherever prayer is felt to be of no avail, 
 there cannot be the sense of obligation save on 
 compulsion. Even dh*ect disobedience in such 
 case will generally leave little soreness, except 
 the thing forbidden should be in its own nature 
 wi'ong, and then, indeed, " Don Worm, the con- 
 science," may begin to bite. But Robert felt 
 nothing immoral in plaj^ing upon liis grand- 
 father's violiu, nor even in takuig liberties with 
 a piece of lumber for which nobody cared but 
 possibly the dead ; therefore he was not imhap- 
 py, only much disappointed, very empty, and 
 somewhat gloomy. There was nothing to look 
 forward to now, no secret full of riches and end- 
 less in hope — ^in short, no violin. 
 
 To feel the full force of his loss, my reader 
 must remember that around the childhood of 
 Robert, which he was fast leaving behind him, 
 there had gathered no tenderness — none at least 
 by him recognizable as such. All the women he 
 came in contact with were his grandmother and 
 Betty. He had no recollection of having ever 
 been kissed. From the darkness and negation 
 of such an embryo-existence, his nature had 
 been unconsciously striving to escape — strug- 
 gling to get from below ground into the smilit
 
 152 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 air — sighing after a freedom lie could not have 
 defined, the freedom that comes, not of indepen- 
 dence, but of love — not of lawlessness, but of the 
 perfection of law. Of this beanty of life, with 
 its wonder and its deepness, this unknown glory, 
 his fiddle had been the type. It had been the 
 ark that held, if not the tables of the covenant, 
 yet the golden pot of angel's food, and the rod 
 that budded in death. And now that it was 
 gone, the gloomier aspect of things began to lay 
 hold upon him ; his soul turned itself away from 
 the sun, and entered into the shadow of the 
 under-world. Like the white-horsed twins of 
 lake Regillus, like Phoebe, the queen of skyey 
 plain and earthly forest, every boy and girl, 
 every man and woman, that lives at all, has to 
 divide many a year between Tartarus and 
 Olympus. 
 
 For now arose within him, not without ulti- 
 mate good, the evil phantasms of a theology 
 which would explain all God's doings by low con- 
 ceptions, low I mean for humanity even, of right, 
 and law, and justice, then only taking refuge in 
 the fact of the incapacity of the human under- 
 standing when its own inventions are impugned 
 as undivine. In such a system, hell is invari- 
 ably the deepest truth, and the love of God is 
 not so deep as hell. Hence, as foundations 
 must be laid in the deepest, the system is 
 founded in hell, and the first article in the creed
 
 ROBERT'S PLAX OF SALVATION. 153 
 
 that Robert Falconer learned was, " I believe in 
 hell." Practicallv, I mean, it was so ; else how 
 should it be that as often as a thought of rehgi- 
 ous duty arose in his mind, it appeared in the 
 form of escaping hell, of fleemg from the wrath 
 to come? For his very nature was hell, being 
 not born i?i sin and brought forth in iniquity, 
 but bom sin and brought forth iniquity. And 
 yet God made him. He must beheve that. xA.nd 
 he must beheve, too, that God was just, awfrilly 
 just, punishing with fearful pains those who did 
 not go through a certain process of mind which 
 it was utterly impossible they should go through 
 without a help which he would give to some, 
 and withhold fr'om others, the reason of the dif- 
 ference not being such, to say the least of it, as 
 to come within the reach of the persons con- 
 cerned. And this God they said was love. It 
 was logically absurd, of com-se, yet, thank God, 
 they did say that God was love ; and many of 
 them succeeded in believing it, too, and in order- 
 ing then- ways as if the fii'st article of their creed 
 had been " I believe in God ;" whence, in truth, 
 we are bound to say it was the first m power 
 and reality, if not in order ; for what are we to 
 say a man believes, if not what he acts upon ? 
 Still the former article was the one they brought 
 chiefly to bear upon then- children. Tliis mortar, 
 probably they thought, thi'ew the shell straighter 
 than any of the other field-pieces of the chm'ch-
 
 154 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 militant. Hence it was even in justification of 
 God himself that a party arose to say that a man 
 could believe without the help of God at all, and 
 after believing only began to receive God's help — 
 a heresy all but as di'eary and barren as the for- 
 mer. Not one dreamed of saying — at least such 
 a glad word of prophecy never reached Rothie- 
 den — that, while nobody can do without the 
 help of the Father any more than a new-born 
 babe could of itself live and grow to a man, yet 
 that in the giving of that help the very father- 
 hood of the Father finds its one gladsome la- 
 bour ; that for that the Lord came ; for that the 
 world was made ; for that we were born into it ; 
 for that God lives and loves lil^e the most lov- 
 ing man or woman on earth, only mfinitely more, 
 and in other ways and kinds besides, which we 
 cannot understand ; and that therefore to be a 
 man is the soul of eternal jubilation. 
 
 Robert consequently began to take fits of soul- 
 saving, a most rational exercise, worldly wise 
 and prudent — right too on the principles he had 
 received, but not in the least Chiistian in its na- 
 ture, or even God-fearing. His imagination be- 
 gan to busy itself in representing the dh-e con- 
 sequences of not entering into the one refuge 
 of faith. He made many frantic efforts to believe 
 that he believed ; took to keeping the Sabbath 
 very carefully — that is, by going to church three 
 times, and to Sunday-school as well ; by never
 
 ROBERT'S PLAN OF SALYATIOX. 155 
 
 walking a step save to or from church; by 
 never saj^ng a word upon any subject uncon- 
 nected with reHgion, chiefly theoretical; by 
 never readhig any but rehgious books ; by never 
 whistling ; by never thinking of his lost fiddle, 
 and so on — all the time feeling that God was 
 ready to pounce upon him if he failed once ; till 
 again and again the intensity of his efforts ut- 
 terly defeated then- object by destroying for the 
 time the desire to prosecute them vnth. the power 
 to will them. But thi'ough the horrible vapom-s 
 of these vain endeavours, which denied God al- 
 together as the maker of the world, and the for- 
 mer of his soul and heart and brain, and sought 
 to worship him as a capricious demon, there 
 broke a little light, a little soothing, soft twi- 
 light, from the dim windows of such literatm-e as 
 came in his way. Besides The Pilgrims Progress 
 there were several books which shone moon-like 
 on his darkness, and lifted something of the 
 weight of that Egyptian gloom off his sphit. One 
 of these, strange to say, was Defoe's Religious 
 Courtship, and one, Young's Night Thoughts, But 
 there was another which deserves particular no- 
 tice, inasmuch as it did far more than merely in- 
 terest or amuse him, raismg a deep question in 
 his mind, and one worthy to be asked. This 
 book was the translation of Klopstock's Mes- 
 siah, to which I have abeady referred. It was not 
 one of his grandmother's books, but had probab-
 
 156 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 ly belonged to his father : he had found it in his 
 little garret room. But as often as she saw him 
 reading it, she seemed rather pleased, he thought. 
 As to the book itself, its florid expatiation 
 could neither oflend nor injure a boy like Robert, 
 wliile its representation of our Lord was to him 
 a wonderful relief from that given in the pulpit, 
 and in all the religious books he knew. But the 
 point for the sake of which I refer to it in par- 
 ticular is this : Amongst the rebel angels who are 
 of the actors in the story, one of the principal is 
 a cherub who repents of making his choice with 
 Satan, mourns over his apostasy, haunts unseen 
 the steps of our Saviour, wheels lamenting about 
 the cross, and would gladly return to his lost 
 duties in heaven, if only he might — a doubt 
 which I believe is left unsolved in the volume, 
 and naturally enough remained unsolved in Ro- 
 bert's mind ; — Would poor Abaddon be forgiven 
 and taken home again! For although natural- 
 ly, that is, to judge by his own instmcts, there 
 could be no question of his forgiveness, accord- 
 ing to what he had been taught there could be no 
 question of his perdition. Having no one to talk 
 to, he divided himself and went to buffets on 
 the subject, siding, of course, with the better 
 half of himself which supported the merciful 
 view of the matter ; for all his efforts at keepmg 
 the Sabbath, had in his own honest judgment 
 failed so entirely, that he had no ground for be-
 
 EGBERT'S PLAN OF SALYATIOX. 157 
 
 lie ving himself one of the elect. Had he suc- 
 ceeded in persuading himself that he was, there 
 is no saying to what lengths of indifference 
 about others the chosen prig might have advanc- 
 ed by this time. 
 
 He made one attempt to open the subject 
 with Shargar. 
 
 *' Shargar, what think ye ?" he said suddenly, 
 one day. " Gin a de'il war to repent, wad God 
 forgie him f 
 
 " There's no sayin' what fowk wad du till ance 
 they're tried," returned Shargar, cautiously. 
 
 Robert did not care to resume the question 
 with one who so circumspectly refused to 
 take a metaphysical or a prioti view of the 
 matter. 
 
 He made an attempt with his grandmother. 
 
 One Sunday, his thoughts, after trying for a 
 time to revolve in due orbit around the mind of 
 the Rev. Hugh MacCleary, as projected in a ser- 
 mon which he had botched up out of a commen- 
 tary, failed at last and flew off into what the 
 said gentleman would have pronounced " very 
 dangerous speculation, seeing no man is to go 
 beyond what is wiitten in the Bible, which con- 
 tains not only the truth, but the whole truth, 
 and nothing but the truth, for this time and for 
 all future time — both here and m the world to 
 come." Some such sentence, at least, was in 
 his sermon that day, and the preacher no doubt
 
 158 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 supposed St. Matthew, not St. Matthew Henry, 
 accountable for its origination. In the Limbo 
 into which Robert's then spirit flew, it had been 
 sorely exercised about the substitution of the 
 sufferings of Christ for those which humanity 
 must else have endured while ages rolled on — 
 mere ripples on the ocean of eternity. 
 
 " Noo, be douce," said Mrs. Falconer, solemn- 
 ly, as Robert, a trifle lighter at heart from the 
 result of his cogitations than usual, sat down to 
 dinner : he had happened to smile across the 
 table to Shargar. And he was douce, and smiled 
 no more. 
 
 They ate their broth, or, more properly, sup- 
 ped it, with horn spoons, in absolute silence ; 
 after which Mrs. Falconer put a large piece of 
 meat on the plate of each, with the same for- 
 mula : 
 
 " Hae. Ye s' get nae mair." 
 
 The allowance was ample in the extreme, 
 bearing a relation to her words similar to that 
 which her practice bore to her theology. A 
 piece of cheese, because it was the Sabbath, fol- 
 lowed, and dinner was over. 
 
 When the table had been cleared by Betty, 
 they drew their chairs to the fire, and Robert 
 had to read to his grandmother, while Shargar 
 sat listenmg. He had not read long, however, 
 before he looked up from his Bible and began 
 the followmg conversation : —
 
 Robert's plax of salvation. 159 
 
 " Wasna it an ill trick o' Joseph, gran'mither, 
 to put that cup, an' a siller ane tu, into the mou' 
 o' Benjamm's seek ?" 
 
 " What for that, laddie ? He wanted to gar 
 them come back again, ye ken." 
 
 " But he needna hae gane aboot it in sic a play- 
 actor-like gait. He needna hae latten them awa' 
 ohn tellt (without telling) them that he was their 
 brither." 
 
 " They had behaved verra ill till him." 
 
 "He used to clype (tell tales) upo' them, 
 though." 
 
 " Laddie, tak ye care what ye say aboot 
 Joseph, for he was a teep o' Chiist." 
 
 " Hoo was that, gran'mither f 
 
 *' They sellt him to the Ishmeleets for siller, 
 as Judas did Him." 
 
 " Did he beir the sins o' them 'at sellt him T 
 
 *' Ye may say, in a mainner, 'at he did ; for 
 he was sair afiiickit afore he wan up to be the 
 King's richt han' ; an' syne he keepit a hantle o' 
 ill aff o' 's brithren." 
 
 " Sae, gran'mither, ither fowk nor Christ micht 
 suffer for the sins o' their neebors ?" 
 
 " Ay, laddie, mony a ane has to do that. But 
 no to mak atonement, ye ken. Naething but 
 the sufferin' o' the spotless cud du that. The 
 Lord wadna be saitisfeet wi' less nor that. It 
 maun be the innocent to suffer for the guilty." 
 
 "I unnerstan' that," said Robert, who had
 
 160 ROBEKT FALCONER. 
 
 heard it so often that he had not yet thought of 
 trymg to understand it. " But gin we gang to 
 the gude place, we'll be a' innocent, willna we, 
 grannie f 
 
 " Ay, that we will — washed spotless, and pure, 
 and clean, and dressed i' the weddin' garment, 
 and set doon at the table wi' Him and wi his 
 Father. That's them 'at believes in him, ye ken." 
 
 " Of coorse, grannie. — Weel, ye see, I hae been 
 thinkin' o' a plan for maist han' toomm' {almost 
 emptying) hell." 
 
 " What's i' the bahn's heid noo ? Troth, ye're 
 no blate, meddlin' wi' sic subjecks, laddie !" 
 
 "I didna want to say onything to vex ye, 
 grannie. I s' gang on wi' the chapter." 
 
 " Ow, say awa'. Ye sanna say muckle 'at's 
 wrang afore I cry hand," said Mrs. Falconer, 
 curious to know what had been moving in the 
 boy's mind, but watchmg him like a cat, ready 
 to spring upon the first visible hair of the old 
 Adam. 
 
 And Robert, recalling the outbreak of terrible 
 grief which he had heard on that memorable 
 night, really thought that his project would 
 bring comfort to a mind burdened with such care, 
 and went on witli the exposition of his plan. 
 
 " A' them 'at sits doon to the supper o' the 
 Lamb '11 sit there because Christ suffert the pun- 
 ishment due to their sins — winna they, grannie ?" 
 
 "Doobtless, laddie."
 
 ROBERT'S PLAN OF SALVATION. 161 
 
 " But it '11 be some sail' upo' them to sit there 
 aitin' an' din n kin' an' talkin' awa', an' enjoyin' 
 themsel's, whan ilka noo an' than there '11 come 
 a sough o' wailin' up frae the ill place, an' a smell 
 o' burnin' ill to bide." 
 
 *' What put that i' yer heid, laddie ? There's 
 no rizzon to think 'at hell's sae near haven as a' 
 that. The Lord forbid it !" 
 
 " Weel, but, grannie, they'll ken't a' the same, 
 whether they smell 't or no. An' I canna help 
 thin kin' that the farrer awa' I thoucht they war, 
 the waur I wad like to think upo' them. 'Deed 
 it wad be waui'." 
 
 " AMiat are ye drivin' at, laddie ? I canna un- 
 nerstan' ye," said ^Irs. Falconer, feeling very un- 
 comfortable, and yet curious, almost anxious, to 
 hear what would come next. " I trust we winna 
 hae to think muckle " 
 
 But here, I presume, the thought of the added 
 desolation of her Andrew if she, too, were to 
 forget him, as well as his Father in heaven, 
 checked the flow of her words. She paused, 
 and Robert took up his parable and went on, 
 first ^dth yet another question. 
 
 " Duv ye think, grannie, that a body wad be 
 allooed to speik a word i' public, like, there — at 
 the lang table, like, I mean ?*' 
 
 " Whsii for no, gin it was dune t\4' moedesty, 
 and for a guid rizzon? But railly, laddie, I 
 doobt ye're haverm' a'thegither. Ye hard nae- 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 thing like that, I'm sure, the day, frae Mr. Mac- 
 cleary." 
 
 "Na, na; he said naething aboot it. But 
 maybe I'll gang and speir at him, though," 
 
 " What aboot ?" 
 
 " What I'm gaein' to tell ye, grannie." 
 
 " Weel, tell awa', and hae dune m' 't. I'm 
 growin' tired o' 't." 
 
 It was something else than tired she was 
 growing. 
 
 " Weel, I'm gaein' to try a' that I can to win 
 in there." 
 
 "I houp ye will. Strive and pray. Resist 
 the deevil. Walk i' the licht. Lippen not to 
 yersel', but trust in Christ and his salvation." 
 
 "Ay, ay, grannie. — Weel " 
 
 " Are ye no dmie yet f 
 
 " Na. I 'm but jist beginnin'." 
 
 " Beginnin' are ye ? Humph !" 
 
 "Weel, gin I win in there, the verra first 
 nicht I sit doon wi' the lave o' them, I'm gaeia' 
 to rise up an' say — that is, gin the Maister, at 
 the heid o' the table, disna bid me sit doon — an' 
 say : ' Brithers an' sisters, the haill o' ye, hearken 
 to me for ae minute ; an', Lord ! gin I say 
 wrang, jist tak the speech frae me, and I'll sit 
 doon dumb an' rebukit. We're a' here by grace 
 and no by merit, save His, as ye a' ken better 
 nor I can tell ye, for ye hae been langer here nor 
 m^e. But it's jist ruggin' an' rivin' at my hert to
 
 ROBERT'S PLAN OF SALVATION. 163 
 
 think o' them 'at 's do on there. Maybe ye can 
 hear them. I canna. Noo, we hae nae merit, 
 an' they hae nae merit, an' what for are we here 
 and them there ? But we're washed clean and 
 innocent noo ; and noo, whan there's no wyte 
 lying upo' oursel's, it seems to me that we micht 
 beu' some o' the sins o' them 'at hae ower mony. 
 I call upo' ilk' ane o' ye 'at has a Men' or a nee- 
 bor down yonner, to rise up an' taste nor bite 
 nor sup mair till we gang up a'thegither to the 
 fut o' the thi'one, and pray the Lord to lat's gang 
 and du as the Maister did afore's, and bier then- 
 griefs, and camy their sorrows doon in hell 
 there ; gin it maybe that they may repent and 
 get remission o' then- sins, an' come up here wi' 
 us at the lang last, and sit doon wi' 's at this 
 table, a' throuw the merits o' oor Savioui' Jesus 
 Chi-ist, at the heid o' the table there. Amen.'" 
 
 Half ashamed of his long speech, half over- 
 come by the feelings fighting A\dthin him, and 
 altogether bewildered, Robert bm-st out crying- 
 like a baby, and ran out of the room — up to his 
 own place of meditation, where he threw himself 
 on the floor. Shargar, who had made neither 
 head nor tail of it all, as he said afterwards, sat 
 staring at Mrs. Falconer. She rose, and going 
 into Robert's little bed-room, closed the door, 
 and what she cHd there is not far to seek. 
 
 When she came out, she rang the bell for tea, 
 and sent Shargar to look for Robert. When 
 
 M 2
 
 164 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 he appeared, she was so gentle to him that it 
 woke quite a new sensation in him. But after 
 tea was over, she said, — 
 
 *' Noo, Robert, lat's hae nae mair o' this. Ye 
 ken as weel's I dii that them 'at gangs there 
 their doom is fixed, and noething can alter 't. 
 An' we're not to alloo oor ain fancies to cairry 's 
 ayont the Scripter. We hae oor ain salvation 
 to work oot wi' fear an' trimlin'. We hae nae- 
 thing to do wi' what's hidden. Lnik ye till 't 'at 
 ye win in yersel'. That's eneuch for you to mm'. 
 — Shargar, ye can gang to the khk. Robert 's to 
 bide wi' me the nicht." 
 
 Mrs. Falconer very rarely went to church, for 
 she could not hear a word, and found it hksome. 
 . When Robert and she were alone together, 
 
 " Laddie," she said, " be ye wam-e o' judgin' 
 the Almichty. Wha-t luiks to you a' wrang may 
 be a' richt. But it's true eneuch 'at we dinna 
 ken a' thing ; an' he's no deid yet — I dinna be- 
 lieve 'at he is — and he'll maybe win in yet." 
 
 Here her voice failed her. And Robert had 
 nothing to say now. He had said all his say 
 before. 
 
 " Pray, Robert, pray for yer father, laddie," 
 she resumed ; " for we hae muckle rizzon to be 
 anxious aboot 'im. Pray while there's life an' 
 houp. Gie the Lord no rist. Pray till 'im day 
 an' nicht, as I du, that he wad lead 'im to see 
 the error o' his ways, an' turn to the Lord, wha 's
 
 ROBERT S PLAX OF SALYATIOX. 1(55 
 
 ready to pardon. Gin ver mother had Hved, 
 I wad hae had man- honp, I confess, for she was 
 a braw leddy and a bonny, and that sweet- 
 tongned ! She cud hae wiled a mankin frae its 
 lair ^\i' her bonnie Hielan' speech. I never likit 
 to hear nane o' them speyk the Erse (Irish, that 
 is Gaelic), it was aye sae gloggie and baneless ; 
 and I cndna unnerstan' ae word o' 't. Nae mair 
 cud yer father — hoot ! yer gran'father, I mean — 
 though his father cud speyk it weel. But to 
 hear yer mother — mamma, as ye used to ca' her 
 aye, efter the new fashion — to hear her speyk 
 English, that was sweet to the ear ; for the braid 
 Scotch she kent as little o' as I do o' the Erse. 
 It was hert's care aboot him that shortcut her 
 days. And a' that '11 be laid upo' him. He'll 
 hae 't a' to beh' an' accoont for. Och hone ! 
 Och hone ! Eh ! Robert, my man, be a guid 
 lad, an' serve the Lord wi' a' yer hert, an' sowl, 
 an' stren'th, an' min' ; for gin ye gang ^Tang, 
 yer ain father '11 hae to ben* naebody kens hoo 
 muckle o' the wyte o' 't, for he's dune naethmg 
 to bring ye up i' the way ye suld gang, an' hand 
 ye oot o' the ill gait. For the sake o' yer puir 
 father, hand ye to the richt road. It may spare 
 him a pang or twa i' the ill place. Eh, gin the 
 Lord wad only tak me, and lat him gang ! " 
 
 Involmitarily and imconsciously the mother's 
 love was adopting the hope which she had de- 
 nounced in her grandson. And Robert saw it,
 
 166 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 but he was never the man when I knew liim to 
 push a victory. He said nothing. Only a tear 
 or two at the memory of the wayworn man, his 
 recollection of whose visit I have already re- 
 corded, rolled down his cheeks. He was at such 
 a distance from him ! — such an impassable gulf 
 yawned between them ! — that was the grief ! 
 Not the gulf of death, nor the gulf that divides 
 hell from heaven, but the gulf of abjuration by 
 the good because of his evil ways. His grand- 
 mother, herself weepmg fast and silently, with 
 scarce altered countenance, took her neatly- 
 folded handkerchief from her pocket, and wiped 
 her grandson's fresh cheeks, then wiped her own 
 withered face ; and from that moment Robert 
 knew that he loved her. 
 
 Thenfollowedthe Sabbath-evening prayer that 
 she always offered with the boy, whichever he 
 was, who kept her company. They knelt down 
 together, side by side, in a certain corner of the 
 room, the same, I doubt not, in which she knelt 
 at her private devotions, before going to bed. 
 There she uttered a long extempore prayer, 
 rapid m speech, full of divinity and scripture- 
 phrases, but not the less earnest and simple, for 
 it flowed from a heart of faith. Then Robert 
 had to pray after her, loud in her ear, that she 
 might hear him thoroughly, so that he often felt 
 as if he were praying to her, and not to God at all. 
 
 She had begun to teach him to pray so early
 
 ROBERT'S PLAN OF SALVATION. 167 
 
 that the custom reached beyond the confines of 
 his memory. At first he had had to repeat the 
 words after her ; but soon she made him con- 
 struct his own utterances, now and then giving 
 him a suggestion in the form of a petition when 
 he seemed likely to break down, or putting a 
 phrase into what she considered more suitable 
 language. But all such assistance she had given 
 up long ago. 
 
 On the present occasion, after she had ended 
 her petitions ^vdth those for Jews and pagans, 
 and especially for the " Pop' o' Rom'," in whom 
 with a rare Kberality she took the kindest in- 
 terest, always praying God to give liim a good 
 wife, though she knew perfectly well the mar- 
 riage creed of the priesthood, for her faith ia 
 the hearer of prayer scorned every theory but 
 that in which she had herself been bom and 
 bred, she turned to Robert with the usual 
 " Noo, Robert," and Robert began. But after 
 he had gone on for some time with the ordinary 
 phrases, he turned all at once into a new track, 
 and instead of praying in general terms for 
 *' those that would not walk in the right way," 
 said, 
 
 " Lord ! save my father," and there paused. 
 
 " If it be thy will," suggested his grandmo- 
 ther. 
 
 But Robert continued silent. His grandmo- 
 ther repeated the subjunctive clause.
 
 168 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " I'm tryin', grandmother," said Robert, " but 
 I canna say 't. I daurna say an ij aboot it. It 
 wad be like giein' in till 's damnation. We 
 maun hae liim saved, grannie !" 
 
 "Laddie! laddie ! hand yer tongue!" said Mrs. 
 Falconer, in a tone of distressed awe. " Lord, 
 forgie 'im. He's young and disna ken better 
 yet. He canna unnerstan' thy ways, nor, for 
 that maitter, can I preten' to unnerstan' them 
 mysel'. But thoo art a' licht, and in thee is no 
 darkness at all. And thy licht comes into oor 
 blin' een, and mak's them blinner yet. But, 
 Lord, gin it wad please thee to hear oor prayer 
 .... eh ! hoo we wad praise thee ! And my 
 Andrew wad praise thee mair nor ninety and 
 nine o' them 'at need nae repentance." 
 
 A long pause followed. And then the only 
 words that would come were ': " For Christ's 
 sake. Amen." 
 
 When she said that God was light, instead of 
 concluding therefrom that he could not do the 
 deeds of darkness, she was driven, from a faith 
 in the teacliing of Jonathan Edwards as implicit 
 as that of " any lay papist of Loretto," to doubt 
 whether the deeds of darkness were not after all 
 deeds of light, or at least to conclude that their 
 character depended not on their own nature, 
 but on who did them. 
 
 They rose from then* knees, and Mrs. Fal- 
 coner sat down by her fire, with her feet on her
 
 Robert's pl.vx of salvatiox. 1G9 
 
 little wooden stool, and began, as was her wont 
 in that household t^'ilight, ere the lamp was 
 lighted, to review her past life, and follow her 
 lost son through all conditions and ch-ciun- 
 stances to her imaginable. And when the 
 world to come arose before her, clad in all the 
 glories which her fancy, chilled by education 
 and years, could supply, it was but to vanish m 
 the gloom of the remembrance of him with 
 whom she dared not hope to share its blessed- 
 ness. This at least was how Falconer after- 
 wards interpreted the sudden changes from 
 gladness to gloom which he saw at such times 
 on her countenance. 
 
 But while such a small portion of the imiverse 
 of thought was enlightened by the glowworm 
 lamp of the theories she had been taught, she 
 was not limited for hght to that feeble som-ce. 
 WTiile she walked on her way, the moon, im- 
 seen herself behind the clouds, was illiuninating 
 the whole landscape so gently and evenly, that 
 the glowworm being the only visible point of 
 radiance, to it she attributed all the light. But 
 she felt bound to go on believing as she had 
 been taught ; for sometimes the most original 
 mind has the strongest sense of law upon it, 
 and will, in default of a better, obey a beggarly 
 one — only till the higher law that swallows it 
 up manifests itself. Obedience was as essential 
 an element of her creed as of that of any
 
 170 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 purest-minded monk ; neither being sufficiently 
 impressed with this : that, while obedience is 
 the law of the kingdom, it is of considerable 
 importance that that which is obeyed should be 
 in very truth the will of God. It is one thing, 
 and a good thing, to do for God's sake that 
 which is not his will : it is another thing, and 
 altogether a better thing — ^how much better, no 
 words can tell — to do for God's sake that which 
 is his will. Mrs. Falconer's submission and 
 obedience led her to accept as the will of God, 
 lest she should be guilty of opposition to him, 
 that which it was anythmg but giving him 
 honour to accept as such. Therefore her love 
 to God was too like the love of the slave or the 
 dog ; too little like the love of the child, with 
 whose obedience the Father cannot be satisfied 
 until he cares for His reason as the highest form 
 of His will. True, the child who most faithful- 
 ly desires to know the inward will or reason of 
 the Father, will be the most ready to obey 
 without it ; only for this obedience it is essen- 
 tial that the apparent command at least be such 
 as he can suppose attributable to the Father. 
 Of his own self he is bound to judge what is 
 right, as the Lord said. Had Abraham doubted 
 whether it was in any case right to slay his 
 son, he would have been justified in doubting 
 whether God really required it of liim, and 
 would have been bound to delay action until the
 
 ROBERT'S PLAN OF SALVATION. 171 
 
 arrival of more light. True, the will of God 
 can never be other than good ; but I doubt if 
 any man can ever be sm-e that a thing is the 
 will of God, save by seeing into its natui-e and 
 character, and beholding its goodness. What- 
 ever God does must be right, but are we sui-e 
 that we know what he does ? That which men 
 say he does may be very wi'ong indeed. 
 
 This bm-den she in her turn laid upon Robert 
 — not unkindly, but as needful for his training 
 towards well-being. Her way with him was 
 shaped after that which she recognized as God's 
 way with her. " Speu' nae questons, but gang 
 an' du as ye're tellt." And it was anything but a 
 bad lesson for the boy. It was one of the best 
 he could have had — that of authority. It is a 
 grand thing to obey mthout asking questions, 
 so long as there is nothing evil in what is 
 commanded. Only Grannie concealed her rea- 
 sons without reason ; and God makes no secrets. 
 Hence she seemed more stern and less sympa- 
 thetic than she really was. 
 
 She sat ^dth her feet on the Httle wooden 
 stool, and Robert sat beside her staring into the 
 fire, till they heard the outer door open, and 
 Shargar and Betty come in from church.
 
 172 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Robert's mother. 
 
 EARLY on the following morning, while Mrs. 
 Falconer, Robert, and Shargar were at 
 breakfast, Mr. Lammie came. He had delayed 
 communicating the intelligence he had received 
 till he should be more certain of its truth. 
 Older than Andrew, he had been a great friend 
 of his father, and likewise of some of Mrs. Fal- 
 coner's own family. Therefore he was received 
 with a kindly welcome. But there was a cloud 
 on his brow which in a moment revealed that 
 his errand was not a pleasant one. 
 
 " I haena seen ye for a lang time, Mr. Lam- 
 mie. Gae butt the hoose, lads. Or I'm think- 
 in' it maun be schule-time. Sit ye doon, Mr. 
 Lammie, and lat 's hear yer news." 
 
 " I cam frae Aberdeen last nicht. Mistress 
 Faukner," he began. 
 
 "Ye haena been hame sin' syne?" she re- 
 joined. 
 
 " Na. I sleepit at the Boar's Heid."
 
 ROBERT'S MOTHER. 173 
 
 " What for did ye that ? ^Miat gart ye be 
 at that expense, whan ye kent I had a bed i' the 
 ga'le-room ?" 
 
 *'Weel, ye see, they're aiild frien's o' mme, 
 and I like to gang to them whan I'm i' the gait 
 o t. 
 
 " Weel, they're a fine faimily, the Miss Xapers. 
 And, I wat, sin' they maun sell diink, they du 't 
 wi' discretion. That's weel kent." 
 
 Possibly ^Ir. Lammie, remembeiTQg what 
 then occm-red, may have thought the discre- 
 tion a little in excess of the drink, but he had 
 other matters to occupy him now. For a few 
 moments both were silent. 
 
 " There's been some ill news, they tell me, 
 Mrs. Faukner," he said at length, when the si- 
 lence had groT\m painful. 
 
 " Humph I " retm-ned the old lady, her face 
 becoming stony with the effort to suppress all 
 emotion. "Nae aboot Anerew?" 
 
 " 'Deed is 't, mem. An' ill news, I'm sorry to 
 say." 
 
 " Is he ta'en ?" 
 
 " Ay is he — by a jyler that winna tyne the 
 grup." 
 
 " He's no deid, John Lammie ? Dinna say 't." 
 
 " I maun say 't, Mrs. Faukner. I had it frae 
 Dr. Anderson, yer ain cousin. He hintit at it 
 afore, but his last letter leaves nae room to 
 doobt upo' the subjeck. I'm unco sorry to be
 
 174 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 the beirer o' sic ill news, Mrs. Faukner, but I 
 had nae chice." 
 
 " Ohone ! Ohone ! the day o' grace is by at 
 last ! My puir Anerew !" exclaimed Mrs. Fal- 
 coner, and sat dumb thereafter. 
 
 Mr. Lammie tried to comfort her with some 
 of the usual comfortless commonplaces. She 
 neither wept nor replied, but sat with stony 
 face staring into her lap, till, seeing that she 
 was as one that heareth not, he rose and left 
 her alone with her grief. A few minutes after 
 he was gone, she rang the bell, and told Betty 
 in her usual voice to send Robert to her. 
 
 " He's gane to the schule, mem." 
 
 " Rin efter him, an' tell liim to come hame." 
 
 When Robert appeared, wondering what his 
 grandmother could want with him, she said : 
 
 " Close the door, Robert. I canna lat ye gang 
 to the schule the day. We maun lea' him oot 
 noo." 
 
 " Lea' wha oot, grannie ?" 
 
 " Him, him — Anerew. Yer father, laddie. I 
 tliink my hert '11 brak." 
 
 " Lea' him oot o' what, grannie ? I dmna 
 unnerstan' ye." 
 
 " Lea' him oot o' oor prayers, laddie, and I 
 canna bide it." 
 
 "What for that?" 
 
 " He's deid." 
 
 "Are ye suref
 
 ROBERT'S MOTHER. 175 
 
 " Ay, ower sure — ower sure, laddie." 
 
 " Weel, I dinna believe 't." 
 
 "What for that?" 
 
 *' 'Cause I winna beheve 't. I'm no bund to 
 believe 't, am I ?" 
 
 " What's the gude o' that ? Wksit for no be- 
 lieve 't ? Dr. Anderson's sent hame word o' 't 
 to John Lammie. Och hone ! och hone I" 
 
 " I tell ye I winna believe 't, grannie, 'cep' 
 God himsel' tells me. As lang 's I dinna be- 
 lieve 'at he's deid, I can keep him i' my prayers. 
 I'm no gaein' to lea' liim oot, I teU ye, grannie." 
 
 " Well, laddie, I canna argue wi' ye. I hae 
 nae hert till 't. I doobt I maun greit. Come 
 awa'." 
 
 She took him by the hand and rose, then let 
 him go again, sayhig, 
 
 " Sneck the door, laddie." 
 
 Robert bolted the door, and his grandmother 
 again taking his hand, led him to the usual cor- 
 ner. There they knelt down together, and the 
 old woman's prayer was one great and bitter 
 cry for submission to the divine will. She rose ^ 
 
 a little strengthened, if not comforted, saying : 
 
 " Ye maun pray yer lane, laddie. But oh be 
 a guid lad, for ye're a' that I hae left ; and gin 
 ye gang wrang tu, ye'll bring doon my gi'ay 
 hairs wi' sorrow to the grave. They're gray 
 eneuch, and they're near eneuch to the grave, 
 but gin ye turn oot weel, I'll maybe baud up
 
 176 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 my heid a bit yet. But Anerew ! my son ! 
 my son I Would God I had died for thee !" 
 
 And the words of her brother in grief, the 
 king of Israel, opened the floodgates of her 
 heart, and she wept. Robert left her weeping, 
 and closed the door quietly as if his dead father 
 had been lying in the room. 
 
 He took his way up to his own garret, closed 
 that door too, and sat down upon the floor, with 
 his back against the empty bedstead. 
 
 There were no more castles to build now. 
 It was all very well to say that he would not 
 believe the news and would pray for his father, 
 but he did believe them — enough at least to spoil 
 the praying. His favourite employment, seated 
 there, had hitherto been to imagine how he 
 would grow a great man, and set out to seek 
 his father, and find him, and stand by him, and 
 be his son and servant. Oh ! to have the man 
 stroke his head and pat liis cheek, and love 
 him ! One moment he imagined himself his in- 
 dignant defender, the next he would be climb- 
 ing on his knee, as if he were still a little child, 
 and laying his head on his shoulder. For he 
 had had no fondling his life long, and his heart 
 yearned for it. But all this was gone now. A 
 dreary time lay before him, with nobody to 
 please, nobody to serve ; with nobody to praise 
 him. Grannie never praised him. She must 
 have thought praise something wicked. And
 
 ROBERT'S MOTHER. 177 
 
 his father was in misery, for ever and ever! 
 Only somehow that thought was not quite 
 thinkable. It was more the vanishing of hope 
 from his own life than a sense of his father's 
 fate that oppressed him. 
 
 He cast his eyes, as in a hungry despair, around 
 the empty room — or, rather, I should have said, 
 in that faintness which makes food at once es- 
 sential and loathsome ; for despair has no proper 
 hunger in it. The room seemed as empty as 
 his Ufe. There was nothing for his eyes to rest 
 upon but those bundles and bundles of dust- 
 browned papers on the shelves before him. 
 What were they all about? He understood 
 that they were his father's : now that he was 
 dead, it would be no sacrilege to look at them. 
 Nobody cared about them. He would see at 
 least what they were. It would be something 
 to do in this dreariness. 
 
 Bills and receipts, and everything ephemeral 
 — to feel the interest of which, a man must be a 
 poet indeed — was all that met his view. Bundle 
 after bundle he tried, vnth no better success. 
 But as he drew near the middle of the second 
 shelf, upon which they lay several rows deep, 
 he saw something dark behind, hurriedly dis- 
 placed the packets between, and drew forth a 
 small work-box. His heart beat like that of the 
 prince in the fairy-tale, when he comes to the 
 door of the Sleeping Beauty. This at least 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 must have been hers. It was a common little 
 thmg, probably a childish possession, and kept 
 to hold trifles worth more than they looked to 
 be. He opened it with bated breath. The first 
 thing he saw was a half-finished reel of cotton — 
 a pirn, he called it. Beside it was a gold 
 thimble. He lifted the tray. A lovely face in 
 miniature, with dark hair and blue eyes, lay 
 looking earnestly upward. At the lid of this 
 cofiin those eyes had looked for so many years ! 
 The picture was set all round with pearls in an 
 oval ring. How Robert knew them to be pearls, 
 he could not tell, for he did not know that he 
 had ever seen any pearls before, but he knew 
 they were pearls, and that pearls had something 
 to do with the New Jerusalem. But the sad- 
 ness of it all at length overpowered him, and he 
 burst out crying. For it was awfully sad that 
 his mother's portrait should be m his own mo- 
 ther's box. 
 
 He took a bit of red tape off a bundle of the 
 papers, put it through the eye of the setting, 
 and hung the picture round his neck, inside his 
 clothes, for grannie must not see it. She would 
 take that away as she had taken his fiddle. He 
 had a nameless something now for which he had 
 been longing for years. 
 
 Looking again in the box, he found a little 
 bit of paper, discoloured with antiquity, as it 
 seemed to him, though it was not so old as him-
 
 ROBERT'S MOTHER. 179 
 
 self. Unfolding it he found wi'itten upon it a 
 well-known hymn, and at the bottom of the 
 hymn, the words : " Lord ! my heart is very 
 sore." — The treasure upon Robert's bosom was 
 no longer the symbol of a mother's love, but of 
 a woman's sadness, wliich he could not reach to 
 comfort. In that horn*, the boy made a great 
 stride towards manhood. Doubtless his mo- 
 ther's grief had been the same as grannie's — the 
 fear that she would lose her husband for ever. 
 The hom'ly fresh griefs from neglect and ^Tong 
 did not occm- to liim ; only the yieve?' neve?' more. 
 He looked no farther, took the portrait from his 
 neck and replaced it ^dth the paper, put the 
 box back, and walled it up in solitude once more 
 with the dusty bundles. Then he went down 
 to his grandmother, sadder and more desolate 
 than ever. 
 
 He found her seated in her usual place. Her 
 New Testament, a large-print-octavo, lay on the 
 table beside her imopened; for where within 
 those boards could she find comfort for a grief 
 like hers ? That it was the will of God might 
 well comfort any suffering of her own, but 
 would it comfort Andrew ? and if there was no 
 comfort for x^ndrew, how was Andrew's mother 
 to be comforted ? 
 
 Yet God had given his first-born to save his 
 brethren: how could he be pleased that she 
 should cby her tears and be comforted ? True, 
 
 n2
 
 180 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 some awful unknown force of a necessity with 
 which God could not cope came in to explain it ; 
 but this did not make God more kind, for he 
 knew it all every time he made a man ; nor 
 man less sorrowful, for God would have his very 
 mother forget him, or, worse still, remember 
 him and be happy. 
 
 " Read a chapter till me, laddie," she said. 
 
 Robert opened and read iill he came to the 
 words : " I pray not for the world." 
 
 '^ He was o' the world," said the old woman ; 
 " and gin Christ wadna pray for him, what for 
 
 suid I r 
 
 Already, so soon after her son's death, would 
 her theology begin to harden her heart. The 
 strife which results from believing that the 
 higher love demands the suppression of the 
 lower, is the most fearful of all discords, the ab- 
 solute love slaying love — the house divided 
 against itself ; one moment all given up for the 
 will of Him, the next the human tenderness 
 rushing back in a flood. Mrs. Falconer burst 
 into a very agony of weepmg. From that day 
 for many years, the name of her lost Andrew 
 never passed her lips in the hearing of her 
 grandson, and certainly in that of no one else. 
 
 But in a few weeks she was more cheerful. 
 It is one of the mysteries of humanity that mo- 
 thers in her circumstances, and holding her 
 creed, do regain not merely the faculty of going
 
 ROBERT'S MOTHER. 181 
 
 on with the business of life, but, in most cases, 
 even cheerfulness. The infinite Truth, the Love 
 of the universe, supports them beyond their 
 consciousness, coming to them hke sleep from 
 the roots of their being, and having nothing to 
 do with their opinions or beliefs. And hence 
 spiing those comforting subterfuges of hope to 
 which they all fly. Not being able to trust the 
 Father entirely, they yet say : " '\\Tio can tell 
 what took place at the last moment ? Who can 
 tell whether God did not please to gi'ant them 
 saving faith at the eleventh horn-?" — that so 
 they might pass from the very gates of hell, 
 the only place for which then- hfe had fitted 
 them, into the bosom of love and purity ! This 
 God could do for all : this for the son beloved 
 of his mother perhaps he might do ! 
 
 rebellious mother heart ! dearer to God 
 than that which beats laboriously solemn under 
 Genevan gown or Lutheran surplice ! if thou 
 wouldst read by thine o^vn large light, instead 
 of the ghmmer from the phosphorescent brains 
 of theologians, thou mightst even be able to un- 
 derstand such a simple word as that of the 
 Saviour, when, mshing his disciples to know 
 that he had a nearer regard for them as his 
 brethren in holier danger, than those who had 
 not yet partaken of his light, and therefore 
 praying for them not merely as human beings, 
 but as the human beings they were, he said to
 
 182 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 his Father in their hearing : " I pray not for the 
 world, but for them," — not for the world now, 
 but for them — a meaningless utterance, if he 
 never prayed for the world ; a word of small 
 meaning, if it was not his very wont and cus- 
 tom to pray for the world — for men as men. 
 Lord Christ ! not alone from the pains of hell, 
 or of conscience — ^not alone from the outer dark- 
 ness of self and all that is mean and poor and low, 
 do we fly to thee ; but from the anger that arises 
 within us at the wretched words spoken in thy 
 name, at the degradation of thee and of thy 
 Father in the mouths of those that claim espe- 
 cially to have found thee, do we seek thy feet. 
 Pray thou for them also, for they know not Avhat 
 they do.
 
 183 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 I»L\RY ST. JOHX. 
 
 AFTER this, day followed day in calm, dull, 
 progress. Robert did not care for the 
 games through which his schoolfellows forgot 
 the Httle they had to forget, and had therefore 
 few in any sense his companions. So he passed 
 his time out of school in the society of his grand- 
 mother and Shargar, except that spent in the 
 garret, and the few hom-s a week occupied by 
 the lessons of the shoemaker. For he went on, 
 though half-heartedly, mth those lessons, given 
 now upon Sandy's redeemed violin which he 
 called his old wife^ and made a little progress 
 even, as we sometimes do when we least thhik it. 
 He took more and more to broodhig in the 
 garret ; and as more questions presented them- 
 selves for solution, he became more anxious to 
 amve at the solution, and more uneasy as he 
 failed in satisfying himself that he had arrived 
 at it ; so that his brain, which needed quiet for 
 the true formation of its substance, as a cooling
 
 184 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 liquefaction or an evaporating solution for the 
 just formation of its crystals, became in danger 
 of settling into an abnormal arrangement of the 
 cellular deposits. 
 
 I believe that even the new-bom infant is, in 
 some of his moods, already grappling with the 
 deepest metaphysical problems, in forms infinitely 
 too rudimental for the understanding of the 
 grown philosopher — as far, in fact, removed 
 from his ken on the one side, that of intelligential 
 beginning, the germinal subjective, as his ab- 
 strusest speculations are from the final solutions 
 of absolute entity on the other. If this be the 
 case, it is no wonder that at Robert's age the 
 deepest questions of his coming manhood should 
 be in active operation, although so surrounded 
 with the yolk of common belief and the shell of 
 accredited authority, that the embryo faith, 
 which, in minds like his, always takes the form 
 of doubt, could not be defined any more than its 
 existence could be disproved. I have given a 
 hint at the tendency of his mind already, in the 
 fact that one of the most definite inquiries to 
 which he had yet turned his thoughts was, 
 whether God would have mercy upon a repent- 
 ant devil. An ordinary puzzle had been — if his 
 father were to marry again, and it should turn 
 out after all that his mother was not dead, what 
 was his father to do ? But this was over now. 
 A third was, why, when he came out of churchy
 
 MARY ST. JOHN. 185 
 
 simslime always made tdm miserable, and he 
 felt better able to be good when it rained or 
 snowed hard. I might mention the inquhy 
 whether it was not possible somehow to elude 
 the omniscience of God ; but that is a common 
 question with thoughtful children, and indicates 
 little that is characteristic of the individual. 
 That he puzzled himself about the perpetual 
 motion may pass for httle likewise ; but one 
 thing which is worth mentioning, for indeed it 
 caused him considerable distress, was, that, in 
 reading the Paradise Lost, he could not help 
 sympathizing with Satan, and feeling — I do not 
 say thuiking — that the Almighty was pompous, 
 scarcely reasonable, and somewhat revengeful. 
 
 He was recognized amongst his schoolfellows 
 as remarkable for his love of fair play ; so much 
 so, that he was their constant referee. Add to 
 this that, notwithstanding his sympathy Tvdth 
 Satan, he almost invariably sided with his mas- 
 ter, in regard of any angry reflection or sedi- 
 tious movement, and even when unjustly pun- 
 ished himself, the occasional result of a certam 
 backwardness in self-defence, never showed any 
 resentment — a most improbable statement, I 
 admit, but nevertheless true — and I think the 
 rest of his character may be left to the gradual 
 dawn of its historical manifestation. 
 
 He had long ere this discovered who the an- 
 gel was that had appeared to him at the top of
 
 186 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 the stair upon that memorable night; but he 
 could hardly yet say that he had seen her ; for, 
 except one dim glimpse he had had of her at 
 the window as he passed in the street, she had 
 not appeared to him save in the vision of that 
 night. During the whole winter she scarcely 
 left the house, partly from the state of her 
 health, affected by the sudden change to a nor- 
 thern climate, partly from the attention required 
 by her aunt, to aid in nursing whom she had 
 left the warmer south. Indeed, it was only to 
 return the visits of a few of Mrs. Forsyth's cho- 
 sen, that she had crossed the threshold at all ; 
 and those visits were paid at a time when all 
 such half-grown inhabitants as Robert were 
 gathered under the leathery wing of Mr. Innes. 
 
 But long before the whiter wa^ over, Rothie- 
 den had discovered that the stranger, the Eng- 
 lish lady, Mary St. John, outlandish, almost 
 heathenish as her lovely name sounded in its 
 ears, had a power as altogether strange and 
 new as her name. For she was not only an ad- 
 mu-able performer on the pianoforte, but such a 
 simple enthusiast in music, that the man must 
 have had no music or little heart in him in whom 
 her playing did not move all that there was of 
 the deepest. 
 
 Occasionally there would be quite a small 
 crowd gathered at night by the window of Mrs. 
 Forsyth's drawing-room, which was on the
 
 MARY ST. JOHN. 187 
 
 ground-floor, listening to music such as had 
 never before been heard in Rothieden. More 
 than once, when Robert had not found Sandy 
 Elshender at home on the lesson-night, and had 
 gone to seek him, he had discovered him lying 
 in wait, like a fowler, to catch the sweet sounds 
 that flew from the opened cage of her instru- 
 ment. He leaned against the wall A\dth liis ear 
 laid over the edge, and as near the T\andow as 
 he dared to put it, his rough face, gnarled and 
 blotched, and liirsute vrith the stubble of neg- 
 lected beard — his whole m'sine face transfigui-ed 
 by the passage of the sweet sounds thi-ough his 
 chaotic brain, which they swept like the wind 
 of God, when of old it moved on the face of the 
 waters that clothed the void and formless world. 
 
 "Hand yer tongue!" he would say in a hoarse 
 whisper, when Robert sought to attract his at- 
 tion; "hand yer tongue, man, and hearken. 
 Giu yon bonny leddy 'at yer grannie keeps 
 lockit up i' the aumiy war to tak to the piano, 
 that's jist hoo she wad play. Lord, man! pit yer 
 sowl i' yer lugs, an' hearken." 
 
 The soutar was all A\T:ong in this ; lor if old 
 Mr. Falconer's violm had taken woman-shape, it 
 would have been that of a slight, worn, swarthy 
 creatm-e, with wild black eyes, great and rest- 
 less, a voice like a bird's, and thin fingers that 
 clawed the music out of the wdi-es like the quills 
 of the old harpsichord; not that of Mary St. Jolm,
 
 188 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 who was tall, and could not help being stately, 
 was large and well-fashioned, as full of repose 
 as Handel's music, with a contralto voice to 
 make you weep, and eyes that would have 
 seemed but for their maidenliness, to be always 
 ready to fold you in their lucid gray depths. 
 
 Robert stared at the soutar, doubting at first 
 whether he had not been drinking. But the in- 
 toxication of music produces such a diiferent 
 expression from that of drink, that Robert saw 
 at once that if he had indeed been drinking, at 
 least the music had got above the drink. As 
 long as the playing went on, Elshender was not 
 to be moved from the window. 
 
 But to many of the people of Rothieden the 
 music did not recommend the musician; for 
 every sort of music, except the most unmusical 
 of psalm-singing, was in their minds of a piece 
 with *' dancin' an' play-actin', an' ither warldly 
 vainities an' abominations." And Robert, being 
 as yet more capable of melody than harmony, 
 grudged to lose a lesson on Sandy's " auld wife 
 o' a fiddle " for any amount of Miss St. John's 
 playing.
 
 189 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ERIC ERICSON. 
 
 ONE gusty evening — it was of the last day in 
 March — Robert well remembered both the 
 date and the day — a bleak wind was di-iving up 
 the long street of the town, and Robert was 
 standing looking out of one of the windows in 
 the gable-room. The evening was closing into 
 night. He hardly knew how he came to be 
 there, but when he thought about it he foimd it 
 was play-Wednesday, and that he had been all 
 the half-holiday trying one thing after another 
 to interest himself withal, but in vain. He knew 
 nothing about east winds ; but not the less did 
 this dreary wind of the di^eary March world 
 prove itself upon his soul. For such a wind has 
 a shadow wind along with it, that blows in the 
 minds of men. There was nothing genial, no 
 growth in it. It killed, and killed most dogma- 
 tically. But it is an ill wind that blows nobody 
 good. Even an east wind must bear some 
 blessing on its ugly wings. And as Robert
 
 190 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 looked down from the gable, the wind was blow- 
 ing up the street before it half a dozen footfar- 
 ing students from Aberdeen, on their way home 
 at the close of the session, probably to the farm- 
 labours of the spring. 
 
 This was a glad sight, as that of the return- 
 ing storks in Denmark. Robert knew where 
 they would put up, sought his cap, and went out. 
 His grandmother never objected to his going to 
 see Miss Napier : it was in her house that the 
 weary men would this night rest. 
 
 It was not without reason that Lord Rothie 
 had teased his hostess about receiving foot-pas- 
 sengers, for to such it was her invariable cus- 
 tom to make some civil excuse, sending Meg or 
 Peggy to show them over the way to the hos- 
 telry next in rank, a proceeding recognized by 
 the inferior hostess as both just and friendly, 
 for the good woman never thought of measvu- 
 ing The Star against the Boar's Head. More 
 than one comical story had been the result of 
 this law of the Boar's Head, unalterable almost 
 as that of the Medes and Persians. I say al- 
 most^ for to one class of the footfaring com- 
 munity the official ice about the hearts of the 
 three women did thaw, yielding passage to a 
 full river of hospitality and generosity; and 
 that was the class to which these wayfarers be- 
 longed. 
 
 Well may Scotland rejoice in her universities,
 
 ERIC ERICSOX. 191 
 
 for whatever may be said against their system 
 — I have no complaint to make — they are divine 
 in theu' freedom : men who follow the plongh 
 in the spring and reap the haiwest in the au- 
 tumn, may, and often do, frequent then- sacred 
 precincts when the winter comes — so fierce, yet 
 so welcome — so severe, yet so blessed — opening 
 for them the doors to yet harder toil and yet 
 poorer fare. I fear, however, that of such there 
 will be fewer and fewer, seeing one class- which 
 supplied a portion of them has almost vanished 
 from the country — that class which was its 
 truest, simplest, and noblest strength — that 
 class wliich at one time rendered it something 
 far other than a ridicule to say that Scotland 
 was pre-eminently a God-fearing nation — I mean 
 the class of cottars. 
 
 Of this class were some of the footfaring 
 company. But there were others of more means 
 than the men of this lowly origin, who either 
 could not afford to travel by the expensive 
 coaches, or could find none to accommodate 
 them. Possibly some preferred to walk. How- 
 ever this may have been, the various groups 
 which at the beginning and close of the session 
 passed through Rothieden weary and footsore, 
 were sure of a hearty welcome at the Boar's 
 Head. And much the men needed it. Some of 
 them would have walked between one and two 
 hundred miles before completmg their jom-ney.
 
 192 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 Robert made a circuit, and fleet of foot, was 
 in Miss Napier's parlour before the travellers 
 made their appearance on the square. When 
 they knocked at the door. Miss Letty herself 
 went and opened it. 
 
 " Can ye tak 's in, mem f was on the lips of 
 their spokesman, but Miss Letty had the first 
 word. 
 
 " Come m, come in, gentlemen. This is the 
 first o' ye, and ye're the mair welcome. It's 
 like seein' the first o' the swallows. An' sic a 
 day as ye hae had for yer lang traivel !" she 
 went on, leading the way to her sister's parlour, 
 and followed by all the students, of whom the 
 one that came hindmost was the most remark- 
 able of the group — at the same time the most 
 weary and downcast. 
 
 Miss Napier gave them a similar welcome, 
 shaking hands with every one of them. She 
 knew them all but the last. To him she invo- 
 luntarily showed a more formal respect, partly 
 from his appearance, and partly that she had 
 never seen him before. The whisky-bottle was 
 brought out, and all partook, save still the last. 
 Miss Lizzie went to order their supper. 
 
 " Noo, gentlemen," said Miss Letty, . " wad 
 ony o' ye like to gang an' change yer hose, and 
 pit on a pail- o' slippers f 
 
 Several declined, saying they would wait un- 
 til they had had their supper ; the roads had
 
 ERIC ERICSON. 193 
 
 been quite dry, &c., &c. One said he would, 
 and another said his feet were blistered. 
 
 " Hoot awa' !"* exclaimed Miss Letty. — "Here, 
 Peggy !" she cried, going to the door ; " tak a 
 pail o' het watter up to the chackit room. Jist 
 ye gang up, ^Ir. Cameron, and Peggy 'ill see to 
 yer feet. — Xoo, su', will ye gang to yer room an' 
 mak yersel' comfortable ? — jist as gin ye war at 
 hame, for sae ye are." 
 
 She addressed the stranger thus. He replied 
 in a low indifferent tone : 
 
 " No, thank you; I must be off again du-ectly." 
 
 He was from Caithness, and talked no Scotch. 
 
 " 'Deed, su', ye'll do naething o' the kin'. 
 Here ye s' bide, tho' I suld lock the door." 
 
 " Come, come, Ericson, none o' youi* non- 
 sense !" said one of his fellows. " Ye ken yer 
 feet are sae blistered ye can hardly put ane 
 by the ither. — It was a' we cud du, mem, to get 
 him alang the last mile." 
 
 "That s' be my business, than," concluded 
 Miss Letty. 
 
 She left the room, and returning in a few mi- 
 nutes, said, as a matter of com'se, but with au- 
 thority, 
 
 " Mr. Ericson, ye maim come wi' me." 
 
 Then she hesitated a little. Was it maiden- 
 
 * An exclamation of pitiful sympathy, inexplicable to the 
 understanding. Thus the author covers his philological 
 ignorance of the cross-breeding of the phrase. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 194 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 liness in the waning woman of five and forty ? 
 It was, I believe ; for how can a woman always 
 remember how old she is ? If ever there was a 
 young soul in God's world, it was Letty Napier. 
 And the young man was tall and stately as a 
 Scandinavian chief, with a look of command, 
 tempered with patient endurance, in his eagle 
 face, for he was more like an eagle than any 
 other creature, and in his countenance signs of 
 suffering. Miss Letty seeing this, was moved, 
 and her heart swelled, and she grew conscious 
 and shy, and turning to Robert, said, 
 
 " Come up the stair wi' 's, Robert ; I may 
 want ye." 
 
 Robert jumped to his feet. His heart too had 
 been yearning towards the stranger. 
 
 As if yielding to the inevitable, Ericson rose 
 and followed Miss Letty. But when they had 
 reached the room, and the door was shut behind 
 thein, and Miss Letty pointed to a chair beside 
 which stood a little wooden tub full of hot water, 
 saying, " Sit ye doon there, Mr. Ericson," he 
 drew himself up, all but his graciously-bowed 
 head, and said : 
 
 " Ma'am, I must tell you that I followed the 
 rest in here from the very stupidity of weariness. 
 I have not a shilling in my pocket." 
 
 " God bless me !" said Miss Letty — and God 
 did bless her, I am sure — " we maun see to the 
 feet first. What wad ye du wi' a shillin' gin ye
 
 ERIC ERICSON. 195 
 
 had it? Wad ye clap ane upo' ilka blister?" 
 
 Erics on bui'st out laugliing, and sat down. 
 But still he hesitated. 
 
 " Aff wd' yer shune, sir. Duv ye think I can 
 wash yer feet throu ben' leather?" said Miss 
 Letty, not disdaining to advance her fingers to 
 a shoe-tie. 
 
 " But I'm ashamed. My stockings are all in 
 holes." 
 
 " Weel, ye s' get a clean pair to put on the 
 mom, an' I'll darn them 'at ye hae on, gin they 
 be worth darmn', afore ye gang — an' what are 
 ye sae camstah'ie {unmanageable) for ? A body 
 wad think ye had a clo'en fit in ilk ane o' thae 
 bits o' shune o' yom-s. I winna promise to please 
 yer mither wi' my darnin' though." 
 
 " I have no mother to find fault Avith it," said 
 Ericson. 
 
 " Weel, a sister's waur." 
 
 " I have no sister, either." 
 
 This was too much for ^liss Letty. She could 
 keep up the bravado of humour no longer. She 
 fairly burst out crying. In a moment more the 
 shoes and stockings were off, and the blisters in 
 the hot water. Miss Letty's tears dropped into 
 the tub, and the salt in them did not hm-t the feet 
 with which she busied herself, more than was 
 necessary, to hide them. 
 
 But no sooner had she recovered herself than 
 she resumed her former tone. 
 
 2
 
 196 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " A sliillin' ! said ye ? An' a' thae greedy gleds 
 {kites) o' professors to pay, that live upo' the verra 
 blude and banes o' sair-vroucht students ! Hoo 
 cud ye hae a shillin' ower ? Troth, it's nae wonner 
 ye haena ane left. An' a' the merchan's there 
 jist leevin' upo' ye ! Lord hae a care o' 's ! sic 
 bonnie feet ! — Wi' blisters I mean. I never saw 
 sic a sicht o' raw puddin's m my life. Ye're no 
 fit to come doon the stair again." 
 
 All the time she was tenderly washmg and 
 bathing the weary feet. When she had dressed 
 them and tied them np, she took the tub of water 
 and carried it away, but turned at the door. 
 
 "Ye'll jist mak up yer min' to bide a twa 
 thi'ee days," she said ; " for thae feet cudna bide 
 to be carried, no to say to carry a weicht like you. 
 There's naebody to luik for ye, ye ken. An' 
 ye're no to come doon the nicht. I'll sen' up yer 
 supper. And Robert there '11 bide and keep ye 
 company." 
 
 She vanished; and a moment after, Peggy 
 appeared with Si salamander — that is a huge poker, 
 ending not in a point, but a red-hot ace of spades 
 — which she thrust between the bars of the grate, 
 into the heart of a nest of brushwood. Presently 
 a cheerful fire illuminated the room. 
 
 Ericson was seated on one chair, with liis feet 
 on another, his head sunk on his bosom, and liis 
 eyes thinking. There was something about him 
 almost as powerfully attractive to Robert as it had
 
 ERIC ERICSOX. 197 
 
 been to Miss Letty. So he sat gazing at him, and 
 longing for a chance of doing something for liim. 
 He had reverence abeady, and some love, but 
 he had never felt at all as he felt toTvards tliis 
 man. Nor was it as the Chhiese puzzlers called 
 Scotch metaphysicians, might have represented 
 it — a combination of love and reverence. It was 
 the recognition of the eternal brotherhood be- 
 tween him and one nobler than himself — hence 
 a lovely eager worsliip. 
 
 Seeing Ericson look about him as if he wanted 
 something, Robert started to his feet. 
 
 " Is there ony thing ye want, Mr. Ericson ? " 
 he said, with service standing in his eyes. 
 
 " A smaU bimdle I think I brought up vriih 
 me," replied the youth. 
 
 It was not there. Robert mshed doT\TL stairs, 
 and returned vdih it — a nightshu't and a hau- 
 brush or so, tied up in a blue cotton handkerchief. 
 This was all that Robert was able to do for Ericson 
 that evening. 
 
 He went home and di-eamed about him. He 
 called at the Boar's Head the next morning 
 before going to school, but Ericson was not yet 
 up. When he called again as soon as mornmg- 
 school was over, he found that they had persuaded 
 him to keep his bed, but Miss Letty took him up 
 to his room. He looked better, was pleased to 
 see Robert, and spoke to him kindly. Twice yet 
 Robert called to inquh-e after him that day, and
 
 198 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 once more he saw him, for he took his tea up 
 to him. 
 
 The next day Ericson was much better, re- 
 ceived Robert with a smile, and went out with 
 him for a stroll, for all his companions were gone, 
 and of some students who had arrived since, he 
 did not know any. Robert took him to his 
 grandmother, who received him with stately 
 kindness. Then they went out again, and 
 passed the windows of Captain Forsyth's house. 
 Mary St. John was playing. They stood for a 
 moment, almost involuntarily, to listen. She 
 ceased. 
 
 " That's the music of the spheres," said Eric- 
 son, in a low voice, as they moved on. 
 
 " Will you tell me what that means ?" asked 
 Robert. " I 've come upon 't ower an' ower in 
 Milton." 
 
 Thereupon Ericson explained to him what 
 Pythagoras had taught about the stars moving 
 in then- great orbits with sounds of awfal har- 
 mony, too grandly loud for the human organ to 
 vibrate in response to their music — hence un- 
 heard of men. And Ericson spoke as if he be- 
 lieved it. But after he had spoken, his face 
 grew sadder than ever ; and, as if to change the 
 subject, he said, abruptly, — 
 
 " What a fine old lady your grandmother is, 
 Robert !" 
 
 ^' Is she ?" returned Robert.
 
 ERIC ERICSOX. 199 
 
 " I don't mean to say she's like Miss Letty," 
 said Ericson. " Shes an angel !" 
 
 A long pause followed. Robert's thoughts 
 went roaming in their usual haunts. 
 
 " Do you think, Mr. Ericson," he said, at 
 length, taking up the old question still floating 
 unanswered in his mind, " do you think if a devil 
 was to repent, God would forgive him ?" 
 
 Ericson turned and looked at liim. Their 
 eyes met. The youth wondered at the boy. 
 He had recognized in him a younger brother, 
 one who had begun to ask questions, calling 
 them out into the deaf and diunb abyss of the 
 universe. 
 
 " If God was as good as I would like him to 
 be, the devils themselves woidd repent," he said, 
 turning away. 
 
 Then he tm-ned again, and looking down upon 
 Robert like a sorrowful eagle from a crag over 
 its harried nest, said : 
 
 " If I only knew that God was as good as — 
 that woman, I should die content." 
 
 Robert heard words of blasphemy from the 
 mouth of an angel, but his respect for Ericson 
 compelled a reply. 
 
 " What woman, ^Ir. Ericson ?" he asked. 
 
 " I mean ]\Iiss Letty, of com'se." 
 
 " But surely ye dinna think God's nae as guid 
 as she is ? Surely he 's as good as he can be. 
 He is good, ye ken."
 
 200 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " Oh, yes. They say so. And then they tell 
 you something about him that isn't good, and 
 go on calling him good all the same. But call- 
 ing anybody good doesn't make him good, you 
 know." 
 
 " Then ye dinna believe 'at God is good, Mr. 
 Ericson ?" said Robert, choking with a strange 
 mingling of horror and hope. 
 
 " I didn't say that, my boy. But to know 
 that God was good, and fair, and kind — heartily, 
 I mean, not half-ways, and with ifs and huts — 
 my boy, there would be nothing left to be 
 miserable about." 
 
 In a momentary flash of thought, Robert won- 
 dered whether this might not be his old friend, 
 the repentant angel, sent to earth as a man, that 
 he might have a share in the redemption, and 
 work out his own salvation. And from this very 
 moment the thoughts about God that had hither- 
 to been moving in formless solution in his mind 
 began slowly to crystallize. 
 
 The next day, Eric Ericson, not without a 
 piece in ae pouch and money in another, took his 
 way home, if home it could be called where 
 neither father, mother, brother, nor sister awaited 
 his return. For a season Robert saw him no 
 more. 
 
 As often as his name was mentioned. Miss 
 Letty's eyes would grow hazy, and as often she 
 would make some comical remark.
 
 ERIC ERICSOX. 201 
 
 " Puii' fallow !" she would say, " he was ower 
 lang-leggit for this warld." 
 
 Or again : 
 
 "Ay, he was a braw chield. But he canna 
 live. His feet's ower sraa'." 
 
 Or yet again : 
 
 " Saw ye ever sic a gowk, to mak sic a wark 
 aboot sittin' doon an' haein' his feet washed, as 
 gin that cost a body onytliing I"
 
 202 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 MR. LAMMIE's farm. 
 
 ONE of the first warm mornings in the begin- 
 ning of summer, the boy woke early, and 
 lay awake, as was his custom, thinking. The 
 sun, in all the indescribable purity of its morning 
 light, had kindled a spot of brilliance just about 
 where his grannie's head must be lying asleep 
 in its sad thoughts, on the opposite side of the 
 partition. 
 
 He lay looking at the light. There came a 
 gentle tapping at his window. A long streamer 
 of honeysuckle, not yet in blossom, but alive 
 with the life of the summer, was blown by the 
 air of the morning against his window-pane, as 
 if calling him to get up and look out. He did 
 get up and look out. 
 
 But he started back in such haste that he fell 
 against the side of liis bed. Within a few yards 
 of his window, bending over a bush, was the 
 loveliest face he had ever seen — the only face, 
 in fact, he had ever yet felt to be beautiful. For
 
 MR. lammie's farm. 203 
 
 the window looked dii'ectly into the garden of 
 the next house : its honeysuckle tapped at his 
 window, its sweet-peas grew against his window- 
 sill. It was the face of the angel of that night ; 
 but how different when illuminated by the morn- 
 ing sun fi'om then, when lighted up by a cham- 
 ber-candle ! The fii-st thought that came to 
 him w^as the half-ludicrous, all-fantastic idea of 
 the shoemaker about his grandfather's violin 
 being a woman. A vaguest dream-vision -of her 
 having escaped from his grandmother's aunn-ie 
 (store-closet), and wandering free amidst the wuid 
 and among the flowers, crossed his mind before 
 he had recovered sufficiently from his surprise 
 to prevent Fancy from cutting any more of those 
 too ridiculous capers in which she mdulged at 
 wdll in sleep, and as often besides as she can get 
 away from the spectacles of old Grannie Judg- 
 ment. 
 
 But the music of her revelation was not that 
 of the violin ; and Robert vaguely felt this, 
 though he searched no fiu'ther for a fitting m- 
 strument to represent her. If he had heard the 
 organ indeed ! — but he knew no instrument save 
 the violin : the piano he had only heard through 
 the window. For a few moments her face 
 brooded over the bush, and her long finely- 
 modelled fingers travelled about it as if they 
 were creating a flower upon it — probably they 
 were assisting the birth or bio wing of some beauty
 
 204 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 : — and then slie raised herself with a Kngering 
 look, and vanished from the field of the window. 
 But ever after this, when the evening grew 
 dark, Robert would steal out of the house, leav- 
 ing his book open by his grannie's lamp, that 
 its patient expansion might seem to say, " He 
 will come back presently," and dart round the cor- 
 ner with quick quiet step, to hear if Miss St. John 
 was playing. If she was not, he would return 
 to the Sabbath stillness of the parlour, where his 
 grandmother sat meditating or reading, and 
 Shargar sat brooding over the freedom of the 
 old days ere Mrs. Falconer had begun to reclaim 
 him. There he would seat liimself once more 
 at his book — to rise again ere another hour had 
 gone by, and hearken yet again at her window 
 whether the stream might not be floAving now. 
 If he found her at her instrument he would 
 stand listening in earnest delight, until the fear 
 of being missed drove him in : tliis secret too 
 might be discovered, and this enchantress too 
 sent, by the decree of his grandmother, into the 
 limbo of vanities. Thus strangely did his even- 
 ing life oscillate between the too peaceful nega- 
 tions of grannie's parlour, and the vital gladness 
 of the unknown lady's windoAV. And skilfully 
 did he manage his retreats and returns, curtail- 
 ing his absences with such moderation that, for 
 a long time, they awoke no suspicion in the mind 
 of his grandmother.
 
 MR. lammee's farm. 205 
 
 I suspect myself that the old lady thought he 
 had gone to his prayers in the garret. And I 
 believe she thought that he was praying for his 
 dead father ; with which most papistical, and, 
 therefore, most unchi-istian observance, she yet 
 dared not interfere, because she expected Robert 
 to defend himself triumphantly with the simple 
 assertion that he did not believe his father was 
 dead. Possibly the mother was not sorry that 
 her poor son should be prayed for, in case he 
 might be alive after all, though she could no 
 longer do so herself — not merely dared not, but 
 persuaded herself that she ivould not. Robert, 
 however, was convinced enough, and hopeless 
 enough, by tliis time, and had even less tempta- 
 tion to break the tAventieth commandent by 
 pra^Tng for the dead, than his grandmother had; 
 for with all his imaginative outgoings after his 
 father, his love to him was as yet, compared to 
 that father's mother's, "as moonlight unto sun- 
 light, and as water unto Tvdne." 
 
 Shargar would glance up at him ^^dth a queer 
 look as he came in from these excm'sions, drop 
 his head over his task again, look busy and 
 miserable, and all would glide on as before. 
 
 ^Yhen the fii'st really summer weather came, 
 Mr. Lammie one day paid Mrs. Falconer a second 
 visit. He had not been able to get over the re- 
 membrance of the desolation in which he had 
 left her. But he could do nothing for her, he
 
 206 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 thought, till it was warm weather. He was ac- 
 companied by his daughter, a woman approaching 
 the further verge of youth, bulky and florid, 
 and as full of tenderness as her large frame could 
 hold. After much, and, for a long time, ap- 
 parently useless persuasion, they at last be- 
 lieved they had prevailed upon her to pay them 
 a visit for a fortnight. But she had only retreated 
 within another of her defences. 
 
 " I canna leave thae twa laddies alane. They 
 wad be up to a' mischeef." 
 
 " There's Betty to luik efter them," suggested 
 Miss Lammie. 
 
 " Betty !" returned Mrs. Falconer, with scorn. 
 " Betty's naething but a bairn hersel' — muckler 
 and waur faured (loorse favoured) ." 
 
 " But what for shouldna ye fess the lads wi' 
 ye ?" suggested Mr. Lammie. 
 
 " I hae no richt to burden you wi' them." 
 
 " Weel, I h'ae aften wonnert what gart ye 
 burden yersel' wi' that Shargar, as I understan' 
 they ca' liim," said Mr. Lammie. 
 
 " Jist naething but a bit o' greed," returned 
 the old lady, with the nearest approach to a 
 smile that had shown itself upon her face since 
 Mr. Lammie's last visit. 
 
 " I dinna understan' that, Mistress Faukner," 
 said Miss Lammie. 
 
 " I 'm sae sure o' haein' 't back again, ye ken, 
 — wi' interest," returned Mrs. Falconer.
 
 MR. LA^miE'S FARM. 207 
 
 " Hoo's that ? His father wmna con ye ony 
 thanks for haudin' him in life." 
 
 " He that giveth to the poor lendeth to the 
 Lord, ye ken, Miss Lammie." 
 
 " Atweel, gin ye hke to Hppen to that bank, 
 nae doobt ae way or anither it '11 gang to yer 
 accoont," said Miss Lammie. 
 
 " It wad ill become us, ony gait," said her 
 father, " nae to gie him shelter for yom* sake, 
 Mrs. Faukner, no to mention ither names, sin' 
 it's yer wnll to mak the puir lad ane o' the 
 faimily. — They say liis ain mither's run awa' an' 
 left him." 
 
 " 'Deed she's dune that." 
 
 " Can ye mak onything o' 'im ? " 
 
 " He's douce eneuch. An' Robert says he does 
 nae that ill at the schuil." 
 
 " Weel, jist fess him A\d' ye. We'll hae some 
 place or ither to put liim intil, gin it suld be 
 only a shak'-doon upo' the flm-e." 
 
 " Na, na. There's the schuilin' — what's to be 
 dune wi' that?" 
 
 " They can gang i' the mornin', and get their 
 denner wi' Betty here ; and syne come hame to 
 then- fower-hoors (four d clock tea) whan the 
 schule's ower i' the efternune. 'Deed, mem, ye 
 maun jist come for the sake o' the auld frien'- 
 ship atween the faimilies." 
 
 " Weel, gin it maun be sae, it maun be sae," 
 yielded Mrs. Falconer, with a sigh.
 
 208 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 She had not left her own house for a smgle 
 night for ten years. Nor is it hkely she would 
 have now given in, for immovableness was one 
 of the most marked of her characteristics, had 
 she not been so broken by mental suffering, that 
 she did not care much about anything, least of 
 all about herself. 
 
 Innumerable were the instructions m pro- 
 priety of behaviour which she gave the boys ui 
 prospect of this visit. The probability being 
 that they would behave just as well as at home, 
 these instructions were considerably unneces- 
 sary, for Mrs. Falconer was a strict enforcer of all 
 social rules. Scarcely less unnecessary were the 
 directions she gave as to the conduct of Betty, 
 who received them all in erect submission, with 
 her hands under her apron. She ought to have 
 been a young gnl instead of an elderly woman, 
 if there was any propriety in the way her mis- 
 tress spoke to her. It proved at least her OAvn 
 belief in the description she had given of her to 
 Miss Lammie. 
 
 " Noo, Betty, ye maun be dooce. An' dinna 
 stan' at the door i' the gloamm'. An' dinna 
 stan' claikin' an' jawin' wi' the ither lasses whan 
 ye gang to the wall for watter. An' whan ye 
 gang intil a chop, dinna hae them sayin' ahint 
 yer back, as sune's yer oot again, ' She's her ain 
 mistress by way o',' or sic like. An' min' ye 
 hae worship wi' yersel', whau I'm nae here to
 
 MR. lamimie's farm. 209 
 
 hae 't wi' ye. Ye can come benn to the parlour 
 gin ye like. An' there's my muckle Testament. 
 And dinna gie the lads a' thing they want. Gie 
 them plenty to ait, but no ower muckle. Fowk 
 suld aye lea' aff wi' an eppiteet." 
 
 Mr. Lammie brought his gig at last, and took 
 grannie away to Bodyfauld. AVlien the boys 
 returned from school at the dinner-hour, it was 
 to exult in a freedom which Robert had never 
 imagined before. But even he could not know 
 what a relief it was to Shargar to eat without 
 the awfully calm eyes of Mrs. Falconer watch- 
 ing, as it seemed to him, the progress of every 
 mouthful down that capacious throat of his. 
 The old lady would have been shocked to learn 
 how the imagination of the Hi-mothered lad in- 
 terpreted her care over him, but she would not 
 have been surprised to know that the two were 
 merry in her absence. She knew that, in some 
 of her own moods, it would be a reUef to think 
 that that awful eye of God was not upon her. 
 But she little thought that even in the lawless 
 proceediugs about to follow, her Robert, who 
 now felt such a relief in her absence, would be 
 walking straight on, though blindly, towards a 
 sunrise of faith, in which he would know that 
 for the eye of his God to turn away from him 
 for one moment would be the horror of the outer 
 darkness. 
 
 Merriment, however, was not in Robert's 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 thoughts, and still less was mischief. For the 
 latter, whatever his grandmother might think, 
 he had no capacity. The world was already 
 too serious, and was soon to be too beautiful 
 for mischief. After that, it would be too sad, 
 and then, finally, until death, too solemn glad. 
 The moment he heard of his grandmother's in- 
 tended visit, one wild hope and desii-e and in- 
 tent had arisen within him. 
 
 When Betty came to the parlour-door to lay 
 the cloth for their dinner, she foimd it locked. 
 
 " Open the door !" she cried, but cried in vain. 
 From impatience she passed to passion ; but it 
 was of no avail : there came no more response 
 than from the shrine of the deaf Baal. For to 
 the boys it was an opportunity not at any risk 
 to be lost. Dull Betty never suspected what 
 they were about. They were ranging the place 
 like two tiger-cats whose whelps had been car- 
 ried off in their absence — questing, with nose to 
 earth and tail in air, for the scent of their ene- 
 my. My simile has carried me too far : it was 
 only a dead old gentleman's violin that a couple 
 of boys was after — but with what eagerness, 
 and, on the part of Robert, what alternations of 
 hope and fear ! And Shargar was always the 
 reflex of Robert, so far as Shargar could reflect 
 Robert. Sometimes Robert would stop, stand 
 still in the middle of the room, cast a mathema- 
 tical glance of survey over its cubic contents,
 
 MR. lammie's farm. 211 
 
 and then dart off in another inwardly suggested 
 dii*ection of search. Shargar, on the other 
 hand, appeared to riinunage blindly without a 
 notion of casting the illumination of thought 
 upon the field of search. Yet to him fell the 
 success. When hope was gro^\TJig dim, after 
 an hour and a half of vain endeavour, a scream 
 of utter discordance heralded the resui-rection 
 of the lady of harmony. Taught by his experi- 
 ence of his wild mother's habits to guess at 
 those of douce Mrs. Falconer, Shargar had found 
 the instrument in her bed at the foot, between 
 the feathers and the mattress. For one happy 
 moment Shargar was the benefactor, and Robert 
 the grateful recipient of favoui*. Nor, I do be- 
 lieve, was this thread of the still thickening ca- 
 ble that bound them ever forgotten : broken it 
 could not be. 
 
 Robert di'ew the recovered treasure from its 
 concealment, opened the case ^vith trembling 
 eagerness, and was stooping, with one hand on 
 the neck of the violin, and the other on the bow, 
 to lift them from it, when Shargar stopped him. 
 
 His success had given him such dignity, that 
 for once he dared to act from himself. 
 
 " Betty 'ill hear ye," he said. 
 
 " What care I for Betty ? She daurna tell. 
 I ken hoo to manage her." 
 
 " But wadna 't be better 'at she didna ken f 
 
 " She's sure to fin' oot whan she mak's the 
 
 p 2
 
 212 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 bed. She turns't ower and ower jist like a 
 muckle tyke (dog) worryin' a rottan (rat)^ 
 
 " De'il a bit o' her s' be a hair wiser ! Ye din- 
 na play tunes npo' the boxie, man." 
 
 Robert caught at the idea. He lifted the 
 " bonny leddy " from her coffin ; and while he 
 was absorbed in the contemplation of her risen 
 beauty, Shargar laid his hands on Boston's 
 Four-fold State., the torment of his life on the 
 Sunday evenings which it was his turn to spend 
 with Mrs. Falconer, and threw it as an offering 
 to the powers of Hades into the case, which he 
 then buried carefully, with the feather-bed for 
 mould, the blankets for sod, and the counter- 
 pane studiously arranged for stone, over it. He 
 took heed, however, not to let Robert know of 
 the substitution of Boston for the fiddle, be- 
 cause he knew Robert could not tell a lie. 
 Therefore, when he murmured over the volume 
 some of its own words which he had read the 
 preceding Sunday, it was in a quite inaudible 
 whisper : " Now is it good for nothing but to 
 cumber the ground, and furnish fuel for Tophet." 
 
 Robert must now hide the violin better than 
 his grannie had done, while at the same time it 
 was a more delicate necessity, seeing it had lost 
 its shell, and he shrunk from putting her in the 
 power of the shoemaker again. It cost him much 
 trouble to fix on the place that was least misuit- 
 able. First he put it into the well of the clock-
 
 MR. LAiVBHE's FARM. 213 
 
 case, but instantly bethought him what the aw- 
 ful consequence would be if one of the weights 
 should fall fl'om the gradual decay of its cord. 
 He had heard of such a thing happening. Then 
 he would put it into his own place of dreams 
 and meditations. But what if Betty should 
 take a fancy to change her bed ? or some friend 
 of his grannie's should come to spend the night? 
 How would the bonny leddy like it ? What a 
 risk she would run ! If he put her under the 
 bed, the mice would get at her strings — nay, 
 perhaps knaw a hole right through her beauti- 
 ful body. On the top of the clock, the brass 
 eagle with outspread wings might scratch her, 
 and there was not space to conceal her. At 
 length he concluded — wrapped her in a piece of 
 paper, and placed her on the top of the chintz 
 tester of his bed, where there was just room be- 
 tween it and the ceiling : that would serve till 
 he bore her to some better sanctuary. In the 
 meantime she was safe, and the boy was the 
 blessedest boy in creation. 
 
 These things done, they were just in the hu- 
 mour to have a lark with Betty. So they un- 
 bolted the door, rang the bell, and when Betty 
 appeared, red-faced and wrathful, asked her 
 very gravely and politely whether they were 
 not going to have some dinner before they 
 went back to school : they had now but twenty 
 minutes left. Betty was so dumfoundered with
 
 214 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 their impudence that she could not say a word. 
 She did make haste with the dinner, though, 
 and revealed her indignation only in her man- 
 ner of putting the things on the table. As the 
 boys left her, Robert contented himself with the 
 single hint : 
 
 " Betty, Bodyfauld 's i' the perris o' Kettle- 
 drum. Min' ye that." 
 
 Betty glowered and said nothing. 
 
 But the delight of the walk of three miles 
 over hill and dale and moor and farm to Mr. 
 Lammie's ! The boys, if not as wild as colts — 
 that is, as wild as most boys would have been 
 — were only the more deeply excited. That 
 first summer walk, with a goal before them, in 
 all the freshness of the perfecting year, was 
 something which to remember in after days 
 was to Falconer nothing short of ecstasy. The 
 westering sun threw long shadows before them 
 as they trudged away eastward, lightly laden 
 with the books needful for the morrow's les- 
 sons. Once beyond the immediate purlieus of 
 the town and the various plots of land occupied 
 by its inhabitants, they crossed a small river, 
 and entered upon a region of little hills, some 
 covered to the top with trees, chiefly larch, 
 others cultivated, and some bearing only 
 heather, now nursing in secret its purple flame 
 for the outburst of the autumn. The road 
 wound between, now swampy and worn into
 
 MR. LAM^nE'S FARM. 215 
 
 deep nits, now sandy and broken with large 
 stones. Do^vn to its edge would come the 
 dwarfed oak, or the mountain ash, or the silver 
 bu'ch, single and small, but lovely and .fresh ; 
 and now green fields, fenced T\dth walls of 
 earth as green as themselves, or of stones over- 
 grown with moss, would stretch away on both 
 sides, sprinkled with busily feeding cattle. Now 
 they would pass through a farm-steading, per- 
 fumed with the breath of cows, and the odour 
 of bui'ning peat — so fragrant ! though not yet 
 so grateful to the inner sense as it would be 
 when encoimtered in after years and in foreign 
 lands. For the smell of burning and the smell 
 of earth are the deepest miderlpng sensuous 
 bonds of the earth's unity, and the common 
 brotherhood of them that dwell thereon. Now 
 the scent of the larches would steal from the 
 hill, or the vniid would waft the odoiu* of the 
 white clover, beloved of his grandmother, to 
 Robert's nostrils, and he would turn aside to 
 pull her a handful. Then they clomb a high 
 ridge, on the top of which spread a moorland, 
 dreary and desolate, brightened by nothing 
 save " the canna's hoary beard " waving in the 
 wind, and making it look even more desolate 
 from the sympathy they felt vnth the forsaken 
 grass. This crossed, they descended between 
 young plantations of firs and rowan-trees and 
 birches, till they reached a warm house on the
 
 216 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 side of the slope, with farm-offices and ricks of 
 corn and hay all about it, the front overgrown 
 with roses and honeysuckle, and a white-flower- 
 ing plant unseen of their eyes hitherto, and 
 therefore full of mystery. From the open kit- 
 chen-door came the smell of something good. 
 But beyond all to Robert was the welcome of 
 Miss Lammie, whose small fat hand closed upon 
 his like a very love-pudding, after partaking of 
 which even his grandmother's stately reception, 
 followed immediately by the words " Noo be 
 dooce," could not chill the warmth in his bosom. 
 I know but one writer whose pen would have 
 been able worthily to set forth the delights of 
 the first few days at Bodyfauld — Jean Paul. 
 Nor would he have disdained to make the glad- 
 ness of a country school-boy the theme of that 
 pen. Indeed, often has he done so. If the 
 writer has any higher purpose than the amuse- 
 ment of other boys, he will find the life of a 
 country boy richer for his ends than that of a 
 town boy. For example, he has a deeper sense 
 of the marvel of nature, a tenderer feeling of 
 her feminality. I do not mean that the other 
 cannot develope this sense, but it is generally 
 feeble, and there is consequently less chance of 
 its surviving. As far as my experience goes, 
 town girls and country boys love nature most. 
 I have known town girls love her as passion- 
 ately as country boys. Town boys have too
 
 MR. lamiviie's farm. 217 
 
 many books and pictures. They see Nature in 
 miiTors — invaluable privilege after they know her- 
 self, not before. They have greater opportunity 
 of observing human natm*e; but here also the 
 hooks are too many and various. They are 
 cleverer than country boys, but they are less 
 profound ; their observation may be quicker ; 
 their perception is shallower. They know better 
 what to do on an emergency ; they know worse 
 how to order their ways. Of course, in this, as 
 in a thousand other matters, Natmre will burst 
 out laughing in the face of the would-be phi- 
 losopher, and bringing forward her town boy, 
 will say, " Look here !" For the town boys are 
 Nature's boys after all, at least so long as doc- 
 trines of self-preservation and ambition have not 
 turned them from children of the kingdom into 
 dirt-worms. But I must stop, for I am getting 
 up to the neck in a bog of discrimination. As 
 if I did not know the nobility of some towns- 
 people, compared with the worldliness of some 
 country folk ! I give it up. We are all good 
 and all bad. God mend all. Nothing will do 
 for Jew or Gentile, Frenchman or Englishman, 
 Negro or Circassian, town boy or country boy, 
 but the kingdom of heaven which is within him, 
 and must come thence to the outside of him. 
 
 To a boy like Robert the changes of every 
 day, from country to town with the gay morn- 
 ing, from town to country with the sober even-
 
 218 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 ing — for country as Rothieden might be to 
 Edinburgh, much more was Bodjfauld country 
 to Rothieden — were a source of boundless de- 
 light. Instead of houses, he saw the horizon ; 
 instead of streets or walled gardens, he roamed 
 over fields bathed in sunlight and wind. Here 
 it was good to get up before the sun, for then 
 he could see the sun get up. And of all things 
 those evening shadows lengthenmg out over 
 the grassy wildernesses — for fields of a very 
 moderate size appeared such to an imagination 
 ever ready at the smallest hint to ascend its 
 solemn throne — were a deepening marvel. Town 
 to country is what a ceiling is to a caelum.
 
 219 
 
 CHAPTER XYII. 
 
 ADVENTURES. 
 
 GRANNIE'S first action every evening, the 
 moment the boys entered the room, was 
 to glance up at the clock, that she might see 
 whether they had arrived in reasonable time. 
 This was not pleasant, because it admonished 
 Robert how impossible it was for him to have a 
 lesson on his own violin so long as the visit to 
 Bodyfanld lasted. If they had only been al- 
 lowed to sleep at Rothieden, what a universe of 
 freedom would have been thehs ! As it was, he 
 had but two hom^s to liimself, pared at both 
 ends, in the middle of the day. Dooble Sanny 
 might have given him a lesson at that time, but 
 he did not dare to carry his instrument through 
 the streets of Rothieden, for the proceeding 
 would be certain to come to his grandmother's 
 ears. Several days passed indeed before he 
 made up his mind as to how he was to reap any 
 immediate benefit from the recovery of the 
 violin. For after he had made up his mind to
 
 220 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 run the risk of successive mid-day solos in the 
 old factory — he was not prepared to carry the 
 instrument through the streets, or be seen enter- 
 ing the place with it. 
 
 But the factory lay at the opposite corner of 
 a quadrangle of gardens, the largest of which 
 belonged to itself; and the corner of this garden 
 touched the corner of Captain Forsyth's, which 
 had formerly belonged to Andrew Falconer: 
 he had had a door made in the walls at the 
 point of junction, so that he could go from his 
 house to his business across his own property : 
 if this door were not locked, and Robert could 
 pass without offence, what a north-west passage 
 it would be for him ! The little garden belong- 
 ing to his grandmother's house had only a slight 
 wooden fence to divide it from the other, and 
 even in this fence there was a little gate : he 
 would only have to run along Captain Forsyth's 
 top-walk to reach the door. The blessed 
 thought came to him as he lay in bed at Body- 
 fauld : he would attempt the passage the very 
 next day. 
 
 With his violin in its paper under his arm, he 
 sped like a hare from gate to door, found it not 
 even latched, only pushed-to and rusted into 
 such rest as it was dangerous to the hinges to 
 disturb. He opened it, however, without any 
 accident, and passed through; then closing it 
 behind him, took his way more leisurely through
 
 ADVENTURES. 221 
 
 the tangled grass of his grandmother's property. 
 "When he reached the factory, he judged it pru- 
 dent to search out a more secret nook, one more 
 fall of silence, that is, whence the sounds would 
 be less certain to reach the ears of the passers- 
 by, and came upon a small room, near the top, 
 which had been the manager's bedi'oom, and 
 which, as he judged from what seemed the signs 
 of ancient occupation, a cloak hanging on the 
 wall, and the ashes of a fii-e lying in the grate, 
 nobody had entered for years : it was the safest 
 place in the world. He undid his instrument 
 carefQlly, tuned its strings tenderly, and soon 
 found that his former facility, such as it was, 
 had not ebbed away beyond recovery. Hasten- 
 ing back as he came, he was just in time for his 
 dinner, and narrowly escaped encountering 
 Betty in the transe. He had been tempted to 
 leave the instrument, but no one could tell what 
 might happen, and to doubt would be to be 
 miserable mth anxiety. 
 
 He did the same for several days without in- 
 terruption — not, however, without observation. 
 When, returning from his fourth visit, he opened 
 the door between the gardens, he started back 
 in dismay, for there stood the beautiful lady. 
 
 Robert hesitated for a moment whether to fly 
 or speak. He was a Lowland country boy, and 
 therefore rude of speech, but he was three parts 
 a Celt, and those who know the addi^ess of the
 
 222 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 Irish or of the Highlanders, know how much 
 that involves as to manners and bearing. He 
 advanced the next instant and spoke. 
 
 *' I beg yer pardon, mem. I thoucht naebody 
 wad see me. I haena dune nae ill." 
 
 " I had not the least suspicion of it, I assure 
 you," returned Miss St. John. " But, tell me, 
 what makes you go through here always at the 
 same hour with the same parcel under your 
 arm ?" 
 
 " Ye winna tell naebody — will ye, mem, gin I 
 tell your 
 
 Miss St. John, amused, and interested besides 
 in the contrast between the boy's oddly noble 
 face and good bearing on the one hand, and on 
 the other the drawl of his bluntly articulated 
 speech and the coarseness of his tone, both seem- 
 ing to her in the extreme of provincialism, pro- 
 mised ; and Robert, entranced by all the quali- 
 ties of her voice and speech, and nothing disen- 
 chanted by the nearer view of her lovely face, 
 confided in her at once. 
 
 "Ye see, mem," he said, "I cam upo' my 
 grandfather's fiddle. But my grandmither 
 thinks the fiddle's no gude. And sae she tuik 
 an' she hed it. But I faun' 't again. An' I daur- 
 na play i' the hoose, though my grannie 's i' 
 the country, for Betty hearin' me and tellin' her." 
 And sae I gang to the auld fact'ry there. It 
 belangs to my grannie, and sae does the yaird
 
 ADVENTURES. 223 
 
 {garden). An' this hoose an' yaird was ance my 
 father's, and sae he had that door thi'oii, they 
 tell me. An' I thocht gin it snld be open, it wad 
 be a fine thing for me, to hand fowk ohn seen me. 
 But it was verra ill-bred to you, mem, I ken, to 
 to come throu yom- yaird ohn speu-t leave. I 
 beg yer pardon, mem, an' I'll jist gang back, an' 
 roon' by the ro'd. This is my fiddle I hae 
 aneath my airm. We bude to pit back the case 
 o' 't wham- it was afore, i' my grannie's bed, 
 to baud her ohn kent 'at she had tint the gnip 
 
 o t. 
 
 Certainly Miss St. John could not have under- 
 stood the half of the words Robert used, but she 
 understood his story not^-ithstanding. Herself 
 an enthusiast m music, her sympathies were at 
 once engaged for the awkward boy who was 
 thus trymg to steal an entrance into the fauy 
 halls of sound. But she forbore any fiuther al- 
 lusion to the violin for the present, and content- 
 ed herself Tvdth assm'ing Robert that he was 
 heartily welcome to go through the garden as 
 often as he pleased. vShe accompanied her words 
 with a smile that made Robert feel not only 
 that she was the most beautiftd of all princesses 
 in fauy-tales, but that she had presented him 
 with something beyond price in the most self- 
 denying manner. He took off his cap, thanked 
 her with much heartiness, if not with much 
 polish, and hastened to the gate of his grand-
 
 224 HOBERT FALCONER. 
 
 mother's little garden. A few years later such 
 an encounter might have spoiled his dinner : I 
 have to record no such evil result of the adven- 
 tm-e. 
 
 With Miss St. John, music was the highest 
 form of human expression, as must often be the 
 case with those whose feeling is much in advance 
 of their thought, and to whom, therefore, what 
 may be called mental sensation is the highest 
 known condition. Music to such is poetry in 
 solution, and generates that infinite atmosphere, 
 common to both musician and poet, which the 
 latter fills with shining worlds. — But if my reader 
 wishes to follow out for himself the idea herein 
 suggested, he must be careful to make no con- 
 fusion between those who feel musically or think 
 poetically, and the musician or the poet. One 
 who can only play the music of others, however 
 exquisitely, is not a musician, any more than 
 one who can read verse to the satisfaction, or 
 even expound it to the enlightenment of the 
 poet himself, is therefore a poet. — When Miss 
 St. John would worship God, it was in music 
 that she found the chariot of fire in which to 
 ascend heavenward. Hence music was the 
 divine thing in the world for her ; and to find 
 any one loving music humbly and faithfully was 
 to find a brother or sister believer. But she had 
 been so often disappointed in her expectations 
 from those she took to be such, that of late she
 
 ADVENTURES. 225 
 
 had become less sanguine. Still there was 
 something about this boy that roused once more 
 her musical hopes ; and, however she may have 
 restrained herself from the frill indulgence of 
 them, certain it is that the next day, when she 
 saw Robert pass, this time leisurely, along the 
 top of the garden, she put on her bonnet and 
 shawl, and, allowing him time to reach his den, 
 followed him, in the hope of finding out whether 
 or not he could play. I do not know what pro- 
 ficiency the boy had attained, very likely not 
 much, for a man can feel the music of his own 
 bow, or of his own lines, long before any one 
 else can discover it. He had already made a 
 path, not exactly worn one, but trampled one, 
 through the neglected grass, and Miss St. John 
 had no difficulty in finding his entrance to the 
 factory. 
 
 She felt a Httle eerie^ as Robert would have 
 called it, when she passed into the waste silent 
 place ; for besides the wasteness and the silence, 
 motionless machines have a look of death about 
 them, at least when they bear such signs of dis- 
 use as those that filled these rooms. Hearmg 
 no violin, she waited for a while m the ground- 
 floor of the building ; but still hearing nothing, 
 she ascended to the first-floor. Here, like^^nse, 
 all was silence. She hesitated, but at length 
 ventured up the next stair, beginning, however, 
 to feel a little troubled as well as eerie, the silence 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 was SO obstinately persistent. Was it possible 
 that there was no violin in that brown paper? 
 But that boy could not be a liar. Passing shelves 
 piled-up with stores of old thread, she still went 
 on, led by a curiosity stronger than her gather- 
 ing fear. At last she came to a little room, the 
 door of which was open, and there she saw 
 Robert lying on the floor with his head in a pool 
 of blood. 
 
 Now Mary St. John was both brave and kind ; 
 and, therefore, though not insensible to the fact 
 that she too must be in danger where violence 
 had been used to a boy, she set about assisting 
 him at once. His face was deathlike, but she 
 did not thmk he was dead. She drew him out 
 into the passage, for the room was close, and 
 did all she could to recover him ; but for some 
 time he did not even breathe. At last his lips 
 moved, and he murmured : 
 
 " Sandy, Sandy, ye've broken my bonnie 
 leddy." 
 
 Then he opened his eyes, and seeing a face to 
 dream about bending in kind consternation over 
 him, closed them again with a smile and a sigh, 
 as if to prolong his dream. 
 
 The blood now came fast into his forsaken 
 cheeks, and began to flow again from the wound 
 in his head. The lady bound it up with her 
 handkerchief. After a little he rose, though 
 with difiiculty, and stared wildly about him, say-
 
 ADVENTURES. 227 
 
 ing, with imperfect articulation, " Father ! fa- 
 ther !" Then he looked at Miss St. John with 
 a kind of dazed inquiry in his eyes, tried several 
 times to speak, and could not. 
 
 " Can you walk at all ?" asked Miss St. J ohn, 
 supporting him, for she was anxious to leave 
 the place. 
 
 " Yes, mem, weel eneuch," he answered. 
 
 " Come along, then. I will help you home." 
 
 " Na, na," he said as if he had just recalled 
 something. " Dinna min' me. Kin hame, mem, 
 or he '11 see ye !" 
 
 "A\Tio will see me f 
 
 Robert stared more mldly, put his hand to 
 his head, and made no reply. She half led, half 
 supported him down the stair, as far as the first 
 landing, when he cried out in a tone of anguish : 
 
 "My bonnny leddy!" 
 
 " What is it?" asked Miss St. John, thinking 
 he meant her. 
 
 " My fiddle I my fiddle ! She '11 be a' in bits," 
 he answered, and tm-ned to go up again. 
 
 " Sit down here," said Miss St. John, " and I'll 
 fetch it." 
 
 Though not without some tremor, she darted 
 back to the room. Then she tm'ned faint for 
 the first time, but determinedly supporting her- 
 self, she looked about, saw a broT\Ti-paper parcel 
 on a shelf, took it, and hurried out with a shud- 
 der. 
 
 q2
 
 228 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 Robert stood leaning against the wall. He 
 stretched out his hands eagerly. 
 
 " Gie me her. Gie me her." 
 
 " You had better let me carry it. You are 
 not able." 
 
 "Na, na, mem. Ye dinna ken hoo easy she 
 is to hurt." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I do !" returned Miss St. John, 
 smiling, and Robert could not withstand the 
 smile. 
 
 " Weel, tak care o' her, as ye wad o' yer ain 
 sel', mem," he said, yielding. 
 
 He was now much better, and before he had 
 been two minutes in the open air, insisted that 
 he was quite well. When they reached Captain 
 Forsyth's garden he again held out his hands 
 for his violin. 
 
 " No, no," said his new friend. " You wouldn't 
 have Betty see you like that, would you f " 
 
 " No, mem ; but I'll put in the fiddle at my 
 ain window, and she sanna hae a chance o' see- 
 in' 't," answered Robert, not understanding her ; 
 for though he felt a good deal of pain, he had 
 no idea what a dreadful appearance he presented. 
 
 " Don't you know that you have a wound on 
 your head?" asked Miss St. John. 
 
 "Na! hev If said Robert, putting up his 
 hand. "But I maun gang — there's nae help 
 for 't," he added. — " Gin I cud only win to my 
 ain room ohn Betty seen me ! — Eh ! mem, I hae
 
 ADYEXTURES. 229 
 
 blaiiclit (spoiled) a' yer bonny goon. That's a 
 sair vex." 
 
 " Never mind it," retm-ned Miss St. John, 
 smiling. " It is of no consequence. But you 
 must come mth me. I must see what I can do 
 for your head. Poor boy !" 
 
 " Eh, mem ! but ye are kin' ! Gin ye speik 
 like that ye'll gar me greit. Naebody ever spak' 
 to me hke that afore. Maybe ye kent my mamma. 
 Ye 're sae Hke her." 
 
 This word mamma was the only remnant of 
 her that lingered in his speech. Had she lived 
 he would have spoken very differently. They 
 were now walking towards the house. 
 
 " No, I did not know youi' mamma. Is she 
 dead?" 
 
 " Lang syne, mem. And sae they tell me is 
 yours." 
 
 " Yes ; and my father too. Your father is 
 aHve, I hope ?" 
 
 Robert made no answer. Miss St. John 
 tm-ned. 
 
 The boy had a strange look, and seemed strug- 
 gling with something in his thi'oat. She thought 
 he was going to faint again, and hm-ried him 
 into the drawing-room. Her aimt had not yet 
 left her room, and her uncle was out. 
 
 " Sit dowm," she said — so kindly — and Robert 
 sat down on the edge of a chair. Then she left 
 the room, but presently returned with a little
 
 230 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 brandy. " There," she said, ofFermg the glass, 
 " that will do you good." 
 
 "What is 't, mem?" 
 
 " Brandy. There's water in it, of course." 
 
 " I daurna touch 't. Grannie cudna bide me 
 to touch 't." 
 
 So determined was he, that Miss St. John was 
 forced to yield. Perhaps she wondered that 
 the boy who would deceive his grandmother 
 about a violin should be so immovable in re- 
 garding her pleasure in the matter of a need- 
 ful medicine. But in this fact I begin to see 
 the very Falconer of my manhood's worship. 
 
 " Eh, mem ! gin ye wad play something upo' 
 /i^r*," he resumed, pointing to the piano, wliich, 
 although he had never seen one before, he at 
 once recognized, by some hidden mental opera- 
 tion, as the source of the sweet sounds heard at 
 the window, *'it wad du me mair guid than a 
 haill bottle o' brandy, or whusky either." 
 
 " How do you know that ? " asked Miss St. 
 John, proceedmg to sponge the wound. 
 
 " 'Cause mony's the time I hae stud oot there 
 i' the street, hearkenin'. Dooble Sanny says 'at 
 ye play jist as gin ye war my gran'father's fiddle 
 hersel', turned into the bonniest cratur ever God 
 made." 
 
 " How did you get such a terrible cut f " 
 
 She had removed the hair, and found that the 
 injury was severe.
 
 ADVEXTUHES. 231 
 
 The boy was silent. She glanced round in 
 his face. He was staling as if he saw nothing, 
 heard nothing. She would try again. 
 
 " Did you fall ? Or how did you cut your 
 head?" 
 
 " Yes, yes, mem, I fell," he answered, hastily, 
 with an ah* of relief, and possibly w^th some 
 tone of gratitude for the suggestion of a true 
 answer. 
 
 " What made you fall ? " 
 
 Utter silence again. She felt a kind of turn — 
 I do not know another word to express what I 
 mean : the boy must have fits, and either could 
 not tell, or was ashamed to tell, what had be- 
 fallen him. Thereafter she too was silent, and 
 Robert thought she was offended. Possibly he 
 felt a change in the touch of her fingers. 
 
 " Mem, I wad hke to tell ye," he said, " but I 
 daurna." 
 
 " Oh I never mind," she returned kindly. 
 
 " Wad ye promise nae to tell naehodiy ?" 
 
 " I don't want to know," she answered, con- 
 firmed in her suspicion, and at the same time 
 ashamed of the alteration of feeling which the dis- 
 covery had occasioned. 
 
 An uncomfortable silence followed, broken by 
 Robert. 
 
 " Gin ye binna pleased wi' me, mem," he said, 
 " I canna bide ye to gang on wi' siccan a job 's 
 that."
 
 232 EGBERT FALCONER. 
 
 How Miss St. John could have understood 
 him, I cannot think ; but she did. 
 
 " Oh ! very well," she answered smiling. " Just 
 as you please. Perhaps you had better take 
 this piece of plaster to Betty, and ask her to 
 finish the dressing for you." 
 
 Robert took the plaster mechanically, and, 
 sick at heart and speechless, rose to go, forget- 
 ting even his honny leddy in his grief. 
 
 " You had better take your violin with you," 
 said Miss St. John, m^ged to the cruel experiment 
 by a strong desire to see what the strange boy 
 would do. 
 
 He turned. The tears were streaming down 
 his odd face. They went to her heart, and she 
 was bitterly ashamed of herself. 
 
 " Come along. Do sit down again. I only 
 wanted to see what you would do. I am very 
 sorry," she said, in a tone of kindness such as 
 Robert had never imagined. 
 
 He sat down instantly, saying : 
 
 " Eh, mem ! it's sair to bide ;" meaning, no 
 doubt, the conflict between his inclination to tell 
 her all, and his duty to be silent. 
 
 The dressing was soon finished, his hair combed 
 down over it, and Robert looking once more re- 
 spectable. 
 
 " Now, I think that will do," said his nurse. 
 
 "Eh, thank ye, mem!" answered Robert, rising. 
 " Whan I'm able to play upo' the fiddle as weel 's
 
 ADVENTURES. 233 
 
 ye play upo' the piana, I'll come and play at 
 yer ^^dndow ilka nicht, as lang 's ye like to 
 hearken." 
 
 She smiled, and he was satisfied. He did not 
 dare again ask her to play to him. But she 
 said of herself, " Now I will play something to 
 you, if yon like," and he resumed his seat de- 
 voutly. 
 
 When she had finished a lovely little air, 
 which sounded to Robert like the touch of her 
 hands, and her breath on his forehead, she look- 
 ed round, and was satisfied, from the rapt ex- 
 pression of the boy's countenance, that at least 
 he had plenty of musical sensibility. As if de- 
 spoiled of volition, he stood motionless till she 
 said: 
 
 " Now you had better go, or Betty will miss 
 
 you." 
 
 Then he made her a bow in which awkward- 
 ness and grace were cm^iously mingled, and tak- 
 ing up his precious parcel, and holding it to liis 
 bosom as if it had been a child for whom he felt 
 an access of tenderness, he slowly left the room 
 and the house. 
 
 Not even to Shargar did he communicate his 
 adventure. And he went no more to the de- 
 serted factory to play there. Fate had again 
 interposed between him and his bonny leddy. 
 
 When he reached Bodyfauld he fancied his 
 grandmother's eyes more watchful of him than
 
 234 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 usual, and he strove the more to resist the weari- 
 ness, and even faintness, that urged him to go 
 to bed. Whether he was able to hide as well a 
 certain trouble that clouded his spirit I doubt. 
 His wound he did manage to keep a secret, 
 thanks to the care of Miss St. John, who had 
 dressed it with court-plaster. 
 
 When he woke the next morning, it was with 
 the consciousness of having seen something 
 strange the night before, and only when he 
 found that he was not in his own room at his 
 grandmother's, was he convinced that it must 
 have been a dream and no vision. For in the 
 night, he had awaked there as he thought, and 
 the moon was shining with such clearness, that 
 although it did not shine into his room, he could 
 see the face of the clock, and that the hands 
 were both together at the top. Close by the 
 clock stood the bureau, with its end against the 
 partition forming the head of his grannie's bed. 
 
 All at once he saw a tall man, in a blue coat 
 and bright buttons, about to open the lid of the 
 bureau. The same moment he saw a little elder- 
 ly man in a brown coat and a brown wig, by his 
 side, who sought to remove his hand from the 
 lock. Next appeared a huge stalwart figure, in 
 shabby old tartans, and laid his hand on the 
 head of each. But the wonder widened and 
 grew ; for now came a stately Highlander with 
 his broadsword by his side, and an eagle's
 
 ADVENTURES. 235 
 
 feather in his bonnet, who laid his hand on the 
 other Highlander's arm. 
 
 When Robert looked in the direction whence 
 this last had appeared, the head of his grannie's 
 bed had vanished, and a T\ild hill-side, covered 
 with stones and heather, sloped away into the 
 distance. Over it passed man after man, each 
 with an ancestral au% while on the gray sea to 
 the left, gallies covered with Norsemen, tore up 
 the white foam, and dashed one after the other 
 up to the strand. How long he gazed, he did not 
 know, but when hemthdrew his eyes from the ex- 
 tended scene, there stood the figm-e of his father, 
 still trying to open the hd of the bureau, his 
 grandfather resisting him, the blind piper with 
 his hand on the head of both, and the stately 
 chief with his hand on the piper's arm. Then a 
 mist of forgetfiilness gathered over the whole, 
 till at last he awoke and found himself in the 
 little wooden chamber at Bodyfauld, and not in 
 the visioned room. Doubtless his loss of blood 
 the day before had somethmg to do with the 
 dream or vision, whichever the reader may 
 choose to consider it. He rose, and after a good 
 breakfast, found himself very little the worse, 
 and forgot all about his dream, till a chcum- 
 stance which took place not long after recallecf 
 it vividly to his mmd. 
 
 The enchantment of Bodyfauld soon wore off. 
 The boys had no time to enter into the full enjoy-
 
 236 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 raent of country ways, because of those weary 
 lessons, over the getting of which Mrs. Falconer 
 kept as strict a watch as ever ; while to Robert 
 the evening journey, his violin and Miss St. John 
 left at Rothieden, grew more than tame. The 
 return was almost as happy an event to him as 
 the first going. Now he could resume his les- 
 sons with the soutar. 
 
 With Shargar it was otherwise. The freedom 
 for so much longer from Mrs. Falconer's eyes 
 was in itself so much of a positive pleasure, that 
 the walk twice a day, the fresh air, and the 
 scents and sounds of the country, only came in 
 as supplementary. But I do not believe the boy 
 even then had so much happiness as when he 
 was beaten and starved by his own mother. And 
 Robert, growing more and more absorbed in his 
 own thoughts and pursuits, paid him less and 
 less attention as the weeks went on, till Shar- 
 gar at length judged it for a time an evil day 
 on which he first had slept under old Ronald 
 Falconer's kilt.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 NATUKE PUTS IX A CLADI. 
 
 BEFORE the day of return arrived, Robert 
 had taken care to remove the viohn from his 
 bedi'oom, and carry it once more to its old retreat 
 in Shargar's garret. The very fii'st evening, how- 
 ever, that grannie again spent in her own arm- 
 chair, he hied from the house as soon as it grew 
 dusk, and made his way with his brown-paper 
 parcel to Sandy Elshender's. 
 
 Entering the narrow passage fr-om which his 
 shop door opened, and hearing him hammering 
 away at a sole, he stood and unfolded his trea- 
 sure, then drew a low sigh fi'om her ^-ith his 
 bow, and awaited the result. He heard the lap- 
 stone fall thundering on the floor, and, like a 
 spider fr-om his cavern, Dooble Sandy appeared 
 in the door, ^Yith. the bend-lesithei' in one hand, 
 and the hammer in the other. 
 
 " Lordsake, man ! hae ye gotten her again ? 
 Gie's a grup o' her !" he cried, di'opping leather 
 and hammer.
 
 238 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " Na, na," returned Robert, retreating towards 
 the outer door. " Ye maun sweir upo' her that, 
 whan I want her, I sail hae her ohn demur, or I 
 sanna lat ye lay roset upo' her." 
 
 " I swear 't, Robert ; I sweir 't upo' Aer," said 
 the soutar hurriedly, stretcliing out both his 
 hands as if to receive some human being into 
 his embrace. 
 
 Robert placed the violin in those grimy hands. 
 A look of heavenly delight dawned over the 
 hirsute and dirt-besmeared countenance, which 
 drooped into tenderness as he drew the bow 
 across the instrument, and wiled from her a thin 
 wail as of sorrow at their long separation. 
 He then retreated into his den, and was soon 
 sunk in a trance, deaf to everything but the 
 violin, from which no entreaties of Robert, who 
 longed for a lesson, could rouse him ; so that he 
 had to go home grievously disappointed, and 
 unrewarded for the risk he had run in' venturing 
 the stolen visit. 
 
 Next time, however, he fared better ; and he 
 contrived so well that, from the middle of June 
 to the end of August, he had two lessons a week, 
 mostly upon the afternoons of holidays. For 
 these his master thought himself well paid by 
 the use of the instrument between. And Robert 
 made great progress. 
 
 Occasionally he saw Miss St. John in the gar- 
 den, and once or twice met her in the town ; but
 
 NATURE PUTS IN A CLADI. 239 
 
 her desire to find in him a pupil had been great- 
 ly quenched by her unfortunate conjecture as to 
 the cause of his accident. She had, however, 
 gone so far as to mention the subject to her 
 aunt, who assured her that old Mrs. Falconer 
 would as soon consent to his bemg taught gam- 
 bling as music. The idea, therefore, passed 
 away ; and beyond a kind word or two when she 
 met him, there was no further communication 
 between them. But Robert would often dream 
 of waking from a swoon, and finding his head 
 lying on her lap, and her lovely face bending 
 over him fall of kindness and concern. 
 
 By the way, Robert cared nothing for poetry. 
 Virgil was too troublesome to be enjoyed ; and 
 in. English he had met with nothmg but the 
 dried leaves and gum-flowers of the last century. 
 Miss Letty once lent him The Lady of the Lake ; 
 but before he had read the first canto through, 
 his grandmother laid her hands upon it, and, 
 without saying a word, dropped it behind a 
 loose skirting-board in the pantry, where the 
 mice soon made it a ruin sad to behold. For Miss 
 Letty, having heard fi-om the woful Robert of 
 its strange disappearance, and guessing its 
 cause, applied to Mrs. Falconer for the volume ; 
 who forthwith, the tongs aiding, extracted it 
 from its hole, and, without shade of embarrass- 
 ment, held it up like a drowned kitten before the 
 eyes of Miss Letty, intending thereby, no doubt.
 
 240 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 to impress her with the fate of all seducing 
 spirits that should attempt an entrance into her 
 kingdom : Miss Letty only burst into merry 
 laughter over its fate. So the lode of poetry fail- 
 ed for the present from Robert's life. Nor did it 
 matter much ; for had he not his violin ? 
 
 I have, I think, already indicated that his 
 grandfather had been a linen manufacturer. Al- 
 though that trade had ceased, his family had still 
 retauied the bleachery belonging to it, common- 
 ly called the hleachfield^ devoting it now to the 
 service of those large calico manufactures which 
 had ruined the trade in linen, and to the whiten- 
 ing of such yarn as the country housewives still 
 spun at home, and the webs they got woven of it 
 in private looms. To Robert and Shargar it was 
 a wondrous pleasure when the pile of linen which 
 the week had accumulated at the office under 
 the gale-room, was on Saturday heaped high upon 
 the base of a broad- wheeled cart, to get up on it 
 and be carried to the said bleachfield, which lay 
 along the bank of the river. Soft-laid and high- 
 borne, gazing into the blue sky, they traversed 
 the streets in a holiday triumph ; and although, 
 once arrived, the manager did not fail to get 
 some labour out of them, yet the store of amuse- 
 ment was endless. The great wheel, which di'ove 
 the whole machinery ; the plash-mill, or, more 
 properly, wauk-mill — a word Robert derived 
 from the resemblance of the mallets to two huge
 
 NATURE PUTS IN A CLABI. 241 
 
 feet, and of their motion to walking — with the 
 water plashing and squirting from the blows of 
 their heels ; the beatles thundering in arpeggio 
 upon the huge cylinder round which the white 
 cloth was womid — each was haunted in its turn 
 and season. The pleasure of the water itself 
 was inexhaustible. Here sweeping in a mass 
 along the race ; there divided into branches and 
 hurrying through the walls of the various 
 houses ; here sHding through a Avooden channel 
 across the floor to fall into the river in a half- 
 concealed cataract, there bubbhng up tlu'ough 
 the bottom of a huge wooden cave or vat, there 
 resting placid in another ; here gurgling along a 
 spout ; there floT\ing in a narrow canal through 
 the gi'een expanse of the well-moT\Ti bleachfield, 
 or lifted from it m narrow curved wooden scoops, 
 like fairy canoes with long handles, and flung in 
 showers over the outspread yarn — the water 
 was an endless delight. 
 
 It is strange how some individual broidery or 
 figure upon natui'e's garment will delight a boy 
 long before he has ever looked nature in the face, 
 or begun to love herself. But Robert was soon to 
 become dimly conscious of a life within these 
 thmgs — a life not the less real that its operations 
 on his mind had been long unrecognized. 
 
 On the grassy bank of the gently-flowing 
 river, at the other edge of whose level the little 
 canal squabbled along, and on the grassy brae 
 
 VOL. I. li
 
 242 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 which rose immediately from the canal, were 
 stretched, close beside each other, with scarce a 
 stripe of green betwixt, the long white webs of 
 linen, fastened down to the soft mossy ground 
 with wooden pegs, whose tops were twisted into 
 their edges. Strangely would they billow in the 
 wind sometimes, like sea-waves, frozen and en- 
 chanted flat, seeking to rise and wallow in the 
 wind with conscious depth and whelming mass. 
 But generally they lay supine, saturated with 
 light and its cleansing power. Falconer's jubi- 
 lation in the white and green of a little boat, as 
 we lay, one bright morning, on the banks of the 
 Thames between Richmond and Twickenham, 
 led to such a description of the bleachfield that 
 I can write about it as if I had known it myself. 
 One Saturday afternoon in the end of July, 
 when the westering sun was hotter than at mid- 
 day, he went down to the lower end of the field, 
 where the river was confined by a dam, and 
 plunged from the bank into deep water. After 
 a swim of half an hour, he ascended the higher 
 part of the field, and lay down upon a broad 
 web to bask in the sun. In liis ears was the 
 hush rather than rush of the water over the dam, 
 the occasional murmur of a belt of trees that 
 skirted the border of the field, and the dull 
 continuous sound of the beatles at their work 
 below, like a persistent growl of thunder on the 
 horizon.
 
 NATUEE PUTS IX A CLAIM. 243 
 
 Had Robert possessed a copy of Robinson 
 Crusoe, or had his grandmother not cast the 
 Lady of the Lake, mistaking it for an idol, if not 
 to the moles and the bats, yet to the mice and 
 the black-beetles, he might have been lying 
 reading it, blind and deaf to the face and the 
 voice of nature, and years might have passed 
 before a response awoke in his heart. It is good 
 that children of faculty, as distinguished from 
 capacity, should not have too many books to 
 read, or too much of early lessoning. The in- 
 crease of examinations in our country will in- 
 crease its capacity and dimmish its faculty. We 
 shall have more compilers and reducers, and 
 fewer thinkers ; more modifiers and completers, 
 and fewer inventors. 
 
 He lay gazing up into the depth of the sky, 
 rendered deeper and bluer by the masses of 
 white cloud that hung almost motionless below 
 it, until he felt a kind of bodily fear lest he should 
 fall off the face of the round earth into the 
 abyss. A gentle wind, laden with pine-odours 
 from the sun-heated trees behind him, flapped 
 its light TSTng m his face : the humanity of the 
 world smote his heart ; the great sky towered 
 up over him, and its divinity entered his soul ; a 
 strange longing after something '• he knew not 
 nor could name " awoke mthin him, followed by 
 the pang of a sudden fear that there was no 
 such tiling as that which he soiight, that it was 
 
 r2
 
 244 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 all a fancy of his own spirit ; and then the voice 
 of Shargar broke the spell, calling to him from 
 afar to come and see a great salmon that lay 
 by a stone in the water. But once aroused, the 
 feeling was never stilled ; the desire never left 
 him ; sometimes growing even to a passion that 
 was relieved only by a flood of tears. 
 
 Strange as it may sound to those who have 
 never thought of such things save in connection 
 with Sundays and Bibles and churches and ser- 
 mons, that which was now working in Falconer's 
 mind was the first dull and faint movement of 
 the greatest need that the human heart possesses 
 — the need of the God-Man. There must be 
 truth in the scent of that pine wood : some one 
 must mean it. There must be a glory in those 
 heavens that depends not upon our imagination: 
 some power greater than they must dwell in 
 them. Some spirit must move in that wind 
 that haunts us with a kind of human sorrow ; 
 some soul must look up to us from the eye of 
 that starry flower. It must be something hu- 
 man, else not to us divine. 
 
 Little did Robert think that such was his 
 need — that his soul was searching after One 
 whose form was constantly presented to him, 
 but as constantly obscured and made unlovely 
 by the words without knowledge spoken in the 
 religious assemblies of the land ; that he was 
 longing without knowing it on the Saturday for
 
 NATURE PUTS IN A CLAIM. 245 
 
 that from which on the Sunday he would be re- 
 pelled mthoTit knowing it. Years passed be- 
 fore he drew nigh to the knowledge of what he 
 sought. 
 
 For weeks the mood broken by the voice 
 of his companion did not return, though the 
 forms of nature were henceforth full of a pleas- 
 ure he had never known before. He loved the 
 grass; the water was more gracious to him; 
 he would leave his bed early, that he might 
 gaze on the clouds of the east, with their bor- 
 ders gold-blasted with sunrise ; he would linger 
 in the fields that the amber and purple, and 
 green and red, of the sunset, might not escape 
 after the sun unseen. And as long as he felt 
 the mystery, the revelation of the mystery lay 
 before and not behind him. 
 
 And Shargar — had he any soul for such 
 things ? Doubtless ; but how could he be other 
 than lives behind Robert ? For the latter had 
 ancestors — that is, he came of people with a 
 mental and spiritual history; while the former had 
 been born the bu'th of an animal ; of a nohle sire, 
 whose family had for generations filled the 
 earth with fii^e, famine, slaughter, and licentious- 
 ness ; and of a wandering outcast mother, who 
 blindly loved the fields and woods, but retained 
 her affection for her ofispriug scarcely beyond 
 the period while she suckled them. The love 
 of freedom and of wild animals that she had
 
 246 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 given him, however, was far more precious than 
 any share his male ancestor had born in his 
 mental constitution. After his fashion he as 
 well as Robert enjoyed the sun and the wind 
 and the water and the sky ; but he had sympa- 
 thies with the salmon and the rooks and the 
 wild rabbits even stronger than those of Robert.
 
 247 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 ROBERT STEALS HIS OWN. 
 
 THE period of the hairst-plai/, that is, of the 
 harvest holiday time, di'ew near, and over 
 the north of Scotland thousands of half-grown 
 hearts were beating with glad anticipation. Of 
 the usual devices of boys to cheat themselves 
 into the half-belief of expediting a blessed ap- 
 proach by marking its rate, Robert knew no- 
 thing: even the notching of sticks was unkno"\vii 
 at Rothieden ; but he had a mode notmthstand- 
 ing. Although indifferent to the games of his 
 schoolfellows, there was one amusement, a soli- 
 tary one nearly, and therein not so good as most 
 amusements, into which he entered with the 
 whole energy of his nature : it was kite-flying. 
 The moment that the hairst-play approached 
 near enough to strike its image through the 
 eyes of his mind, Robert proceeded to make his 
 kite, or draigon, as he called it. Of how many 
 pleasm^es does pocket-money deprive the unfor- 
 tunate possessor ! ^Vhat is the going into a
 
 248 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 shop and buying what you want, compared with 
 the gentle dehght of hours and days filled with 
 gaining effort after the attainment of your end? 
 Never boy that bought his kite, even if the 
 adornment thereafter lay in his own hands, and 
 the pictures were gorgeous with colour and gild- 
 ing, could have half the enjoyment of Robert 
 from the moment he went to the coopers to ask 
 for an old gird, or hoop, to the moment when 
 he said, " Noo, Shargar !" and the kite rose 
 slowly from the depth of the aerial flood. The 
 hoop was carefully examined, the best portion 
 cut away from it, that pared to a light strength, 
 its ends confined to the proper curve by a string, 
 and then away went Robert to the wrigMs shop. 
 There a slip of wood, of proper length and 
 thickness, was readily granted to his request, 
 free as the daisies of the field. Oh ! those hor- 
 rid town conditions, where nothing is given for 
 the askmg, but all sold for money ! In Robert's 
 kite the only thing that cost money was the 
 string to fly it with, and that the grandmother 
 willingly provided, for not even her ingenuity 
 could discover any evil, direct or implicated, in 
 kite-flying. Indeed, I believe the old lady felt 
 not a little sympathy with the exultation of the 
 boy when he saw his kite far aloft, diminished 
 to a speck in the vast blue ; a sympathy, it may 
 be, rooted in the religious aspirations which she 
 did so much at once to rouse and to suppress in
 
 ROBERT STEALS HIS OW>T. 249 
 
 the bosom of her granclcliild. But I have not 
 yet reached the kite-flying, for I have said no- 
 thing of the kite's tail, for the sake of wliich 
 principally I began to describe the process of its 
 growth. 
 
 As soon as the body of the dragon was com- 
 pleted, Robert attached to its spine the string 
 which was to take the place of its caudal elon- 
 gation, and at a proper distance from the body 
 joined to the string the fii'st of the cross-pieces 
 of folded paper wliich in this animal represent 
 the continued vertebral processes. Every morn- 
 ing, the moment he issued fr'om his chamber, he 
 proceeded to the garret where the monster lay, 
 to add yet another joint to his tail, until at length 
 the day should arrive when, the lessons over for a 
 blessed eternity of five or six weeks, he would tip 
 the whole with a piece of wood, to which grass, 
 quantum suff., might be added from the happy 
 fields. 
 
 Upon tliis occasion the dragon was a monster 
 one. With a little help from Shargar, he had 
 laid the skeleton of a six-foot specimen, and had 
 carried the body to a satisfactory completion. 
 
 The tail was still growing, having as yet 
 only sixteen joints, when Mr. Lammie called 
 with an invitation for the boys to spend their 
 holidays with him. It was fortunate for Robert 
 that he was in the room when Mr. Lammie pre- 
 sented his petition, otherwise he would never
 
 250 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 have heard of it till the day of departure ar- 
 rived, and would thus have lost all the delights 
 of anticipation. In frantic effort to control his 
 ecstasy, he sped to the garret, and with trem- 
 bling hands tied the second joint of the day to 
 the tail of the dragon — the first time he had 
 ever broken the law of its accretion. Once bro- 
 ken, that law was henceforth an object of scorn, 
 and the tail grew with frightful rapidity. It 
 was uideed a great dragon. And none of the 
 paltry fields about Rothieden should be honour- 
 ed with its first flight, but from Bodyfauld should 
 the majestic child of earth ascend into the regions 
 of upper air. 
 
 My reader may here be tempted to remind 
 me that Robert had been only too glad to return 
 to Rothieden from his former visit. But I must 
 in my turn remind him that the circumstances 
 were changed. In the first place, the fiddle 
 was substituted for grannie ; and in the second, 
 the dragon for the school. 
 
 The making of this dragon was a happy thing 
 for Shargar, and a yet ha^ppier thing for Robert, 
 in that it mtroduced again for a time some com- 
 munity of interest between them. Shargar was 
 happier than he had been for many a day be- 
 cause Robert used him ; and Robert was yet 
 happier than Shargar in that his conscience, 
 which had reproached him for his neglect of 
 him, was now silent. But not even his dragon
 
 ROBERT STEALS HIS OWX. 251 
 
 had turned aside his attentions ti'om his violin ; 
 and many were the consultations between the 
 boys as to how best she might be transported 
 to Bodyfaud, where endless opportunities of 
 holduig communion with her would not be want- 
 ing. The difficulty was only how to get her 
 clear of Rothieden. 
 
 The play commenced on a Satm'day ; but not 
 till the Monday were they to be set at liberty. 
 Wearily the hom'S of mental labour and bodily 
 torpidity which the Scotch called the Sabbath 
 passed away, and at length the millennial morn- 
 ing dawned. Robert and Shargar were up be- 
 fore the sun. But strenuous were the efforts 
 they made to suppress all indications of excite- 
 ment, lest grannie, fearmg the immoral influence 
 of gladness, should give orders to delay their 
 departiu-e for an awftilly mdefinite period, which 
 might be an houi', a day, or even a week. Hor- 
 rible conception ! Then' behaviour was so de- 
 corous that not even a hinted threat escaped 
 the lips of Mrs. Falconer. 
 
 They set out three hours before noon, carry- 
 ing the great kite, and Robert's school-bag, of 
 green baize, full of sundi-ies : a cart from Body- 
 fauld was to fetch then- luggage later in the 
 day. As soon as they were clear of the houses, 
 Shargar lay doAvn behind a dyke with the kite, 
 and Robert set off at full speed for Dooble San- 
 ny's shop, making a half-chcuit of the town to
 
 252 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 avoid the chance of bemg seen by granny or 
 Betty. Having given due warning before, he 
 found the brown paper parcel ready for him, 
 and carried it off in fearful triumph. He joined 
 Shargar in safety, and they set out on their 
 journey as rich and happy a pair of tramps as 
 ever tramped, having six weeks of their own in 
 their pockets to spend and not spare. 
 
 A hearty welcome awaited them, and they 
 were soon revelling in the glories of the place, 
 the jfirst instalment of which was in the shape of 
 cm^ds and cream, with oatcake and butter, as 
 much as they liked. After this they would 
 "e'en to it like French falconers" with their kite, 
 for the wind had been blowing bravely all the 
 morning, having business to do with the har- 
 vest. The season of stubble not yet arrived, 
 they were limited to the pasturage and moor- 
 land, which, however, large as their kite was, 
 were spacious enough. Slowly the great-headed 
 creature arose from the hands of Shargar, and 
 ascended about twenty feet, when, as if seized 
 with a sudden fit of wrath or fierce indignation, 
 it turned right round and dashed itself with 
 headlong foiy to the earth, as if sooner than 
 submit to such influences a moment longer it 
 would beat out its brains at once. 
 
 "It hasna half tail eneuch," cried Robert. 
 " It's queer 'at things winna gang up ohn hauden 
 them doon. Pu' a guid han'fu' o' clover, Shar-
 
 ROBERT STEALS HIS OWN. 253 
 
 gar. She's had her fa', an' noo she'll gang up 
 a' richt. She's nane the waur o' 't." 
 
 Upon the next attempt, the kite rose trium- 
 phantly. But just as it reached the length of 
 the string it shot mto a faster cuiTent of au% 
 and Robert found himself first dragged along 
 in spite of his efforts, and then lifted from his 
 feet. After carr^dng him a few yards, the di*agon 
 broke its string, di'opped him in a ditch, and, 
 di'ifthig away, went fluttering and waggling 
 downwards in the distance. 
 
 " Luik wham- she gangs, Shargar," cried Ro- 
 bert, from the ditch. 
 
 Experience coming to his aid, Shargar took 
 landmarks of the dh-ection in which it went ; and 
 ere long they fomid it Avith its tail entangled in 
 the topmost branches of a hawthorn-tree, and its 
 head beating the ground at its foot. It was at 
 once agreed that they would not fly it again till 
 they got some stronger string. 
 
 Having heard the adventme, Mr. Lammie 
 produced a shilling from the pocket of his cordu- 
 roys, and gave it to Robert to spend upon the 
 needful string. He resolved to go to the town 
 the next morning and make a gTand pm'chase 
 of the same. Durmg the afternoon he roamed 
 about the farm ^vith his hands in his pockets, 
 revolving if not many memories, yet many ques- 
 tions, while Shargar followed hke a pup at the 
 heels of Miss Lammie, to whom, dming his for-
 
 254 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 mer visit, he had become greatly attached. 
 
 In the evening, resolved to make a confidant 
 of Mr. Lammie, and indeed to cast himself upon 
 the kindness of the household generally, Robert 
 went up to his room to release his violin from 
 its prison of brown paper. What was his dis- 
 may to find — not his bonny leddy, but her poor 
 cousin, the soutar's auld wife ! It was too bad. 
 Doohle Sanny indeed ! 
 
 He first stared, then went into a rage, and 
 then came out of it to go into a resolution. He 
 replaced the unwelcome fiddle in the parcel, and 
 came down staii's gloomy and still wrathful, but 
 silent. The evening passed over, and the in- 
 habitants of the farmhouse went early to bed. 
 Robert tossed about fuming on his. He had not 
 undressed. 
 
 About eleven o'clock, after all had been still 
 for more than an hour, he took his shoes in one 
 hand and the brown parcel in the other, and 
 descending the stairs like a thief, undid the 
 quiet wooden bar that secured the door, and let 
 himself out. All was darkness, for the moon 
 was not yet up, and he felt a strange sensation 
 of ghostliness in himself — awake and out of 
 doors, when he ought to be asleep and uncon- 
 scious in bed. He had never been out so late 
 before, and felt as if walking in the region of the 
 dead, existing when and where he had no busi- 
 ness to exist. For it was the time Nature kept
 
 ROBERT STEALS HIS OWN. 255 
 
 for her own qiiiet, and having once put her 
 children to bed — hidden them away with the 
 world T\dped out of them — enclosed them in her 
 ebony box, as George Herbert says — she did not 
 expect to have her hom's of undi'ess and medita- 
 tion intruded upon by a venturesome school-boy. 
 Yet she let him pass. He put on his shoes and 
 hurried to the road. He heard a horse stamp 
 in the stable, and saw a cat dart across the corn- 
 yard as he went through. Those were all the 
 signs of life about the place. 
 
 It was a cloudy night and still. Nothing was 
 to be heard but his own footsteps. The cattle 
 in the fields were all asleep. The larch and 
 spruce-trees on the top of the hill by the foot of 
 which his road wound were still as clouds. He 
 could just see the sky through theh stems. It 
 was washed with the faintest of Hght, for the 
 moon, far below, was yet climbing towards the 
 horizon. A star or two sparkled where the 
 clouds broke, but so little light was there, that, 
 until he had passed the moorland on the hill, he 
 could not get the horror of moss-holes, and deep 
 springs covered with, treacherous green, out of 
 his head. But he never thought of turning. 
 AVhen the fears of the way at length fell back 
 and allowed liis own thoughts to rise, the sense 
 of a presence, or of something that might grow 
 to a presence, was the first to awake in liim. 
 The stilhiess seemed to be thinking all around
 
 256 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 his head. But the way grew so dark, where it 
 lay through a corner of the pine-wood, that he 
 had to feel the edge of the road with his foot to 
 make sure that he was keeping upon it, and the 
 sense of the silence vanished. Then he passed 
 a farm, and the motions of horses came through 
 the dark, and a doubtful crow from a young 
 inexperienced cock, who did not yet know the 
 moon from the sun. Then a sleepy low in his 
 ear startled him, and made him quicken his pace 
 involuntarily. 
 
 By the time he reached Rothieden all the 
 lights were out, and this was just what he 
 wanted. 
 
 The economy of Dooble Sanny's abode was 
 tliis : the outer door was always left on the latch 
 at night, because several families lived in the 
 house ; the soutar's workshop opened from the 
 passage, close to the outer door, therefore its 
 door was locked ; but the key hung on a nail 
 just inside the soutar's bedroom. All this Robert 
 knew. 
 
 Arrived at the house, he lifted the latch, 
 closed the door behind him, took off his shoes 
 once more, like a housebreaker, as mdeed he was, 
 although a righteous one, and felt his way to 
 and up the stair to the bed-room. There was a 
 sound of snoring within. The door was a little 
 ajar. He reached the key and descended, his 
 heart beating more and more wildly as he ap-
 
 ROBERT STEALS HIS OWX. 257 
 
 proached the realization of his hopes. Gently 
 as he could he tui-ned it in the lock. In a mo- 
 ment more he had his hands on the spot where 
 the shoemaker always laid his violin. But his 
 heart sank within him : there was no violin 
 there. A blank of dismay held him both motion- 
 less and thoughtless ; nor had he recovered his 
 senses before he heard footsteps, which he well 
 knew, approaching in the street. He slunk at 
 once into a corner. Elshender entered, feeling 
 his way carefidly, and muttering at his wdfe. 
 He was tipsy, most likely, but that had never 
 yet interfered with the safety of his fiddle : Ro- 
 bert heard its faint echo as he laid it gently 
 down. Nor was he too tipsy to lock the door 
 behind him, leaving Robert incarcerated amongst 
 the old boots and leather and rosin. 
 
 For one moment only did the boy's heart fail 
 him. Thenext he was in action, for a happy thought 
 had alreadystruck him. Hastily, that he might 
 forestall sleep m the brain of the soutar, he im- 
 did his parcel, and after carefully enveloping his 
 own vioKn in the paper, took the old wife of the 
 soutar, and proceeded to perform upon her a 
 trick which m a merry moment his master had 
 taught him, and which, not without some feehng 
 of uTeverence, he had occasionally practised upon 
 his own bonny lady. 
 
 The shoemaker's room was overhead ; its thin 
 floor of planks was the ceiling of the workshop. 
 
 VOL. L S
 
 258 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 Ere Dooble Sanny was well laid by the side of 
 his sleeping wife, he heard a frightful sound 
 from below, as of some one tearing his beloved 
 violin to pieces. No sound of rending coffin- 
 planks or rising dead would have been so horri- 
 ble in the ears of the soutar. He sprang from 
 his bed with a haste that shook the crazy tene- 
 ment to its foundation. 
 
 The moment Robert heard that, he put the 
 violin in its place, and took his station by the 
 door-cheek. The soutar came tumbling down the 
 stair, and rushed at the door, but found that he 
 had to go back for the key. When, with un- 
 certain hand, he had opened at length, he went 
 straight to the nest of his treasure, and Robert 
 slipping out noiselessly, was in the next street 
 before Dooble Sanny, having found the fiddle 
 uninjured, and not discovering the substitution, 
 had finished concludhig that the whisky and his 
 imagination had played him a very discourteous 
 trick between them, and retired once more to bed. 
 And not till Robert had cut his foot badly with 
 a piece of glass, did he discover that he had left 
 his shoes behind him. He tied it up with his 
 handkerchief, and limped home the three miles, 
 too happy to thmk of consequences. 
 
 Before he had gone far, the moon floated up 
 on the horizon, large, and shaped like the broad- 
 side of a barrel. She stared at him in amaze- 
 ment to see him out at such a time of the night.
 
 ROBERT STEALS HIS OWN. 259 
 
 But he grasped his vioKn and went on. He had 
 no fear now, even when he passed agam over 
 the desolate moss, although he saw the stag- 
 nant pools glimmering about him in the moon- 
 light. And ever after this he had a fancy for 
 roaming at night. He reached home in safety, 
 found the door as he had left it, and ascended 
 to his bed, triumphant in his fiddle. 
 
 In the morning bloody prints were discovered 
 on the stair, and traced to the door of his room. 
 Miss Lammie entered in some alarm, and found 
 him fast asleep on his bed, still dressed, with a 
 browm-paper parcel in his arms, and one of his 
 feet evidently enough the som-ce of the frightful 
 stain. She was too kind to wake him, and in- 
 quiry was postponed till they met at breakfast, 
 to which he descended bare-footed, save for a 
 handkerchief on the injm-ed foot. 
 
 " Robert, my lad," said Mr. Lammie, kindly, 
 " hoo cam ye by that bluidy fut ? " 
 
 Robert began the story, and, guided by a few 
 questions from his host, at leng-th told the tale 
 of the violin from beginning to end, omitting 
 only his adventm-e m the factory. Many a 
 gufaic from Mr. Lammie greeted its progTess, 
 and Miss Lammie laughed till the tears rolled 
 unheeded down her cheeks, especially when 
 Shargar, emboldened by the admh-ation Robert 
 had awakened, imparted his private share in the 
 comedy, namely, the entombment of Boston in 
 
 s 2
 
 260 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 a fifth-fold state ; for the Lammies were none of 
 the unco guid to be censorious upon such ex- 
 ploits. The whole business advanced the boys 
 in favour at Bodyfauld ; and the entreaties of 
 Robert that nothing should reach liis grand- 
 mother's ears were entirely unnecessary. 
 
 After breakfast Miss Lammie dressed the 
 wounded foot. But what was to be done for 
 shoes, for Robert's Sunday pau had been left at 
 home ? Under ordinary circumstances it would 
 have been no great hardship to him to go bare- 
 foot for the rest of the autumn, but the cut was 
 rather a serious one. So his feet were cased in 
 a pair of Mr. Lammie's Sunday boots, which, 
 from then- size, made it so difficult for him to 
 get along, that he did not go far from the doors, 
 but revelled in the company of his violin in the 
 corn-yard amongst last year's ricks, in the barn, 
 and in the hayloft, playing all the tunes he knew, 
 and trying over one or two more from a very 
 dirty old book of Scotch airs, which his teacher 
 had lent him. 
 
 In the evening, as they sat together after 
 supper, Mr. Lammie said : 
 
 " Weel, Robert hoo 's the fiddle?" 
 
 " Fine, I thank ye, sir," answered Robert. 
 
 " Lat 's hear what ye can do wi' 't." 
 
 Robert fetched the instrument and complied. 
 
 " That's no that ill," remarked the farmer. 
 " But eh ! man, ye suld hae heard yer gran'-fa-
 
 ROBERT STEALS HIS OWN. 261 
 
 ther han'le the bow. That icas something to 
 hear — ance in a body's life. Ye wad hae jist 
 thoucht the stiings had been drawni frae his ain 
 inside, he kent tliem sae weel, and han'led them 
 sae fine. He jist fan' (felt) them like wi' 's fin- 
 gers throu' the bow an' the horsehaii* an' a', an' 
 a' the time he was drawdn' the soiin' like the 
 sowl fi-ae them, an' they jist did on}i;hing 'at he 
 likit. Eh ! to hear him play the Flooers o' the 
 Forest wad hae garred ye greit." 
 
 " Cud my father play ?" asked Robert. 
 
 " Ay, weel eneuch for him. He could du ony- 
 thing he likit to try, better nor middlin'. I 
 never saw sic a man. He played upo' the bag- 
 pipes, an' the flute, an' the bugle, an' I kenna 
 what a' ; but a'thegither they cam na within 
 sicht o' liis father upo' the auld fiddle. Lat 's 
 hae a luik at her." 
 
 He took the instrument in his hands reverent- 
 ly, tm-ned it over and over, and said : 
 
 " Ay, ay ; it's the same auld mull, an' I wat 
 it giTm' (ground) bonny meal. — That sma' crater 
 noo 'ill be worth a hunner poun', I s' warran'," 
 he added, as he restored it carefolly into Ro- 
 bert's hands, to whom it was honey and spice 
 to hear his bonny lady paid her due honoui'S. 
 " Can ye play the Flooers o' the Forest, no ?" he 
 added yet agam. 
 
 "Ay can I," answered Robert, with some 
 pride, and laid the bow on the A^olin, and play-
 
 262 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 ed the air through without blundering a single 
 note. 
 
 " Weel, that's verra weel," said Mr. Lammie. 
 " But it 's nae mair like as yer gran'father play- 
 ed it, than gm there war twa sawyers at it, ane 
 at ilka lug o' the bow, wi' the fiddle atween 
 them in a saw-pit." 
 
 Robert's heart sank within him; but Mr. Lam- 
 mie went on : 
 
 "To hear the bow croudin' (cooing), an wail- 
 in', an' greitin' ower the strings, wad hae jist 
 garred ye see the lands o' braid Scotlan' wi' a' 
 the lasses greitui' for the lads that lay upo' reid 
 Flodden side ; lasses to cut, and lasses to gether, 
 and lasses to bin', and lasses to stook, and lasses 
 to lead, and no a lad amo' them a'. It 's jist 
 the murnin' o' women, doin' men's wark as 
 weel 's then- ain, for the men that suld hae been 
 there to du 't ; and I s' warran' ye, no a word 
 to the orra {exceptional, over-all) lad that didna 
 gang wi' the lave (rest).'' 
 
 Robert had not hitherto understood it — this 
 wail of a pastoral and ploughing people over 
 those who had left their side to retiu-n no more 
 from the field of battle. But Mr. Lammie' s de- 
 scription of his grandfather's rendering laid hold 
 of his heart. 
 
 " I wad raither be grutten for nor kissed," 
 said he, simply. 
 
 "Haud ye to that, my lad," returned Mr.
 
 ROBERT STEALS HIS OWN. 263 
 
 Lammie. " Lat the lasses greit for ye gin they 
 lilie ; but hand oot ower frae the kissin'. I wad- 
 na mell wi' 't." 
 
 " Hoot, father, dinna put sic nonsense i' the 
 bairns' heids," said Miss Lammie. 
 
 " Whilk 's the nonsense, Aggy ?" asked her 
 father, slily. " But I doobt," he added, " he'll 
 never play the Flooers o' the Forest as it suld 
 be playt, till he's had a taste o' the kissin', lass." 
 
 " Weel, it's a queer instructor o' yowth, 'at 
 says an' onsays i' the same breith." 
 
 " Never ye min'. I haena contradickit mysel' 
 yet ; for I hae said naething. But, Robert, my 
 man, ye maun pit mair sowl into yer fiddlin'. 
 Ye canna play the fiddle till ye can gar 't greit.' 
 It's unco ready to that o' 'ts ain sel' ; an' it's my 
 opingon that there's no anither instrument but 
 the fiddle fit to play the Flooers o' the Forest 
 upo', for that very rizzon, in a' his Maijesty's 
 dominions. — My father playt the fiddle, but no 
 like your gran'father." 
 
 Robert was silent. He spent the whole of 
 the next morning in reiterated attempts to alter 
 his style of pla^dng the an* in question, but in 
 vain — as far at least as any satisfaction to him- 
 self was the result. He laid the instrument 
 do^vn in despair, and sat for an horn* disconso- 
 late upon the bedside. His visit had not as yet 
 been at all so fertile in pleasure as he had anti- 
 cipated. He could not fly his kite ; he could
 
 264 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 not walk ; he had lost his shoes ; Mr. Lammie 
 had not approved of his playing ; and, although 
 he had his will of the fiddle, he could not get 
 his will out of it. He could never play so as 
 to please Miss St. John. Nothmg but manly 
 pride kept him from crying. He was sorely dis- 
 appointed and dissatisfied ; and the world might 
 be dreary even at Bodyfauld. 
 
 Few men can wait upon the bright day in the 
 midst of the dull one. Nor can many men even 
 wait for it.
 
 265 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 JESSIE HEWSOX. 
 
 THE wound on Robert's foot festered, and had 
 not yet healed when the sickle was first 
 put to the barley. He hobbled out, however, to 
 the reapers, for he could not bear to be left 
 alone with his violin, so di-eadfiilly oppressive 
 was the knowledge that he could not use it 
 after its nature. He began to think whether 
 his incapacity was not a judgment upon him 
 for taking it away from the soutar, who could 
 do so much more T^dth it, and to whom, conse- 
 quently, it was so much more valuable. The 
 pain in his foot, likemse, had been very de- 
 pressmg; and but for the kindness of his friends, 
 especially of Miss Lammie, he would have 
 been altogether " a weary wight forlorn." 
 
 S bar gar was happier than ever he had been 
 in his life. His white face hung on Miss Lam- 
 mie's looks, and haunted her steps from spence 
 (store-room^ as in Devonshire) to milk-house, and 
 from milk-house to chessel, sm-moimted by the
 
 266 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 glory of his red hair, which a farm-servant de- 
 clared he had once mistaken for a fun-buss 
 (ivhin-busJi) on fire. This day she had gone to 
 the field to see the first handful of barley cut, 
 and Shargar was there, of course. 
 
 It was a glorious day of blue and gold, with 
 just wind enough to set the barley-heads a talk- 
 ing. But, whether from the heat of the sun, or 
 the pam of his foot operating on the gene- 
 ral discouragement under which he laboured, 
 Robert turned faint all at once, and dragged 
 himself away to a cottage on the edge of the 
 field. 
 
 It was the dwelling of a cottar, whose family 
 had been settled upon the farm of Bodyfauld 
 from time immemorial. They were, indeed, 
 like other cottars, a kind of feudal dependents, 
 occupying an acre or two of the land, in return 
 for which they performed certain stipulated la- 
 bour, called Gottar-wark, The greater part of 
 the family was employed in the work of the 
 farm, at the regular wages. 
 
 Alas for Scotland that such families are now 
 to seek ! Would that the parliaments of our 
 country held such a proportion of noble-minded 
 men as was once to be found in the clay huts 
 on a hill-side, or grouped about a central farm, 
 huts whose wretched look would move the pity 
 of many a man as inferior to their occupants as 
 a King Charles's lap-dog is to a shepherd's col-
 
 JESSIE HEWSON. 267 
 
 ley. The utensils of theii' life were mean enough: 
 the life itself was often elixir vitce — a true fa- 
 mily life, looking up to the high, divine life. 
 But well for the world that such life has been 
 scattered over it, east and west, the seed of 
 fresh growrth in new^ lands. Out of offence to 
 the individual, God brmgs good to the whole ; for 
 he pets no nation, but trains it for the perfect 
 globular life of all nations — of his world — of his 
 universe. As he makes famiHes mingle, to re- 
 deem each from its family selfishness, so will he 
 make nations mingle, and love and correct and 
 reform and develop each other, till the planet- 
 world shall go singing through space one har- 
 mony to the God of the w^hole earth. The ex- 
 cellence must vanish from one portion, that it 
 may be diffused through the whole. The seed 
 ripens on one favoui-ed mound, and is scattered 
 over the plain. We console ourselves with the 
 higher thought, that if Scotland is worse, the 
 world is better. Yea, even they by whom the 
 offence came, and who have fii'st to reap the 
 woe of that offence, because they did the will of 
 God to satisfy then- own avarice in laying land 
 to land and house to house, shall not reap their 
 punishment in ha\ang their own will, and 
 standing therefore alone in the earth when the 
 good of their evil deeds returns upon it ; but 
 the tears of men that ascended to heaven in the 
 heat of their bm-ning dwellmgs shall descend in
 
 268 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 the dew of blessing even on the hearts of them 
 that kindled the fire. — " Something too much of 
 this." 
 
 Robert lifted the latch, and walked into the 
 cottage. It was not quite so strange to him as 
 it would be to most of my readers ; still, he had 
 not been in such a place before. A girl who 
 was stooping by the small peat fire on the 
 hearth looked up, and, seeing that he was lame, 
 came across the heights and hollows of the clay 
 floor to meet him. Robert spoke so faintly that 
 she could not hear. 
 
 " What's yer wull f she asked ; then, chang- 
 ing her tone — " Eh ! ye're no weel," she said. 
 " Come in to the fire. Tak' a hand o' me, and 
 come yer was butt." 
 
 She was a pretty, indeed graceful ghl of 
 about eighteen, with the elasticity rather than 
 undulation of movement which distinguishes 
 the peasant from the city girl. She led him to 
 the chimla-lug (the ear of the chimney)^ carefully 
 levelled a wooden chair to the inequalities of 
 the floor, and said : 
 
 " Sit ye doon. Will I fess a drappy o' milk !" 
 
 " Gie me a drink o' water, gin ye please," said 
 Robert. 
 
 She brought it. He drank, and felt better. 
 A baby woke in a cradle on the other side of 
 the fire, and began to cry. The girl went and 
 took him up ; and then Robert saw what she
 
 JESSIE HEWSOX. 269 
 
 was like. Light-bro^ii haii' clustered about a 
 delicately-coloured face and hazel eyes. Later 
 in the harvest her cheeks would be ruddy — now 
 they were peach-coloui'ed. A white neck rose 
 above a pink print jacket, called a wrapper ; 
 and the rest of her visible dress was a blue pet- 
 ticoat. She ended in pretty, brown bare feet. 
 Robert liked her, and began to talk. If his im- 
 agination had not been ah-eady filled, he would 
 have fallen in love ^dth her, I dare say, at once; 
 for, except Miss St. John, he had never seen 
 anything he thought so beautiful. The baby 
 cried now and then. 
 
 " "^Miat ails the bamiie ?" he asked. 
 
 " Ow, it's jist cuttin' it's teeth. Gin it greits 
 muckle, I maim jLst tak' it oot to my mither. 
 She'll sune quaiet it. Are ye haudin' better ?" 
 
 " Hoot ay. I'm a' richt noo. Is yer mither 
 shearui' ?" 
 
 " Na. She's gatheiin'. The shearin' 's some 
 sau' wark for her e'en noo. I suld hae been 
 shearin', but my mither wad fain hae a day o' 
 the hairst. She thocht it wad du her gude. 
 But I s' warran' a day o' 't 'U sau' (satisfy) her, 
 and I s' be at it the morn. She's been unco 
 do^vie (ailing) a' the summer ; and sae has the 
 bairnie." 
 
 " Ye maun hae had a sah time o' 't, than." 
 
 "Ay, some. But I aye got some sleep. I jist 
 tuik the tome (string) into the bed wi' me, and
 
 270 EGBERT FALCONER. 
 
 whan the bairnie grat, I waukit, an' rockit it 
 till 't fell asleep again. But whiles naething wad 
 du but tak him till 's mammie." 
 
 All the time she was hushing and fondling the 
 child, who went on fretting when not actually 
 crying. 
 
 " Is he yer brither, than ?" asked Robert. 
 
 "Ay, what ither? I maun tak him, I see. 
 But ye can sit there as lang 's ye like ; and gin 
 ye gang afore I come back, jist turn the key i' 
 the door to lat onybody ken that there's naebody 
 i' the hoose." 
 
 Robert thanked her, and remained in the 
 shadow by the chimney, which was formed of two 
 smoke-browned planks fastened up the wall, one 
 on each side, and an inverted wooden funnel 
 above to conduct the smoke through the roof. 
 He sat for some time gloomily gazing at a spot 
 of sunlight which burned on the brown clay floor. 
 All was still as death. And he felt the white- 
 washed walls even more desolate than if they 
 had been smoke-begrimed. 
 
 Looking about him, he found over his head 
 somethuig which he did not understand. It was 
 as big as the stump of a great tree. Apparently 
 it belonged to the structure of the cottage, but 
 he could not, in the imperfect light, and the 
 dazzling of the sun-spot at which he had been 
 staring, make out what it was, or how it came 
 to be up there — unsupported as far as he could
 
 JESSIE HEWSOX. 271 
 
 see. He rose to examine it, lifted a bit of tar- 
 paulin which himg before it, and found a rickety 
 box, suspended by a rope from a great nail in the 
 wall. It had two shelves in it full of books. 
 
 Now, although there were more books in Mr. 
 Lammie's house than in his gTandmother's, the 
 only one he had foiuid that in the least enticed 
 him to read, was a translation of George Bu- 
 chanan s History of Scotland. This he had beg-un 
 to read faithfully, beUeving every word of it, but 
 had at last broken down at the fiftieth king or so. 
 Imagine, then, the moon that arose on the boy 
 when, \having pulled a ragged and thumb-w^orn 
 book from among those of James Hewson the 
 cottar., he, for the fii'st time, found himself in the 
 mids.t of the Arabian Nights. I shi'ink from all 
 attempt to set forth inwords the rainbow-coloured 
 dehght that coruscated in his bram. When 
 Jessie .Hewson returned, she found him seated 
 where she had left him, so bm-ied in his volume 
 that he did not hft his head when she entered. 
 
 " Yd hae gotten a bulk," she said. 
 
 " Ay have I," answered Robert decisively. 
 
 ''''It's a fine bulk, that. Did ye ever see "t aforef 
 
 'rNa, never." 
 
 "i^''' There's thi*ee wolums o' 't about, here and 
 t!here," said Jessie ; and with the cliild on one 
 arm, she proceeded T\dth the other hand to search 
 for them in the crap d the wa\ that is, on the top 
 of the wall where the rafters rest.
 
 272 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 There she found two or three books, which, 
 after examining them, she placed on the dresser 
 beside Robert. 
 
 " There's nane o' them there," she said ; " but 
 maybe ye wad hke to luik at that anes." 
 
 Robert thanked her, but was too busy to feel 
 the least curiosity about any book in the world 
 but the one he was reading. He read on, heart 
 and soul and mind absorbed m the marvels of 
 the eastern skald ; the stories told in the streets 
 of Cairo, amidst gorgeous costumes, and camels, 
 and white-veiled women, vibrating here in the 
 heart of a Scotch boy, in the darkest corner of a 
 mud cottage, at the foot of a hill of cold-loving 
 pines, with a barefooted girl and a baby for his 
 companions. 
 
 But the pleasure he had been having was, of a 
 sort rather to expedite than to delay the subjec- 
 tive arrival of dinner-time. There was, however, 
 happily no occasion to go home in order to appease 
 his hunger; he had but to join the men and women 
 in the barley-field : there was sure to be enough, 
 for Miss Lammie was at the head of the com- 
 missariat. 
 
 When he had had as much milk-porridge; as 
 he could eat, and a good slice of swack (elastic) 
 cheese with a cap (ivooden bowl) of ale, all (j)f 
 which he consumed as if the good of them lay 
 in the haste of then- appropriation, he hurried 
 back to the cottage, and sat there reading the
 
 JESSIE HEWSON. 273 
 
 Arabian Nights, till the sun went down in the 
 orange-hued west, and the gloamin' came, and 
 with it the reapers, John and Elspet Hewson, 
 and their son George, to their supper and early 
 bed. 
 
 John was a cheerful, rough, Roman-nosed, 
 black-eyed man, who took snuff largely, and 
 was not careful to remove the traces of the habit. 
 He had a loud voice, and an original way of re- 
 garding things, which, with his vivacity, made 
 every remark somid like the proclamation of a 
 discovery. 
 
 " Ai'e ye there, Robert f ' said he, as he entered. 
 
 Robert rose, absorbed and silent. 
 
 "He's been here a' day, readin' like acolliginer," 
 said Jessie. 
 
 "^Yhat are ye readin' sae eident (diligent), msmV 
 asked John. 
 
 " A buik o' stories, here," answered Robert, 
 carelessly, shy of bemg supposed so much en- 
 grossed with them as he really was. 
 
 I should never expect much of a young poet 
 who was not rather ashamed of the distraction 
 which yet he 'chiefly coveted. There is a mo- 
 desty in all young delight. It is ^dld and shy, 
 and would hide itself, like a boy's or maiden's 
 first love, from the gaze of the people. Some- 
 thing like this was Robert's feeling over the 
 Arabian Nights. 
 
 " Ay," said John, taking snuff from a small 
 
 VOL. 1. T
 
 274 EGBERT FALCONER. 
 
 bone spoon, "it's a gran' bnik that. But my 
 son Charley, him 'at 's deid an' gane hame, wad 
 hae tellt ye it was idle time readin' that, wi' sic 
 a buik as that ither lyin' at yer elbnck." 
 
 He pointed to one of the books Jessie had 
 taken from the crap o the wo! and laid down be- 
 side him on the well-scoured dresser. Robert 
 took up the volume and opened it. There was 
 no title-page. 
 
 "The Tempest r he said. "What is 't? 
 Poetry f 
 
 " Ay is 't. It's Shackspear." 
 
 " I hae heard o' Am," said Robert. " Wliat 
 was he !" 
 
 " A player kin' o' a chiel', wi' an imco sicht o' 
 brains," answered John. " He cudna hae had 
 muckle time to gang skelpin' and sornin' aboot 
 the country like maist o' thae cattle, gin he vrote 
 a' that, I'm thinkin'." 
 
 "Whaur didhebidef 
 
 " Awa' m Englan' — maistly aboot Lonnon, I'm 
 thinkin'. That's the place for a' by-or dinar 
 fowk, they tell me." 
 
 " Hoo lang is 't sin he deid ?" 
 
 "I dinna ken. A hmmer year or twa, I s' 
 warran'. It's a lang time. But I'm thinkin' 
 fowk than was jist something like what they are 
 noo. But I ken unco little aboot him, for the 
 prent 's some sma', and I'm some ill for losin' 
 my characters, and sae I dinna win that far benn
 
 JESSIE HEWSON. 275 
 
 wi' him. Geordie there '11 tell ye mau' aboot him." 
 But George Hewson had not much to commu- 
 nicate, for he had but lately landed in Shaks- 
 pere's country, and had got but a little way 
 inland yet. Nor did Robert much care, for his 
 head was full of the Arabian Nights. This, how- 
 ever, was his first introduction to Shakspere. 
 
 Finding himself much at home, he stopped 
 yet a while, shared in the supper, and resumed 
 his seat in the corner when the book was 
 brought out for worsliip. The non lamp, with 
 its wick of rush-pith, which hung against the 
 side of the chimney, was lighted, and John sat 
 down to read. But as his eyes and the print, 
 too, had grown a little dim with years, the lamp 
 was not enough, and he asked for a " fir-can'le." 
 A splint of fir dug from the peat-bog was 
 handed to him. He lighted it at the lamp, and 
 held it in his hand over the page. Its clear 
 resinous flame enabled him to read a short 
 psalm. Then they sang a most wailful tune, 
 and John prayed. If I were to give the prayer 
 as he uttered it, I might make my reader laugh, 
 therefore I abstain, assuring him only that, al- 
 though full of long words — amongst the rest, 
 aspiration and ravishment — the prayer of the 
 cheerfril, joke-lo\ang cottar contained e^adence 
 of a degree of religious development rare, I 
 doubt, amongst bishops. 
 
 When Robert left the oottage, he found the sky 
 
 T 2
 
 276 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 partly clouded and the air cold. The nearest 
 way home was across the barley-stubble of the 
 day's reaping, which lay under a little hill cover- 
 ed with various species of the pine. His own soul, 
 after the restful day he had spent, and under 
 the reaction from the new excitement of the 
 stories he had been reading, was like a quiet, 
 moonless night. The thought of his mother 
 came . back upon him, and her written words, 
 " Lord, my heart is very sore ;" and the 
 thought of his father followed that, and he 
 limped slowly home, laden with mournfulness. 
 As he reached the middle of the field, the wind 
 was suddenly there with a low sough from out of 
 the north-west. The heads of barley in the 
 sheaves leaned away with a soft rustling from 
 before it ; and Robert felt for the first time the 
 sadness of a harvest-field. Then the wind swept 
 away to the pine-covered hill, and raised a rush- 
 ing and a wailing amongst its thin-clad branches, 
 and to the ear of Robert the trees were singing 
 over again in their night solitudes the air sung 
 by the cottar's family. When he looked to the 
 north-west, whence the wind came, he saw no- 
 thing but a pale cleft in the sky. The meaning, 
 the music of the night awoke in his soul ; he 
 forgot his lame foot, and the weight of Mr. 
 Lammie's great boots, ran home and up the 
 stair to his own room, seized his violin with 
 eager haste, nor laid it down again till he could
 
 JESSIE HEWSON. 277 
 
 draw from it, at will, a sound like the moaning 
 of the wind over the stubble-field. Then he 
 knew that he could play the Flowers of the 
 Forest. The Wmd that Shakes the Barley can- 
 not have been named from the barley after it 
 was cut, but while it stood in the field : the 
 Flowers of the Forest was of the gathered har- 
 vest. 
 
 He tried the air once over in the dark, and 
 then carried his violin doT\Ti to the room where 
 Mr, and Miss Lammie sat. 
 
 " I think I can play 't noo, Mr. Lammie," he 
 said abruptly. 
 
 *' Play what, callant ?" asked his host. 
 
 " The Flooers o' the Forest." 
 
 "Play awa' than." 
 
 And Robert played — not so well as he had 
 hoped. I daresay it was a humble enough per- 
 formance, but he gave something at least of the 
 expression Mr. Lammie desii-ed. For, the mo- 
 ment the tune was over, he exclaimed, 
 
 " Weel dune, Robert man ! ye '11 be a fiddler 
 some day yet !" 
 
 And Robert was well satisfied with the praise. 
 
 " I wish yer mother had been ahve," the far- 
 mer went on. " She wad hae been rael prood 
 to hear ye play like that. Eh! she likit the 
 fiddle weel. And she culd play bonny upo' the 
 plana hersel'. It was somethmg to hear the 
 twa o' them playin' thegither, him on the fiddle
 
 "278 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 — ^tliat verra fiddle o' 's father's 'at ye liae i' yer 
 han' — and her on the piana. Eh ! but she was 
 a bonnie wuman as ever I saw, an' that quaiet ! 
 It's my behef she never thocht aboot her am 
 beowty frae week's en' to week's en', and that's 
 no saym' little — is 't, Aggy f 
 
 " I never preten't ony richt to think aboot 
 sic," retm-ned Miss Lammie, with a mild indig- 
 nation. 
 
 " That's richt, lass. Od, ye're aye i' the richt 
 — though I say 't 'at sudna." 
 
 Miss Lammie must indeed have been good- 
 natured, to answer only with a genuine laugh. 
 Shargar looked explosive with anger. But Ro- 
 bert would fain hear more of his mother. 
 
 " What was my mother like, Mr. Lammie f he 
 asked. 
 
 " Eh, my man ! ye suld hae seen her upon a 
 bonnie bay mere that yer father gae her. Faith ! 
 she sat as straught as a rash, wi' jist a hing i' 
 the heid o' her, like the heid o' a halm o' wild 
 aits." 
 
 " My father wasna that ill till her than ?" sug- 
 gested Robert. 
 
 " Wha ever daured say sic a thing V returned 
 Mr. Lammie, but in a tone so far from satisfac- 
 tory to Robert, that he inquired no more in that 
 direction. 
 
 I need hardly say that from that night Robert 
 was more than ever diligent with his violin.
 
 279 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 THE DRAGOX. 
 
 ATEXT day, his foot was so much better, that 
 jA he sent Shargar to Rothieden to buy the 
 string', taking ^\dth him Robert's school-bag, in 
 wliich to carry off his Simday shoes ; for as to 
 those left at Dooble Sanny's, they judged it 
 unsafe to go m quest of them: the soutar 
 could hardly be hi a humom* fit to be intruded 
 upon. 
 
 Having procured the stiing, Shargar went to 
 Mrs. Falconer's. Anxious not to encounter her, 
 but, if possible, to bag the boots quietly, he 
 opened the door, peeped m, and seeing no one, 
 made his way towards the kitchen. He was 
 arrested, however, as he crossed the passage by 
 the voice of Mrs. Falconer calling, "Wha's 
 that?" There she was at the parlom* door. 
 It paralysed him. His first impulse was to make 
 a rush and escape. But the boots — he could not 
 go Av-ithout at least an attempt upon them. So
 
 280 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 he turned and faced her with inward trembling, 
 
 " Wha 's that ?" repeated the old lady, regard- 
 ing him fixedly. " Ow, it's yon ! What duv ye 
 want ? Ye camna to see me, I'm thinkin' ! What 
 hae ye i' that bag f 
 
 " I cam to coff {huy) twine for the draigon," 
 answered Shargar. 
 
 " Ye had twine eneuch afore !" 
 
 " It bruik. It wasna Strang eneuch." 
 
 " Whaur got ye the siller to buy mair ? Lat 's 
 see'tr 
 
 Shargar took the string from the bag. 
 
 " Sic a sicht o' twine ! What paid ye for 't." 
 
 "Ashillin'." 
 
 " Whaur got ye the shillin' f ' 
 
 " Mr. Lammie gae 't to Robert." 
 
 "I winna hae ye tak siller frae naebody. 
 It's ill mainners. Hae !" said the old lady, put- 
 ting her hand in her pocket, and taking out a 
 shilling. " Hae," she said. " Gie Mr. Lammie 
 back his shillin', an' tell 'im 'at I wadna hae ye 
 learn sic ill customs as tak siller. It's eneuch 
 to gang sornin' upon 'im {exacting free quarters) 
 as ye du, ohn beggit for siller. Are they a' 
 weelf 
 
 " Ay, brawly," answered Shargar, putting the 
 shilling in his pocket. 
 
 In another moment Shargar had, without a 
 word of adieu, embezzled the shoes, and escaped 
 from the house without seeing Betty. He went
 
 THE DRAGON. 281 
 
 straight to the shop he had just left, and bought 
 another shilling's worth of string. 
 
 When he got home, he concealed nothing 
 from Robert, whom he found seated in the barn, 
 with his fiddle, waiting his retm-n. 
 
 Robert started to his feet. He could appro- 
 priate his grandfather's violin, to which, pos- 
 sibly, he might have shown as good a right as 
 his grandmother — certainly his gTandfather 
 would have accorded it him — but her money 
 was sacred. 
 
 " Shargar, ye vi'atch !" he cried, " fess that 
 shillin' here direckly. Tak the twine wi' ye, 
 and gar them gie ye back the shillia'." 
 
 " They winna brak the bargaia," cried Shar- 
 gar, beginning almost to whimper, for a savomy 
 smell of dinner was coming across the yard. 
 
 " Tell them it's stown siller, and they'll be in 
 het watter aboot it gin they dinna gie ye 't 
 back." 
 
 " I maun hae my denner first," remonstrated 
 Shargar. 
 
 But the spmt of his grandmother was strong 
 in Robert, and in a matter of rectitude there 
 must be no temporizing. Thereia he could be 
 as tyrannical as the old lady herself. 
 
 "De'il a bite or a sup s' gang ower your 
 thrapple till I see that shillin'." 
 
 There was no help for it. Six hungry miles 
 must be trudged by Shargar ere he got a morsel
 
 282 EGBERT FALCONER. 
 
 to eat. Two hours and a half passed before he 
 re-appeared. But he brought the shiUing. As 
 to how he recovered it, Robert questioned him 
 in vain. Shargar, in his turn, was obstinate. 
 
 *' She's a some camstairy {unmanageable) wife, 
 that grannie o' yours," said Mr. Lammie, when 
 Robert returned the shilHng with Mrs. Falconer's 
 message, " but I reckon I maun pit it i' my pooch, 
 for she will hae her ain gait, an' I dinna want 
 to strive wi' her. But gin ony o' ye be m want 
 o' a shillin' ony day, lads, as lang's I'm abune 
 the yird — this ane '11 be grown twa, or maybe 
 mair, 'gen that time." 
 
 So sa^dng, the farmer put the shilling in his 
 pocket, and buttoned it up. 
 
 The dragon flew splendidly now, and its 
 strength was mighty. It was Robert's custom 
 to drive a stake in the ground, slanting against 
 the wmd, and thereby tether the animal as if it 
 were up there grazing in its OAvn natural re- 
 gion. Then he would lie down by the stake and 
 read the Arabian Nights, every now and then cast- 
 ing a glance upward at the creature alone in the 
 waste air, yet all in his power by the string at his 
 side. Somehow the high-flown dragon was a 
 bond between him and the blue; he seemed 
 nearer to the sky while it flew, or at least the 
 heaven seemed less far away and inaccessible. 
 While he lay there gazing, all at once he would 
 find that his soul was up with the dragon,
 
 THE DRAGON. 283 
 
 feeling as it felt, tossing about with it in the 
 torrents of the ah\ Out at his eyes it would go, 
 traverse the dim stairless space, and sport with 
 the -wdnd-blown monster. Sometimes, to aid his 
 aspu'ation, he would take a bit of paper, make a 
 hole in it, pass the end of the string thi'ough the 
 hole, and send the messenger scudding along the 
 line athwart the depth of the wind. If it stuck 
 by the way, he would get a telescope of Mr. Lam- 
 mie's, and therewith watch its struggles till it 
 broke loose, then foUowit careering up to the kite. 
 Away T\4th each successive paper his imagination 
 would fly, and a sense of air, and height, and free- 
 dom, settled from his play into his very soul, a 
 germ to sprout hereafter, and enrich the forms of 
 his aspfrations. And all his after-memories of 
 kite-flj^g were mingled with pictui-es of eastern 
 magnificence, for fr'om the afry height of the di'agon 
 his eyes always came down upon the enchanted 
 pages of John Hewson's book. 
 
 Sometimes, again, he would throw down his 
 book, and sitting up with his back against the 
 stake, lift his bonny leddy from his side, and 
 play as he had never played in Rothieden, play- 
 ing to the dragon aloft, to keep him strong in his 
 scaling, and fierce in his battling with the Avinds 
 of heaven. Then he fancied that the monster 
 swooped and swept in arcs, and swayed cm'ving 
 to and fro, in rhythmic response to the music 
 floating up through the ^\'ind.
 
 284 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 What a Ml globated symbolism lay then 
 aromid the heart of the boy in his book, his vio- 
 lin, his kite!
 
 285 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 DR. AXDERSON. 
 
 ONE afternoon, as they were sitting at their 
 tea, a footstep in the garden approached 
 the house, and then a figure passed the window. 
 IMr. Lammie started to his feet. 
 
 " Bless my sowl, Aggy ! that's Anderson !" he 
 cried, and hui-ried to the door. 
 
 His daughter followed. The boys kept their 
 seats. A loud and hearty salutation reached 
 their ears ; but the voice of the farmer was all 
 they heard. Presently he returned bringing 
 Avith him the tallest and slenderest man Robert 
 had ever seen. He was considerably over six 
 feet, with a small head, and dehcate, if not fine 
 features, a gentle look in his blue eyes, and a slow 
 clear voice, which sounded as if it were thinking 
 about every word it uttered. The hot sun of 
 India seemed to have burned out everything 
 self-assertive, leaving liim quietly and rather 
 sadly contemplative.
 
 286 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " Come in, come in," repeated Mr. Lammie, 
 overflowing with glad welcome. " What '11 ye 
 hae ? There's a frien' o' yer ain," he continued, 
 pointing to Robert, " an' a fine lad." Then lower- 
 ing his voice, he added : " A son o' poor Ane- 
 rew's, ye ken. Doctor." 
 
 The boys rose, and Dr. Anderson stretching 
 his long arms across the table, shook hands kind- 
 ly with Robert and Shargar. Then he sat down 
 and began to help himself to the cakes (oat- 
 cake) at which Robert wondered, seeing there 
 was " white breid " on the table. Miss Lammie 
 presently came m with the tea-pot and some 
 additional dainties, and the boys took the 
 opportmiity of beginning at the beginning 
 again. 
 
 Dr. Anderson remained for a few days at 
 Bodyfauld, sending Shargar to Rothieden for 
 some necessaries from the Boar's Head, where 
 he had left his servant and luggage. During 
 this time Mr. Lammie was much occupied with 
 his farm affairs, anxious to get his harvest in as 
 quickly as possible, because a change of weather 
 was to be dreaded ; so the doctor was left a good 
 deal to himself. He was fond of wandering 
 about, but, thoughtful as he was, did not object 
 to the companionship which Robert implicitly of- 
 fered him : before many hours were over, the 
 two were friends. 
 
 Various things attracted Robert to the doctor.
 
 DR. AXDERSOX. 287 
 
 First, he was a relation of his own, older than 
 himself, the first he had known except his father, 
 and Robert's heart was one of the most dutiful. 
 Second, or perhaps I ought to have put tliis fii'st, 
 he was the only gentleman^ except Eric Ericson, 
 whose acquaintance he had yet made. Thu'd, 
 he was kind to him, and gentle to him, and, 
 above all, respectful to him ; and to be respected 
 was a new sensation to Robert altogether. And 
 lastly, he could tell stories of elephants and tiger- 
 hunts, and all The Arabian Nights of India. He 
 did not volunteer much talk, but Robert soon 
 found that he could di'aw him out. 
 
 But what attracted the man to the boy ? 
 
 " Ah ! Robert," said the doctor, one day sadly, 
 "it's a sore thing to come home after being 
 thirty years away." 
 
 He looked up at the sky, then all round at the 
 hills : the face of natui-e alone remained the 
 same. Then his glance fell on Robert, and he 
 saw a pair of black eyes looking up at him, brim- 
 ful of tears. And thiis the man was di'awn to 
 the boy. 
 
 Robert worshipped Dr. Anderson. As long as 
 he remained then- visitor, kite and violin and all 
 were forgotten, and he followed him like a 
 dog. To have such a gentleman for a relation, 
 was grand indeed. ^ATiat could he do for him ? 
 He muiistered to him in all mamier of trifles 
 — a little to the amusement of Dr. Anderson,
 
 288 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 but more to his pleasure, for he saw that the boy 
 was both large-hearted and lowly-minded : Dr. 
 Anderson had learned to read character, else he 
 would never have been the honour to his pro- 
 fession that he was. 
 
 But all the time Robert could not get him to 
 speak about his father. He steadily avoided the 
 subject. 
 
 When he went away, the two boys walked 
 with him to the Boar's Head, caught a glimpse 
 of his Hindoo attendant, much to their wonder- 
 ment, received from the Doctor a sovereign 
 apiece and a kind good-bye, and returned to 
 Bodyfauld. 
 
 Dr. Anderson remained a few days longer at 
 Bothieden, and amongst others visited Mrs. Fal- 
 coner, who was his first cousin. What passed 
 between them Robert never heard, nor did his 
 grandmother even allude to the visit. He went 
 by the mail-coach from Rothieden to Aberdeen, 
 and whether he should ever see him again Ro- 
 bert did not know. 
 
 He flew his kite no more for a while, but be- 
 took himself to the work of the harvest-field, in 
 which he was now able for a share. But his 
 violin was no longer neglected. 
 
 Day after day passed in the delights of labour, 
 broken for Robert by The Arabian Nights, and 
 the violin, and for Shargar by attendance upon 
 Miss Lammie, till the fields lay bare of theii*
 
 DR. ANDERSON. 289 
 
 harvest, and the night-wind of autumn moaned 
 everywhere over the vanished glory of the comi- 
 try, and it was time to go back to school. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 290 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 AN AUTO DA F^. 
 
 THE morning at length arrived when Robert 
 and Shargar must return to Rothieden. A 
 keen autumnal wind was blowing far-off feathery 
 clouds across a sky of pale blue ; the cold fresh- 
 ened the spirits of the boys, and tightened their 
 nerves and muscles, till they were like bow- 
 strings. No doubt the winter was coming, but 
 the sun, although his day's work was short and 
 slack, was still as clear as ever. So gladsome 
 was the world, that the boys received the day 
 as a fresh holiday, and strenuously forgot to-mor- 
 row. The wind blew straight from Rothieden, 
 and between sun and wind a bright thought 
 awoke in Robert. The dragon should not be 
 carried — ^he should fly home. 
 
 After they had said farewell, in which Shar- 
 gar seemed to suffer more than Robert, and had 
 turned the corner of the stable, they heard the 
 good farmer shouting after them, 
 
 " There'll be anither hairst neist year, boys,"
 
 AN AUTO DA FE. 291 
 
 which wonderfully restored their spirits. T^^len 
 they reached the open road, Robert laid his 
 violin carefully into a broom-bush. Then the 
 tail was unrolled, and the di'agon ascended 
 steady as an angel whose work is done. Shargar 
 took the stick at the end of the string, and Ro- 
 bert resumed his violin. But the creature was 
 hard to lead in such a wind ; so they made a 
 loop on the string, and passed it round Shargar's 
 chest, and he tugged the dragon home. Robert 
 longed to take his share in the struggle, but he 
 could not trust his violin to Shargar, and so had 
 to walk beside ingloriously. On the way they 
 laid then- plans for the accommodation of the 
 dragon. But the violm was the greater diffi- 
 culty. Robert would not hear of the factory, 
 for reasons best known to himself, and there 
 were serious objections to taking it to Dooble 
 Sanny. It was resolved that the only way was to 
 seize the right moment, and creep upstahs with 
 it before presentmg themselves to Mrs. Falconer. 
 Their intended manoeuvres with the kite would 
 favour the concealment of this stroke. 
 
 Before they entered the town they di'ew in 
 the kite a little way, and cut off a dozen yards 
 of the string, which Robert put in his pocket, 
 with a stone tied to the end. AVhen they reach- 
 ed the house, Shargar went into the Uttle garden 
 and tied the string of the kite to the paling be- 
 tween that and Captain Forsyth's. Robert open- 
 
 u2
 
 292 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 ed the street-door, and' having turned his head 
 on all sides like a thief, darted with his violin 
 up the stairs. Having laid his treasure in one 
 of the presses in Shargar's garret, he went to his 
 own, and from the skylight threw the stone 
 down into the captain's garden, fastening the 
 other end of the string to the bedstead. Es- 
 caping as cautiously as he had entered, he pass- 
 ed hurriedly into their neighbour's garden, found 
 the stone, and joined Shargar. The ends were 
 soon united, and the kite let go. It sunk for a 
 moment, then, arrested by the bedstead, towered 
 again to its former " pride of place," sailmg over 
 Rothieden, grand and unconcerned, in the wastes 
 of air. 
 
 But the end of its tether was in Robert's gar- 
 ret. And that was to him a sense of power, a 
 thought of glad mystery. There was henceforth, 
 while the dragon flew, a relation between the 
 desolate little chamber, in that lowly house 
 buried among so many more aspiring abodes, 
 and the unmeasured depths and spaces, the stars, 
 and the unknown heavens. And in the next 
 chamber, lay the fiddle free once more, — yet an- 
 other magical power whereby his spirit could 
 forsake the earth and mount heavenwards. 
 
 All that night, all the next day, all the next 
 night, the dragon flew. 
 
 Not one smile broke over the face of the old 
 lady as she received them. Was it because she
 
 AX AUTO DA FE. 293 
 
 did not know what acts of disobedience, what 
 breaches of the moral law, the two chikben of 
 possible perdition might have committed while 
 they were beyond her care, and she must not 
 run the risk of smiling upon uiiquity ? I think 
 it was rather that there was no smile in her re- 
 ligion, which, while it developed the power of a 
 darkened conscience, over-laid and half-smoth- 
 ered all the loveher impulses of her grand na- 
 ture. How could she smile ? Did not the world 
 lie under the wrath and cm'se of God ? Was not 
 her own son in hell for ever ? Had not the blood 
 of the Son of God been shed for him in vain? 
 Had not God meant that it should be in vain ? 
 For by the gift of his sphit could he not have 
 enabled him to accept the offered pardon ? And 
 for anything she knew, was not Kobert going 
 after him to the place of misery ? How could 
 she smile ? 
 
 " Noo be dooce," she said, the moment she 
 had shaken hands with them, with her cold 
 hands, so clean and soft and smooth. With a 
 volcanic heart of love, her outside was always 
 so still and cold ! — snow on the mountain-sides, 
 hot vein-coursing lava within. For her highest 
 duty was submission to the will of God. Ah ! if 
 she had only known the God who claimed her 
 submission ! But there is time enough for every 
 heart to know him. 
 
 " Noo be dooce," she repeated " an sit doon,
 
 294 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 and tell me aboot the fowk at Bodyfauld. I 
 houpe ye thankit them, or ye left, for their 
 muckle kindness to ye." 
 
 The boys were silent. 
 
 " Didna ye thank them f 
 
 " No, grannie ; I dinna think 'at we did." 
 
 "Weel, that was ill-faured o' ye. Eh! but 
 the hert is deceitfu' aboon a' thing, and des- 
 perately wicked. Who can know ill Come 
 awa'. Come awa'. Robert festen the door." 
 
 And she led them to the corner for prayer, 
 and poured forth a confession of sm for them 
 and for herself, such as left little that could have 
 been added by her own profligate son, had he 
 joined in the prayer. Either there are no de- 
 grees in guilt, or the Scotch language was equal 
 only to the confession of children and holy 
 women, and could provide no more awful words 
 for the contrition of the prodigal or the hypo- 
 crite. But the words did little harm, for Robert's 
 mmd was full of the kite and the violin, and 
 was probably nearer God thereby than if he had 
 been trying to feel as wicked as his grand- 
 mother told God that he was. Shargar was 
 even more divinely employed at the time than 
 either ; for though he had not had the man- 
 ners to thank his benefactor, his heart had all 
 the way home been full of tender thoughts of 
 Miss Lammie's kindness ; and now, instead of 
 confessing sins that were not his, he was loving
 
 AN AUTO DA FE. 295 
 
 her over and over, and wishing to be back with 
 her instead of with this awfully good woman, in 
 whose presence there was no peace, for all the 
 atmosphere of silence and calm in which she 
 sat. 
 
 Confession over, and the boys at Hberty again, a 
 new anxiety seized them. Grannie must find 
 out that Robert's shoes were missing, and what 
 account was to be given of the misfortune, for 
 Robert would not, or could not lie? In the 
 midst of their discussion a bright idea flashed 
 upon Shargar, which, however, he kept to him- 
 self: he would steal them, and bring them home 
 in triumph, emulating thus Robert's exploit in 
 deHvering his bonny leddy. 
 
 The shoemaker sat behind his door to be out 
 of the draught : Shargar might see a great part 
 of the workshop without being seen, and he could 
 pick Robert's shoes from among a hundred. 
 Probably they lay just where Robert had laid 
 them, for Dooble Sanny paid attention to any 
 job only in proportion to the persecution ac- 
 companying it. 
 
 So the next day Shargar contrived to slip out 
 of school just as the writing lesson began, for 
 he had great skill in conveying liimself unseen, 
 and, with his book-bag, slunk barefooted into 
 thesoutar's entry. 
 
 The shop door was a little way open, and the 
 red eyes of Shargar had only the corner next it
 
 296 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 to go peering about in. But there he saw the 
 shoes. He got down on his hands and knees, 
 and crept nearer. Yes, they were beyond a 
 doubt Robert's shoes. He made a long arm Uke 
 a beast of prey, seized them, and, losing his pre- 
 sence of mind upon possession, drew them too 
 hastily towards him. The shoemaker saw them 
 as they vanished through the door, and darted 
 after them. Shargar was off at full speed, and 
 Sandy followed with hue and cry. Every idle 
 person in the street joined in the pursuit, and 
 all who were too busy or too respectable to run 
 crowded to door and windows. Shargar made 
 instinctively for his mother's old lair ; but be- 
 thinking liimself when he reached the door, he 
 turned, and, knowmg nowhere else to go, fled in 
 terror to Mrs. Falconer's, still, however, holding 
 fast by the shoes, for they were Robert's. 
 
 As Robert came home from school, wondering 
 what could have become of his companion, he 
 saw a crowd about his grandmother's door, and 
 pushing his way through it in some dismay, 
 found Dooble Sanny and Shargar confronting 
 each other before the stern justice of Mrs. Fal- 
 coner. 
 
 " Ye're a leear," the soutar was panting out. 
 " I haena had a pair o' shune o' Robert's i' my 
 ban's this three month. Thae shune — lat me see 
 
 them — they're Here's Robert himsel'. Are 
 
 thae shune yours, noo, Robert?"
 
 AX AUTO DA FE. 297 
 
 " Ay are they. Ye made them yersel'." 
 
 " Hoo cam they m my chop, than I " 
 
 " Speir nae mair qiiesfons nor 's worth answer- 
 in'," said Robert, Tsdth a look meant to be signifi- 
 cant. " They 're my shnne, and I'll keep them. 
 Aiblins ye dinna aye ken wha's shnne ye hae, or 
 whan they cam in to ye." 
 
 " A^Tiat for didna Shargar come an' speh' efter 
 them, than, in place o' makin' a thief o' himsel' 
 that gait?" 
 
 " Ye may hand yer tongTie," retm-ned Robert, 
 with yet more significance. 
 
 " I was aye a gowk (idiot)" said Shargar, in 
 apologetic reflection, looking awfiilly white, and 
 afi-aid to lift an eye to Mrs. Falconer, yet reas- 
 sured a little by Robert's presence. 
 
 Some glimmering seemed now to have dawned 
 upon the soutar, for he began to prepare a re- 
 treat. Meantime Mrs. Falconer sat silent, allow- 
 ing no word that passed to escape her. She 
 wanted to be at the bottom of the mysterious 
 affair, and therefore held her peace. 
 
 " Weel, I'm sure, Robert, ye never teUt me 
 aboot the shune," said Alexander. " I s' jist 
 tak' them back wi' me, and du what's wantit to 
 them. And I'm sorry that I hae gien ye this 
 tribble. Mistress Faukner; but it was a' that 
 fiile's wite there. I didna even ken it was him, 
 till we war near-han' the hoose." 
 
 " Lat me see the shune," said Mrs. Falconer,
 
 298 ROBERT FALCONER, 
 
 speaking almost for the first time. " What's the 
 maitter wi' them f 
 
 Examming the shoes, she saw they were in a 
 perfectly sound state, and this confirmed her 
 suspicion that there was more in the affair than 
 had yet come out. Had she taken the straight- 
 forward measure of examining Robert, she 
 would soon have arrived at the truth. But she 
 had such a dread of causing a lie to be told, that 
 she would adopt any roundabout way rather 
 than ask a plain question of a suspected cul- 
 prit. So she laid the shoes down beside her, 
 saying to the soutar : 
 
 " There's naething amiss wi' the shune. Ye 
 can lea' them." 
 
 Thereupon Alexander went away, and Robert 
 and Shargar would have given more than their 
 dinner to follow him. Grannie neither asked 
 any questions, however, nor made a single re- 
 mark on what had passed. Dinner was served 
 and eaten, and the boys returned to their after- 
 noon school. 
 
 No sooner was she certain that they were safe 
 under the school-master's eye than the old lady 
 put on her black silk bonnet and her black wol- 
 len shawl, took her green cotton umbrella, which 
 served her for a staff, and, refusing Betty's prof- 
 fered assistance, set out for Dooble Sanny's 
 shop. 
 
 As she drew near she heard the sounds of his
 
 AN AUTO DA FE. 29^ 
 
 violin. When she entered, he laid his auld wife 
 carefully aside, and stood in an expectant atti- 
 tude. 
 
 " Mr. Elshender, I want to be at the boddom 
 o' this," said Mrs. Falconer. 
 
 " Weel, mem, gang to the boddom o' 't," re- 
 tm-ned Dooble Sanny, di'opping on his stool, and 
 taking his stone upon his lap and stroking it, as 
 if it had been some quadrupedal pet. Full of 
 rough but real politeness to women when in good 
 humour, he lost all his manners along with his 
 temper upon the sHghtest provocation, and her 
 tone kritated him. 
 
 " Hoo cam Robert's shune to be i' your shop ?" 
 
 " Somebody bude till hae brocht them, mem. 
 In a' my expairience, and that's no sma', I never 
 kent pair o' shime gang ohn a pair o' feet i' the 
 wame o' them." 
 
 " Hoots ! what kin' o' gait 's that to speyk till 
 a body ? AAHiase feet was inside the shune ?" 
 
 " De'il a bit o' me kens, mem." 
 
 " DiQna sweir, whatever ye du." 
 
 " De'il but I will sweu', mem ; an' gm ye anger 
 me, I'll jist sweir awfui'." 
 
 " I'm sm-e I hae nae wuss to anger ye, man ! 
 Canna ye help a body to win at the boddom o' a 
 thing ohn angert an' sworn?" 
 
 "Weel, I kenna wha brocht the shune, as I tellt 
 ye a'ready." 
 
 " But they wantit nae men'in'."
 
 300 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 "I miclit hae men't them an' forgotten 't, 
 mem." 
 
 "Noo ye're leein'." 
 
 " Gin ye gang on that gait, mem, I winna 
 speyk a word o' trowth frae this moment foret." 
 
 " Jist tell me what ye ken aboot thae shune, 
 an' I'll no say anither word." 
 
 "Weel, mem, I'll tell ye the trowth. The 
 de'il brocht them in ae day in a lang taings ; and 
 says he, ' Elshender, men' thae shune for puir 
 Robby Faukner ; an' dooble-sole them for the 
 life o' ye ; for that auld luckie-minnie o' his 'ill 
 sune hae him doon oor gait, and the grun' 's het 
 i' the noo ; an' I dinna want to be ower sair upon 
 him, for he's a fine chield, an' '11 mak a fine fid- 
 dler gin he live lang eneuch.' " 
 
 Mrs. Falconer left the shop without another 
 word, but with an awful suspicion which the last 
 heedless words of the shoemaker had aroused in 
 her bosom. She left him bursting with laughter 
 over his , lapstone. He caught up his fiddle and 
 played " The de'il's i' the women " lustily and 
 with expression. But he little thought what 
 he had done. 
 
 As soon as she reached her own room, she 
 went straight to her bed and disinterred the 
 bonny leddy's coffin. She was gone ; and in 
 her stead, horror of horrors ! lay in the unhal- 
 lowed chest that body of divinity known as 
 Boston's Fourfold State. Vexation, anger, dis-
 
 AN AUTO DA FE. 301 
 
 appointment, and grief, possessed themselves of 
 the old woman's mind. She ranged the house 
 like the " questing beast " of the Round Table, 
 but failed in finding the violin before the return 
 of the boys. Not a word did she say all that 
 evening, and then* oppressed hearts foreboded 
 ill. They felt that there was thunder in the 
 clouds, a sleeping storm in the air ; but how or 
 when it would break they had no idea. 
 
 Robert came home to dinner the next day a 
 few minutes before Shargar. As he entered his 
 grandmother's parlom*, a strange odour greeted 
 his sense. A moment more, and he stood rooted 
 with horror, and his hah began to rise on his 
 head. His violin lay .on its back on the fire, and 
 a yellow tongue of flame was licking the red lips 
 of a hole in its belly. All its strings were shrivelled 
 up save one, which burst as he gazed. And beside, 
 stern as a Druidess, sat his grandmother in her 
 chau", feeding her eyes with grim satisfaction on 
 the detestable sacrifice. At length the rigidity 
 of Robert's whole being relaxed in an involuntary 
 howl hke that of a wild beast, and he tm-ned and 
 rushed fi-om the house in a helpless agony of 
 horror. Where he was going he knew not, only 
 a blind instinct of modesty drove him to hide 
 his passion from the eyes of men. 
 
 From her window Miss St. John saw him 
 tearmg like one demented along the top walk 
 of the captain's garden, and watched for his re-
 
 302 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 turn. He came far sooner than she expected. 
 
 Before he arrived at the factory, Robert be- 
 gan to hear strange sounds m the desolate place. 
 When he reached the upper floor, he found men 
 with axe and hammer destroying the old wood- 
 work, breaking the old jennies, pitching the 
 balls of lead into baskets, and throwing the 
 spools into crates. Was there nothing but de- 
 struction in the world? There, most horrible! 
 his " bonny leddy " dying of flames, and here, 
 the temple of his refuge torn to pieces by un- 
 hallowed hands ! What could it mean ? Was 
 his grandmother's vengeance here too ? But he 
 did not care. He only felt like the dove sent 
 from the ark, that there was no rest for the sole 
 of his foot, that there was no place to hide his 
 head in his agony — that he was naked to the 
 universe ; and like a heartless wild thing hunted 
 till its brain is of no more use, he turned and 
 rushed back again upon his track. At one end 
 was the burning idol, at the other the desecrated 
 temple. 
 
 No sooner had he entered the captain's gar- 
 den than Miss St. John met him. 
 
 " What is the matter with you, Robert f she 
 asked, kindly. 
 
 " Oh, mem !" gasped Robert, and burst into a 
 very storm of weeping. 
 
 It was long before he could speak. He cower- 
 ed before Miss St. John as if conscious of an un-
 
 AX AUTO DA FE. 303 
 
 friendly presence, and seeking to shelter himself 
 by her tall figm-e from his grandmother's eyes. 
 For who could tell but at the moment she might 
 be gazing upon him from some window, or even 
 from the blue vault above ? There was no es- 
 caping her. She was the all-seeing eye personi- 
 fied — 'the eye of the God of the theologians of 
 his country, always searching out the evil, and 
 refusing to acknowledge the good. Yet so gen- 
 tle and faithful was the heart of Robert, that he 
 never thought of her as cruel. He took it for 
 granted that somehow or other she must be 
 right. Only what a terrible thing such right- 
 eousness was ! He stood and wept before the 
 lady. 
 
 Her heart was sore for the despau'ing boy. 
 She drew him to a little summer-seat. He en- 
 tered with her, and sat down, weeping still. 
 She did her best to soothe him. At last, sorely 
 interrupted by sobs, he managed to let her 
 know the fate of his "bonny leddy." But when 
 he came to the words, " She's burnin' in there 
 upo' gi-anny's fire," he broke out once more Avith 
 that wild howl of despau', and then, ashamed of 
 himself, ceased weeping altogether, though he 
 could not help the intrusion of certain chokes 
 and sobs upon his otherwise even, though low 
 and sad speech. 
 
 Knowing nothuig of Mrs. Falconer's charac- 
 ter, Miss St. John set her down as a cruel and
 
 304 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 heartless as Tvell as tyrannical and bigoted old 
 woman, and took the mental position of enmity 
 towards her. In a gush of motherly indignation 
 she kissed Robert on the forehead. 
 
 From that chrism he arose a king. 
 
 He dried his eyes; not another sob even broke 
 from him ; he gave one look, but no word of 
 gratitude to Miss St. John ; bade her good-bye ; 
 and walked composedly into his grandmother's 
 parlour, where the neck of the violin yet lay 
 upon the fire only half consumed. The rest had 
 vanished utterly. 
 
 " What are they duin' doon at the fact'ry, 
 grannie ?" he asked. 
 
 "What's wha duin', laddie?" returned his 
 grandmother, curtly. 
 
 " They're takin' 't doon." 
 
 "Takin' what doonf she returned, with 
 raised voice. 
 
 " Takin' doon the hoose." 
 
 The old woman rose. 
 
 "Robert, ye may hae spite in yer hert for 
 what I hae dune this mornin', but I cud do no 
 ither. An' it's an ill thing to tak sic amen's o' 
 me, as gin I had dune wrang, by garrin' me 
 troo 'at yer grandfather's property was to gang 
 the gait o' 's auld, useless, ill-mainnert scraich 
 o' a fiddle." 
 
 " She was the bonniest fiddle i' the country- 
 side, grannie. And she never gae a scraich in
 
 AX AUTO DA FE. 305 
 
 her life 'cep' whan she was hau'let in a mainner 
 mibecomin'. But we s' say nae man* aboot her, 
 for she's gane, an' no by a fair strae-deith (death 
 on ones own straw) either. She had nae blude 
 to cry for vengeatce ; but the snappin' o' her 
 strings an' the crackin' o' her banes may hae 
 made a cry to gang far eneuch notTsdthstand- 
 in'." 
 
 The old woman seemed for one moment re- 
 buked under her grandson's eloquence. He had 
 made a great stride towards manhood since the 
 morning. 
 
 " The fiddle's my am," she said in a defensive 
 tone. " And sae is the fact'ry," she added, as if 
 she had not quite reassured herself concerning 
 it. 
 
 " The fiddle's yours nae mah, grannie. And 
 for the fact'ry — ye winna believe me : gang and 
 see yersel'." 
 
 ThercTsdth Robert retreated to his garret. 
 
 A\Tien he opened the door of it, the first thing 
 he saw was the string of his kite, which, strange 
 to tell, so steady had been the wind, was still 
 up in the air — still tugging at the bed-post. 
 WTiether it was from the stinging thought that 
 the true sky-soarer, the violin, having been de- 
 voured by the jaws of the fire-devil, there was 
 no longer any significance in the outward and 
 visible sign of the dragon, or from a dim feeling 
 that the time of kites was gone by and man- 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 hood on the threshold, I cannot tell ; but he 
 drew his knife from his pocket, and with one 
 down-stroke cut the string in twain. Away 
 went the dragon, free, like a prodigal, to his 
 ruin. And with the dragon, tifar into the past, 
 flew the childhood of Robert Falconer. He 
 made one remorseful dart after the string as it 
 swept out of the skylight, but it was gone be- 
 yond remeid. And never more, save in twilight 
 dreams, did he lay hold on his childhood again. 
 But he knew better and better, as the years 
 rolled on, that he approached a deeper and 
 holier childhood, of which that had been but the 
 feeble and necessarily vanishing type. 
 
 As the kite sank in tlie distance, Mrs. Falco- 
 ner issued from the house, and went down the 
 street towards the factory. 
 
 Before she came back the cloth was laid for 
 dinner, and Robert and Shargar were both in 
 the parlour awaiting her return. She entered 
 heated and dismayed, went into Robert's bed- 
 room, and shut the door hastily. They heard 
 her open the old bureau. In a moment after 
 she came out with a more luminous expression 
 upon her face than Robert had ever seen it bear. 
 It was as still as ever, but there was a strange 
 light in her eyes, which was not confined to her 
 eyes, but shone in a measure from her colourless 
 forehead and cheeks as well. It was long be- 
 fore Robert was able to interpret that change in
 
 AX AUTO DA FE. 307 
 
 her look, and that increase of kinckiess towards 
 himself and Shargar, apparently such a contrast 
 with the holocaust of the morning. Had they 
 both been Benjamins they could not have had 
 more abundant platefiiis than she gave them 
 that day. And when they left her to return to 
 school, instead of the usual "Noo be douce," she 
 said in gentle, almost lovuig tones, ''Noo, be 
 good lads, baith o' ye." 
 
 The conclusion at which Falconer did arrive 
 was that his grandmother had hurried home to 
 see whether the title-deeds of the factory were 
 still in her possession, and had found that they 
 were gone — taken, doubtless, by her son An- 
 drew. At whatever period he had appropriated 
 them, he must have parted with them but re- 
 cently. And the hope rose luminous that her 
 son had not yet passed into the region " where 
 all life dies, death lives." Terrible consolation ! 
 Terrible creed which made the hope that he was 
 still on this side of the grave working wicked- 
 ness, hght up the face of the mother, and open 
 her hand in kindness. Is it suffering, or is it 
 wickedness, that is the awful thing? " Ah ! but 
 they are both combined m the other world." 
 And in this world too, I answer ; only, accord- 
 ing to Mrs. Falconer's creed, m the other world 
 God, for the sake of the suffeiing, renders the 
 ^vickedness eternal ! 
 
 The old factory was in part pulled down, and 
 
 x2
 
 308 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 out of its remains a granary constructed. Nor 
 did the old lady interpose a word to arrest the 
 aUenation of her property.
 
 309 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 BOOT FOR BALE. 
 
 MARY ST. JOHN was the orphan daughter 
 of an English clergyman, who had left her 
 money enough to make her at least mdepend- 
 ent. ^Ii's. Forsyth, hearing that her niece was 
 left alone in the world, had concluded that her 
 society would be a pleasure to herself and a re- 
 lief to the housekeeping. Even before her fa- 
 ther's death. Miss St. John, having met with a 
 disappointment, and concluded herself dead to 
 the world, had been lookuig about for some way 
 of doing good. The prospect of retirement, 
 therefore, and of being useful to her sick amit, 
 had drawn her northwards. 
 
 She was now about six-and-twenty, filled 
 with two passions — one for justice, the other for 
 music. Her griefs had not made her selfish, 
 nor had her music degenerated into sentiment. 
 The gentle style of the insti-uction she had re- 
 ceived had never begotten a diseased self-con- 
 sciousness; and if her reHgion lacked something
 
 310 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 of the intensity without which a character like 
 hers could not be evenly balanced, its force was 
 not spent on the combating of unholy doubts 
 and selfish fears, but rose on the wings of her 
 music in gentle thanksgiving. Tears had 
 changed her bright-hued hopes into a dove- 
 coloured submission, through which her mind 
 was passing towards a rainbow dawn such as 
 she had never dreamed of. To her as yet the 
 Book of Common Prayer contained all the 
 prayers that human heart had need to offer ; 
 what things lay beyond its scope must lie be- 
 yond the scope of religion. All such things 
 must be parted with one day, and if they had 
 been taken from her very soon, she was the 
 sooner free from the pamful necessity of watch- 
 ing lest earthly love should remove any of the 
 old landmarks dividing what was God's from 
 what was only man's. She had now retired 
 within the pale of religion, and left the rest of 
 her being, as she thought, "to dull forgetfulness 
 a prey." 
 
 She had little comfort in the society of her 
 aunt. Indeed, she felt strongly tempted to re- 
 turn again to England the same month, and 
 seek a divine service elsewhere. But it was not 
 at all so easy then as it is now for a woman to 
 find the opportunity of being helpful in the 
 world of suffering. 
 
 Mrs. Forsyth was one of those women who
 
 BOOT FOR BALE. 311 
 
 get their own way by the very vis inerticB of their 
 silhness. No argument could tell upon her. She 
 was so incapable of seeing anything noble that 
 her perfect satisfaction mth everythhig she her- 
 self thought, said, or did, remained michallenged. 
 She had just illness enough to swell her feehng 
 of importance. She looked down upon Mrs. 
 Falconer from such an immeasurable height that 
 she could not be mdignant with her for any- 
 thing; she only vouchsafed a laugh now and 
 then at her oddities, holding no further com- 
 munication mth her than a condescending bend 
 of the neck when they happened to meet, which 
 was not once a year. But, indeed, she would 
 have patronized the angel Gabriel, if she had 
 had a chance, and no doubt given him a hint or 
 two upon the proper way of praismg God. 
 For the rest, she was good-tempered, looked 
 comfortable, and quarrelled with nobody but 
 her rough honest old bear of a husband, whom, 
 m his seventieth year, she was always trying to 
 teach good manners, with the frequent result of 
 a storm of swearing. 
 
 But now Mary St. John was thoroughly in- 
 terested in the strange boy whose grooving 
 musical pinions were ever being clipped by the 
 shears of unsympathetic age and crabbed re- 
 ligion, and the idea of doing something for him 
 to make up for the injustice of Ins grandmother 
 awoke in her a slight glow of that interest in
 
 312 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 life whicli she sought only in doing good. But 
 although ere long she came to love the boy very 
 truly, and although Shar gar's life was bound up 
 in the favour of Robert, yet neither stooping 
 angel nor foot-following dog ever loved the lad 
 with the love of that old grannmother, who 
 would for him have given herself to the fire to 
 which she had doomed his greatest delight. 
 
 For some days Robert worked hard at his les- 
 sons, for he had nothing else to do. Life was 
 very gloomy now. If he could only go to sea, 
 or away to keep sheep on the stormy mountains ! 
 If there were only some war going on, that he 
 might list I Any fighting with the elements, or 
 with the oppressors of the nations, would make 
 life worth having, a man worth being. But God 
 did not heed. He leaned over the world, a dark 
 care, an immovable fate, bearing down with the 
 weight of his presence all aspiration, all budding 
 delights of children and young persons': all must 
 crouch before him, and uphold his gloiy with 
 the sacrificial death of every impulse, every ad- 
 miration, every lightness of heart, every bubble 
 of laughter. Or — ^which to a mind like Robert's 
 was as bad — ^if he did not punish for these things, 
 it was because they came not within the sphere 
 of his condescension, were not worth his notice : 
 of sympathy could be no question. 
 
 But this gloom did not last long. When 
 souls like Robert's have been ill-taught about
 
 BOOT FOR BALE. 313 
 
 God, the true God tn-HI not let them gaze too 
 long upon the Moloch which men have set up to 
 represent him. He will turn away then- minds 
 from that which men call Him, and fill them 
 Avith some of his own lovely thoughts or works, 
 such as may by degrees prepare the way for a 
 vision of the Father. 
 
 One afternoon Robert was passing the soutar's 
 shop. He had never gone near him since his 
 return. But now, almost mechanically, he went 
 in at the open door. 
 
 " Weel, Robert, ye are a stranger. But what's 
 the maitter wi' ye? Faith! yon was an ill 
 phsky ye played me to brak into my chop an' 
 steal the bonnie leddy." 
 
 "Sandy," said Robert, solemnly, "ye dinna 
 ken what ye hae dune by that trick ye played 
 me. Dinna ever mention lier again i' my hearin'." 
 
 " The auld witch hasna gotten a grup o' her 
 again?" cried the shoemaker, starting half up in 
 alarm. " She cam here to me aboot the shune, 
 but I reckon I sortet her !" 
 
 " I winna speir what ye said," reim'ned Ro- 
 bert. " It's no maitter noo." 
 
 And the tears rose to his eyes. His bonny 
 lady! 
 
 " The Lord guide 's !" exclaimed the soutar. 
 " What is the maitter wi' the bonny leddy ?" 
 
 " There's nae bonnie leddy ony mair. I saw 
 her brunt to death afore my verra ain een."
 
 314 EGBERT FALCONER. 
 
 The shoemaker sprang to liis feet and caught 
 up his paring knife. 
 
 " For God's sake, say 'at yer leein' !" he cried. 
 
 " I wish I war leein'," returned Robert. 
 
 The soutar uttered a terrible oath, and swore — 
 
 '' I'll mui'der the auld ." The epithet he 
 
 ended with is too ugly to write. 
 
 " Daur to say sic a word in ae breath wi' my 
 grannie," cried Robert, snatching up the lap- 
 stone, " an' I'll brain ye upo' yer ain shop-flure." 
 
 Sandy threw the knife on his stool, and sat 
 down beside it. Robert dropped the lapstone. 
 Sanny took it up and bm^st into tears, which 
 before they were half down liis face, turned into 
 tar with the blackness of the same. 
 
 " I'm an awfu' sinner," he said, " and venge- 
 ance has owerta'en me. Gang oot o' my chop ! 
 I wasna worthy o' her. Gang oot, I say, or I'll 
 kill ye." 
 
 Robert went. Close by the door he met Miss 
 St. John. He pulled off his cap, and would have 
 passed her. But she stopped him. 
 
 " I am going for a walk a little way," she said. 
 " Will you go with me?" 
 
 She had come out in the hope of finding him, 
 for she had seen him go up the street. 
 
 " That I wull," returned Robert, and they 
 walked on together. 
 
 When they were beyond the last house. Miss 
 St. John said :
 
 BOOT FOR BALE. 315 
 
 " WoTild you like to play on the piano, Ro- 
 bert ?" 
 
 *' Eh, mem !" said Robert, with a deep suspi- 
 ration. Then, after a panse: "But duvye think 
 I cud?" 
 
 " There's no fear of that. Let me see your 
 hands." 
 
 " They're some black, I doobt, mem," he re- 
 marked, rubbing them hard upon his trowsers 
 before he showed them ; " for I was amaist 
 ca^\Tn' oot the brains o' Dooble Sanny m' his 
 am lapstane. He's an ill-tongued chield. But 
 eh ! mem, ye suld hear him play upo' the fiddle ! 
 He's gi*eitin' his een oot e'en noo for the bonny 
 leddy." 
 
 Not discouraged by her inspection of his 
 hands, black as they were, Miss St. Jolm con- 
 tinued. 
 
 "But what would your grandmother say?" 
 she asked. 
 
 " She maun ken naething aboot it, mem. I 
 can-7io^ tell her a' thing. She wad greit an' pray 
 awfii', an' lock me up, I daursay. Ye see, she 
 thinks a' kin' o' music 'cep' psalm-singin' comes 
 o' the dee^-il himsel'. An' I canna believe that. 
 For aye whan I see onything by ordinar bonny, 
 sic like as the mune was last nicht, it aye gars 
 me greit for my brunt fiddle." 
 
 " Well, you must come to me every day for 
 half an hour at least, and I will g-ive you a lesson
 
 316 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 on my piano. Bnt yon can't learn by that. 
 And my annt conld never bear to hear you prac- 
 tising. So I'll tell you what you must do. I 
 have a small piano in my own room. Do you 
 know there is a door from youi' house into my 
 room ?" 
 
 "Ay?" said Robert; "That hoose was my 
 father's afore your uncle bought it. My father 
 biggit it." 
 
 "Is it long since your father died?" 
 
 " I dinna ken." 
 
 "Where did he die?" 
 
 " I dinna ken." 
 
 " Do you remember it ?" 
 
 "No, mem." 
 
 "Well, if you will come to my room, you 
 shall practise there. I shall be down stairs with 
 my aunt. But perhaps I may look up now and 
 then, to see how you are getting on. I will 
 leave the door unlocked, so that you can come 
 in when you like. If I don't want you, I will 
 lock the door. You understand ? You mustn't 
 be handling things, you know." 
 
 "'Deed, mem, ye may lippen (trust) to me. 
 But I'm jist feared to lat ye hear me lay a finger 
 upo' the piana, for it's little I cud do wi' my 
 fiddle, an', for the piana ! I'm feart I'll jist scim- 
 ner {disgust) ye." 
 
 " If you really want to learn, there will be no 
 fear of that," returned Miss St. John, guessing
 
 BOOT FOR BALE. 317 
 
 at the meaning of the word scunner. " I don't 
 think I am doing anything wrong," she added, 
 half to herself, in a somewhat doubtful tone. 
 
 "'Deed no, mem. Ye're jist an angel una- 
 awares. For I maist think sometimes that my 
 grannie 'ill drive me wnd {mad) ; for there's nae- 
 thing to read but guid buiks, an' naething to 
 sing but psalms ; an' there's nae fmi aboot the 
 Loose but Betty ; an' puir Shar gar's nearhan' 
 dementit wi' 't. An' we maun pray till her 
 whether we will or no. An' there's no comfort 
 i' the place but plenty to ate ; an' that canna be 
 guid for onybody. She likes flooers, though, 
 an' wad like me to gar them grow ; but I duma 
 care aboot it : they tak sic a time afore they 
 come to onything." 
 
 Then Miss St. John inquired about Shargar, 
 and began to feel rather differently towards the 
 old lady when she had heard the story. But 
 how she laughed at the tale, and how light- 
 hearted Robert went home, are neither to be told. 
 
 The next Sunday, the first time for many 
 years, Dooble Sanny was at chm'ch with his 
 wife, though how much good he got by goiag 
 would be a serious question to discuss.
 
 318 
 
 CllAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE GATES OP PARADISE. 
 
 Tl OBERT had his first lesson the next Satur- 
 Xt day afternoon. Eager and undismayed by 
 the presence of Mrs. Forsyth, good-natured and 
 contemptuous — for had he not a protecting angel 
 by him ? — he hearkened for every word of Miss 
 St. John, combated every fault, and undermined 
 every aw^kwardness with earnest patience. No- 
 thing delighted Robert so much as to give him- 
 self up to one greater. His mistress Avas 
 thoroughly pleased, and even Mrs. Forsyth gave 
 him two of her soft finger tips to do something 
 or other with — Robert did not know what, and 
 let them go. 
 
 About eight o'clock that same evening, his 
 heart beating like a captured bird's, he crept 
 from grannie's parlour, past the kitchen, and 
 up the low stair to the mysterious door. He 
 had been trying for an hour to summon up 
 courage to rise, feeling as if his grandmother 
 must suspect where he was going. Arrived at
 
 THE GATES OF PARADISE. 319 
 
 the barrier, twice his courage failed ^im ; tT\ace 
 he turned and sped back to the parlour. A 
 third time he made the essay, a third time 
 stood at the wondrous door — so long as blank 
 as a wall to his careless eyes, now like the door 
 of the magic Sesame that led to the treasure- 
 cave of Ali Baba. He laid his hand on the 
 knob, withdrew it, thought he heard some one 
 in the transe, rushed up the garret stair, and 
 stood listenmg, hastened doTVTi, and with a sud- 
 den influx of determination opened the door, 
 saw that the trap was raised, closed the door 
 behind liim, and standing with his head on the 
 level of the floor, gazed into the paradise of 
 Miss St. John's room. To have one peep into 
 such a room was a kind of salvation to the half- 
 starved natm-e of the boy. All before him was 
 elegance, richness, mystery. Womanhood ra- 
 diated from everything. A fire blazed in the 
 chimney. A rug of long white wool lay before 
 it. A little way ofi" stood the piano. Orna- 
 ments sparkled and shone upon the dressing- 
 table. The door of a wardrobe had swung a 
 little open, and discovered the sombre shimmer 
 of a black silk dress. Something gorgeously 
 red, a China crape shawl, hung glowing beyond 
 it. He dared not gaze any longer. He had 
 already been guilty of an immodesty. He has- 
 tened to ascend, and seated himself at the piano. 
 Let my reader aid me for a moment with his
 
 320 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 imaginatioii — ^i-eflecting what it was to a boy 
 like Robert, and in Robert's misery, to open a 
 door in his own meagre dwelling and gaze into 
 such a room — free to him. If he will aid me so, 
 then let him aid himself by thinking that the 
 house of his own soul has such a door into the 
 infinite beauty, whether he has yet found it or 
 not. 
 
 " Just think," Robert said to himself, " o' me 
 in sic a place ! It's a pailace. It's a faiiy pailace. 
 And that angel o' a leddy bides here, and sleeps 
 there ! I wonner gin she ever dreams aboot 
 ony thing as bonny 's hersel' !" 
 
 Then his thoughts took another turn. 
 
 *' I wonner gin the room was onything like 
 this whan my mamma sleepit in't ? / cudna 
 hae been born in sic a gran' place. But my 
 mamma micht hae weel lien here." 
 
 The face of the miniature, and the sad words 
 written below the hymn, came back upon him, 
 and he bowed his head upon his hands. He 
 was sitting thus when Miss St. John came be- 
 hind him, and heard him murmur the one word 
 Mamma ! She laid her hand on his shoulder. 
 He started and rose. 
 
 " I beg yer pardon, mem. I hae no business 
 to be here, excep' to play. But I cudna help 
 thinkin' aboot my mother ; for I was born in 
 this room, mem. Will I gang awa' again ? " 
 
 He turned towards the door.
 
 THE GATES OF PARADISE. 321 
 
 " No, no," said Miss St. John. " I only came 
 to see if you were here. I cannot stop now ; 
 but to-moiTow you must tell me about your 
 mother. Sit down, and don't lose any more 
 time. Yom- gi-andmother will miss you. And 
 then what would come of it ? " 
 
 Thus was this rough diamond of a Scotch 
 boy, rude in speech, but fall of deKcate thought, 
 gathered under the modelling influences of the 
 finished, refined, tender, sweet-tongued, and 
 sweet-thoughted Englishwoman, who, if she 
 had been less of a woman, would have been re- 
 pelled by his uncoutlmess ; if she had been less 
 of a lady, would have mistaken his commonness 
 for vulgarity. But she was just, like the type 
 of womankind, a vh-gin-mother. She saw the 
 nobility of liis natm-e through its homely gar- 
 ments, and had been, indeed, sent to cany on 
 the work from which his mother had been too 
 early taken away. 
 
 " There's jist ae thing, mem, that vexes me a 
 wee, an' I dinna ken what to think aboot it," 
 said Robert, as Miss St. John was leaving the 
 room. " Maybe ye cud bide ae minute till I 
 teU ye." 
 
 *' Yes, I can. What is it ?" 
 
 " I'm nearhan' sure that whan I lea' the par- 
 lour, grannie 'ill think I'm awa' to my prayers ; 
 and sae she'll think better o' me nor I deserve. 
 An' I canna bide that." 
 
 VOL. I. y
 
 322 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 " What should make you suppose that she will 
 think so ?" 
 
 " Fowk kens what ane anither's aboot, ye ken, 
 mem." 
 
 "Then she'll knowyou are not at your prayers." 
 
 " Na. For sometimes I div gang to my pray- 
 ers for a whilie like, but nae for lang, for I'm 
 nae like ane o' them 'at He wad care to hear 
 sayin' a lang screed o' a prayer till 'im. I hae 
 but ae thing to pray aboot." 
 
 "And what's that, Robert?" 
 
 One of his silences had seized him. He looked 
 confused, and turned away. 
 
 "Never mind," said Miss St. John, anxious 
 to relieve him, and establish a comfortable rela- 
 tion between them ; " you will tell me another 
 time." 
 
 " I doobt no, mem," answered Robert, with 
 what most people would think an excess of 
 honesty. 
 
 But Miss St. John made a better conjecture 
 as to his apparent closeness. 
 
 " At all events," she said, " don't mind what 
 your grannie may think, so long as you have no 
 wish to make her think it. Good night." 
 
 Had she been indeed an angel from heaven, 
 Robert could not have worshipped her more. 
 And why should he ? Was she less God's mes- 
 senger that she had beautiful arms instead of 
 less beautiful wings ?
 
 THE GATES OF PARADISE. 323 
 
 He practised his scales till his unaccustomed 
 fingers were stiff, then shut the piano with re- 
 verence, and departed, carefally peeping into 
 the disenchanted region Avithout the gates to 
 see that no enemy lay in wait for him as he 
 passed beyond them. He closed the door gen- 
 tly ; and in one moment the rich lovely room 
 and the beautiful lady were behind him, and 
 before him the bare stair between two white- 
 washed walls, and the long flagged transe that 
 led to his silent grandmother seated in her arm- 
 chair, gazing into the red coals — for somehow 
 grannie's fire always glowed, and never blazed 
 — with her round-toed shoes pointed at them 
 from the top of her little wooden stool. He 
 traversed the stair and the transe, entered the 
 parlour, and sat down to his open book as 
 though nothing had happened. But his grand- 
 mother saw the light in his face, and did think 
 he had just come from his prayers. And she 
 blessed God that he had put it in her heart to 
 bm-n the fiddle. 
 
 The next night Robert took with him the 
 miniature of liis mother, and showed it to Miss 
 St. John, who saw at once that, whatever might 
 be his present surroundings, his mother must 
 have been a lady. A certain fancied resem- 
 blance m it to her own mother likewise drew 
 her heart to the boy. Then Robert took from 
 his pocket the gold thimble, and said,
 
 324 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 *' This thimmel was my mamma's. Will ye 
 tak it, mem, for ye ken it's o' nae use to me." 
 Miss St. John hesitated for a moment. 
 " I will keep it for you, if you like," she said, 
 for she could not bear to refuse it. 
 
 " Na, mem ; I want ye to keep it to yersel' ; 
 for I'm sure my mamma wad hae likit you to 
 hae 't better nor ony ither body." 
 
 " Well, I will use it sometimes for your sake. 
 But mind, I will not take it from you ; I will 
 only keep it for you." 
 
 " Weel, weel, meni ; gin ye '11 keep it till I 
 speir for 't, that'll du weel eneuch," answered 
 Robert, with a smile. 
 
 He laboured diligently ; and his progress cor- 
 responded to his labour. It was more than in- 
 tellect that guided him : Falconer had genius 
 for whatever he cared for. 
 
 Meantime the love he bore his teacher, and 
 the influence of her beauty, began to mould him, 
 in his kind and degree, after her likeness, so 
 that he grew nice in his person and dress, 
 and smoothed the roughness and moderated the 
 broadness of his speech with the amenities of 
 the English which she made so sweet upon her 
 tongue. He became still more obedient to his 
 grandmother, and more diligent at school ; 
 gathered to himself golden opinions without 
 knowing it, and was gradually developing into 
 a rustic gentleman.
 
 THE GATES OF PARADISE. 325 
 
 Nor did the piano absorb all bis faculties. 
 Every divine influence tends to the rounded 
 perfection of the whole. His love of nature 
 grew more rapidly. Hitherto it was only in 
 summer that he had felt the presence of a power 
 in her and yet above her : in winter, now, the 
 sky was true and deep, though the world was 
 waste and sad ; and the tones of the wind that 
 roared at night about the goddess-haunted 
 house, and moaned in the chimneys of the 
 lowly dwelling that nestled against it, woke 
 harmonies within him which already he tried 
 to spell oiit falteringly. Miss St. John began 
 to find that he put expressions of his own into 
 the simple things she gave liim to play, and 
 even dreamed a little at his o^vn will when 
 alone with the passive instrument. Little did 
 Mrs. Falconer think mto what a seventh hea- 
 ven of accm'sed music she had driven her boy. 
 
 But not yet did he tell his friend, much as he 
 loved and much as he trusted her, the Httle he 
 knew of his mother's sorrows and his father's 
 sins, or whose the hand that had struck him 
 when she found him lying in the waste factory. 
 
 For a time almost all his trouble about God 
 went fr'om him. Nor do I think that this was 
 only because he rarely thought of him at all : 
 God gave him of Himself in IMiss St. John. But 
 words dropped now and then from off the shelves 
 where his old difficulties lay, and they fell like
 
 326 ROBERT FALCONER. 
 
 seeds upon the heart of Miss St. John, took root, 
 and rose m thoughts : in the heart of a true 
 woman the talk of a child even will take life. 
 
 One evening Robert rose from the table, not 
 un watched of his grandmother, and sped swiftly 
 and silently tlu-ough the dark, as was his cus- 
 tom, to enter the chamber of enchantment. 
 Never before had his hand failed to alight, sure 
 as a lark on its nest, upon the brass handle of 
 the door that admitted him to his paradise. It 
 missed it now, and fell on something damp, and 
 rough, and repellent instead. Horrible, but true 
 suspicion ! While he was at school that day, 
 his grandmother, moved by what doubt or by 
 what certainty she never revealed, had had the 
 doorway walled up. He felt the place all over. 
 It was to his hands the living tomb of his mo- 
 ther's vicar on earth. 
 
 He returned to his book, pale as death, but 
 said never a word. The next day the stones 
 were plastered over. 
 
 Thus the door of bliss vanished from the earth. 
 And neither the boy nor his grandmother ever 
 said that it had been. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 LONDON : PRINTED BY MACDONALD AND TUGWBLL, BLENHEIM HOUSE