The Project Gutenberg EBook of Alec Forbes of Howglen, by George MacDonald
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Title: Alec Forbes of Howglen
Author: George MacDonald
Release Date: July 12, 2006 [EBook #18810]
Language: English
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*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALEC FORBES OF HOWGLEN ***
Produced by John Bechard (JaBBechard@aol.com)
[Note from the transcriber: I have compiled a glossary with definitions
of most of the Scottish words found in this work and placed it at the
end of this electronic text. This glossary does not belong to the
original work, but is designed to help with the conversations and
references in Broad Scots found in this work. A further explanation of
this list can be found towards the end of this document, preceding the
glossary.]
ALEC FORBES OF HOWGLEN
BY
GEORGE MACDONALD LL.D.
NEW EDITION
c. 1900
CHAPTER I.
The farm-yard was full of the light of a summer noontide. Nothing can
be so desolately dreary as full strong sunlight can be. Not a living
creature was to be seen in all the square inclosure, though cow-houses
and stables formed the greater part of it, and one end was occupied by
a dwelling-house. Away through the gate at the other end, far off in
fenced fields, might be seen the dark forms of cattle; and on a road,
at no great distance, a cart crawled along, drawn by one sleepy horse.
An occasional weary low came from some imprisoned cow--or animal of the
cow-kind; but not even a cat crossed the yard. The door of the barn was
open, showing a polished floor, as empty, bright, and clean as that of
a ball-room. And through the opposite door shone the last year's ricks
of corn, golden in the sun.
Now, although a farm-yard is not, either in Scotland or elsewhere, the
liveliest of places in ordinary, and still less about noon in summer,
yet there was a peculiar cause rendering this one, at this moment,
exceptionally deserted and dreary. But there were, notwithstanding, a
great many more people about the place than was usual, only they were
all gathered together in the ben-end, or best room of the house--a room
of tolerable size, with a clean boarded floor, a mahogany table, black
with age, and chairs of like material, whose wooden seats, and high,
straight backs, were more suggestive of state than repose. Every one of
these chairs was occupied by a silent man, whose gaze was either fixed
on the floor, or lost in the voids of space. Each wore a black coat,
and most of them were in black throughout. Their hard, thick, brown
hands--hands evidently unused to idleness--grasped their knees, or,
folded in each other, rested upon them. Some bottles and glasses, with
a plate of biscuits, on a table in a corner, seemed to indicate that
the meeting was not entirely for business purposes; and yet there were
no signs of any sort of enjoyment. Nor was there a woman to be seen in
the company.
Suddenly, at the open door, appeared a man whose shirt-sleeves showed
very white against his other clothing which, like that of the rest, was
of decent black. He addressed the assembly thus:
"Gin ony o' ye want to see the corp, noo's yer time."
To this offer no one responded; and, with a slight air of discomfiture,
for he was a busy man, and liked bustle, the carpenter turned on his
heel, and re-ascended the narrow stairs to the upper room, where the
corpse lay, waiting for its final dismission and courted oblivion.
"I reckon they've a' seen him afore," he remarked, as he rejoined his
companion. "Puir fallow! He's unco (uncouthly) worn. There'll no be
muckle o' _him_ to rise again."
"George, man, dinna jeest i' the face o' a corp," returned the other.
"Ye kenna whan yer ain turn may come."
"It's no disrespeck to the deid, Thamas. That ye ken weel eneuch. I was
only pityin' the worn face o' him, leukin up there atween the buirds,
as gin he had gotten what he wanted sae lang, and was thankin' heaven
for that same. I jist dinna like to pit the lid ower him."
"Hoot! hoot! Lat the Lord luik efter his ain. The lid o' the coffin
disna hide frae his een."
The last speaker was a stout, broad-shouldered man, a stonemason by
trade, powerful, and somewhat asthmatic. He was regarded in the
neighbourhood as a very religious man, but was more respected than
liked, because his forte was rebuke. It was from deference to him that
the carpenter had assumed a mental position generating a poetic mood
and utterance quite unusual with him, for he was a jolly, careless kind
of fellow, well-meaning and good-hearted.
So together they lifted the last covering of the dead, laid it over
him, and fastened it down. And there was darkness about the dead; but
he knew it not, because he was full of light. For this man was one who,
all his life, had striven to be better.
Meantime, the clergyman having arrived, the usual religious ceremonial
of a Scotch funeral--the reading of the Word and prayer--was going on
below. This was all that gave the burial any sacred solemnity; for at
the grave the Scotch terror of Popery forbids any observance of a
religious character. The voice of the reader was heard in the chamber
of death.
"The minister's come, Thamas."
"Come or gang," said Thomas, "it's muckle the same. The word itsel' oot
o' his mou' fa's as deid as chaff upo' clay. Honest Jeames there'll
rise ance mair; but never a word that man says, wi' the croon o' 's
heid i' the how o' 's neck, 'll rise to beir witness o' his
ministrations."
"Hoot, Thamas! It's no for the likes o' me to flee i' your face--but
jist say a fair word for the livin' ower the deid, ye ken."
"Na, na. It's fair words maks foul wark; and the wrath o' the Almichty
maun purge this toon or a' be dune. There's a heap o' graceless gaeins
on in't; and that puir feckless body, the minister, never gies a pu' at
the bridle o' salvation, to haud them aff o' the scaur (cliff) o'
hell."
The stone-mason generally spoke of the Almighty as if he were in a
state of restrained indignation at the wrongs he endured from his
children. If Thomas was right in this, then certainly he himself was
one of his offspring. If he was wrong, then there was much well worth
his unlearning.
The prayer was soon over, and the company again seated themselves,
waiting till the coffin should be placed in the hearse, which now stood
at the door.
"We'll jist draw the cork o' anither boatle," whispered a sharp-faced
man to his neighbour.
And rising, he opened two bottles, and filled the glasses the second
time with wine, red and white, which he handed to the minister first.
"Tak' a drappy mair, sir," he whispered in a coaxing, old-wivish tone;
"it's a lang road to the kirkyard."
But the minister declining, most of the others followed his example.
One after another they withdrew to the door, where the hearse was now
laden with the harvest of the grave.
Falling in behind the body, they moved in an irregular procession from
the yard. Outside, they were joined by several more in gigs and on
horseback; and thus they crept, a curious train, away towards the
resting-place of the dead.
It were a dreary rest, indeed, if that were their resting-place--on the
side of a low hill, without tree or shrub to beautify it, or even the
presence of an old church to seem to sanctify the spot. There was some
long grass in it, though, clambering up as if it sought to bury the
gravestones in their turn. And that long grass was a blessing. Better
still, there was a sky overhead, in which men cannot set up any
gravestones. But if any graveyard be the type of the rest expected by
those left behind, it is no wonder they shrink from joining those that
are away.
CHAPTER II.
When the last man had disappeared, the women, like those of an eastern
harem, began to come out. The first that entered the deserted room was
a hard-featured, reproachful-looking woman, the sister of the departed.
She instantly began to put the place in order, as if she expected her
turn to come on the morrow. In a few moments more a servant appeared,
and began to assist her. The girl had been crying, and the tears would
still come, in spite of her efforts to repress them. In the vain
attempt to dry her eyes with the corner of her apron, she nearly
dropped one of the chairs, which she was simultaneously dusting and
restoring to its usual place. Her mistress turned upon her with a kind
of cold fierceness.
"Is that hoo ye shaw yer regaird to the deid, by brackin' the cheirs he
left ahin' him? Lat sit, an' gang an' luik for that puir, doited thing,
Annie. Gin it had only been the Almichty's will to hae ta'en her, an'
left him, honest man!"
"Dinna daur to say a word again' the bairn, mem. The deid'll hear ye,
an' no lie still."
"Supperstitious quean! Gang an' do as I tell ye this minute. What
business hae ye to gang greetin aboot the hoose? He was no drap's bluid
o' yours!"
To this the girl made no reply, but left the room in quest of Annie.
When she reached the door, she stood for a moment on the threshold,
and, putting her hand over her eyes, shouted "_Annie_!" But, apparently
startled at the sound of her own voice where the unhearing dead had so
lately passed, she let the end of the call die away in a quaver, and,
without repeating it, set off to find the missing child by the use of
her eyes alone. First she went into the barn, and then through the barn
into the stack-yard, and then round the ricks one after another, and
then into the corn-loft; but all without avail. At length, as she was
beginning to feel rather alarmed about the child, she arrived, in the
progress of her search, at the door of one of the cow-houses. The
moment she looked round the corner into the stall next the door, she
stood stock-still, with her mouth wide open. This stall was occupied by
a favourite cow--brown, with large white spots, called therefore
_Brownie_. Her manger was full of fresh-cut grass; and half-buried in
this grass, at one end of the manger, with her back against the wall,
sat Annie, holding one of the ears of the hornless Brownie with one
hand and stroking the creature's nose with the other.
She was a delicate child, about nine years old, with blue eyes, half
full of tears, hair somewhere between dark and fair, gathered in a silk
net, and a pale face, on which a faint moon-like smile was glimmering.
The old cow continued to hold her nose to be stroked.
"Is na Broonie a fine coo, Betty?" said the child, as the maid went on
staring at her. "Puir Broonie! Naebody mindit me, an' sae I cam to you,
Broonie."
And she laid her cheek, white, smooth, and thin, against the broad,
flat, hairy forehead of the friendly cow. Then turning again to Betty,
she said--
"Dinna tell auntie whaur I am, Betty. Lat me be. I'm best here wi'
Broonie."
Betty said never a word, but returned to her mistress.
"Whaur's the bairn, Betty? At some mischeef or ither, I'll wad."
"Hoot! mem, the bairn's weel eneuch. Bairns maunna be followed like
carr (calves)."
"Whaur is she?"
"I canna jist doonricht exackly tak upo' me to say," answered Betty;
"but I hae no fear aboot her. She's a wise bairn."
"Ye're no the lassie's keeper, Betty. I see I maun seek her mysel'.
Ye're aidin' an' abettin' as usual."
So saying, Auntie Meg went out to look for her niece. It was some time
before the natural order of her search brought her at last to the
_byre_. By that time Annie was almost asleep in the grass, which the
cow was gradually pulling away from under her. Through the open door
the child could see the sunlight lying heavy upon the hot stones that
paved the yard; but in here it was so dark-shadowy and cool, and the
cow was such good, kindly company, and she was so safe hidden from
auntie, as she thought--for no one had ever found her there before, and
she knew Betty would not tell--that, as I say, she was nearly asleep
with comfort, half-buried in Brownie's dinner.
But she was roused all at once to a sense of exposure and insecurity.
She looked up, and at the same moment the hawk-nose of her aunt came
round the _door-cheek_. Auntie's temper was none the better than usual
that it had pleased the _Almichty_ to take the brother whom she loved,
and to leave behind the child whom she regarded as a painful
responsibility. And now with her small, fierce eyes, and her big, thin
nose--both red with suppressed crying--she did not dawn upon the sense
of Annie as an embodiment of the maternity of the universe.
"Ye plaguesome brat!" cried Auntie; "there has Betty been seekin' ye,
and I hae been seekin' ye, far an' near, i' the verra rottan-holes; an'
here ye are, on yer ain father's buryin' day, that comes but
ance--takin' up wi' a coo."
But the causes of Annie's preference of the society of Brownie to that
of Auntie might have been tolerably clear to an onlooker, without word
spoken. For to Annie and her needs, notwithstanding the humble
four-footedness of Brownie, there was in her large mild eyes, and her
hairy, featureless face, all nose and no nose, more of the divine than
in the human form of Auntie Meg. And there was something of an
indignation quite human in the way the cow tossed her bound head and
neck towards the woman that darkened the door, as if warning her off
her premises. But without a word of reply, Annie rose, flung her arms
around Brownie's head, kissed the white star on her forehead,
disengaged herself from the grass, and got out of the manger. Auntie
seized her hand with a rough action, but not ungentle grasp, and led
her away to the house. The stones felt very hot to her little bare
feet.
CHAPTER III.
By this time the funeral was approaching the churchyard at a more rapid
pace; for the pedestrians had dropped away one by one, on diverging
roads, or had stopped and retraced their steps. But as they drew near
the place, the slow trot subsided into a slow walk once more. To an
English eye the whole mode would have appeared barbarous. But if the
carved and gilded skulls and cross-bones on the hearse were
ill-conceived, at least there were no awful nodding plumes to make
death hideous with yet more of cloudy darkness; and one of the panels
showed, in all the sunshine that golden rays could yield, the
Resurrection of the Lord--the victory over the grave. And, again, when
they stopped at the gate of the churchyard, they were the hands of
friends and neighbours, and not those of cormorant undertakers and
obscene mutes, that bore the dead man to his grave. And, once more, if
the only rite they observed, when the body had settled into its place
of decay, was the silent uncovering of the head, as a last token of
respect and farewell, it may be suggested that the Church of England
herself, in all her beautiful service, has no prayer for the departed
soul, which cannot be beyond the need of prayer, as the longings that
follow it into the region of the Unknown, are not beyond its comfort.
Before the grave was quite filled the company had nearly gone. Thomas
Crann, the stone-mason, and George Macwha, the _wright_, alone remained
behind, for they had some charge over the arrangements, and were now
taking a share in covering the grave. At length the last sod was laid
upon the mound, and stamped into its place, where soon the earth's
broken surface would heal, as society would flow together again,
closing over the place that had known the departed, and would know him
no more. Then Thomas and George sat down, opposite to each other, on
two neighbouring tombstones, and wiping their brows, gave each a sigh
of relief, for the sun was hot and oppressive.
"Hech! it's a weary warl," said George.
"Ye hae no richt to say sae, George," answered Thomas, "for ye hae
never met it, an' foughten wi' 't. Ye hae never draan the soord o' the
Lord and o' Gideon. Ye hae never broken the pitcher, to lat the lamp
shine out, an' I doubt ye hae smo'red it by this time. And sae, whan
the bridegroom comes, ye'll be ill-aff for a licht."
"Hoot, man! dinna speak sic awfu' things i' the verra kirkyard."
"Better hear them i' the kirkyard than at the closed door, George!"
"Weel, but," rejoined Macwha, anxious to turn the current of the
conversation, which he found unpleasantly personal, "jist tell me
honestly, Thamas Crann, do ye believe, wi' a' yer heart an' sowl, that
the deid man--Gude be wi' him!--"
"No prayin' for the deid i' my hearin', George! As the tree falleth, so
it shall lie."
"Weel! weel! I didna mean onything."
"That I verily believe. Ye seldom do!"
"But I jist want to speir," resumed George, with some asperity, getting
rather nettled at his companion's persistent discourtesy, "gin ye
believe that Jeames Anderson here, honest man, aneath our feet,
crumblin' awa', as ye ken, and no ae spoke o' his wheel to the fore, or
lang, to tell what his cart was like--do ye believe that his honest
face will, ae day, pairt the mouls, an' come up again, jist here, i'
the face o' the light, the verra same as it vanished whan we pat the
lid ower him? Do ye believe that, Thamas Crann?"
"Na, na, George, man. Ye ken little what ye're busiest sayin'. It'll be
a glorifeed body that he'll rise wi'. It's sown in dishonour, and
raised in glory. Hoot! hoot! ye _are_ ignorant, man!"
Macwha got more nettled still at his tone of superiority.
"Wad it be a glorifeed timmer-leg he rase wi', gin he had been buried
wi' a timmer-leg?" asked he.
"His ain leg wad be buried some gait."
"Ow ay! nae doubt. An' it wad come happin' ower the Paceefic, or the
Atlantic, to jine its oreeginal stump--wad it no? But supposin' the man
had been born _wantin'_ a leg--eh, Thamas?"
"George! George!" said Thomas, with great solemnity, "luik ye efter yer
sowl, an' the Lord'ill luik after yer body, legs an' a'! Man, ye're no
convertit, an' hoo can ye unnerstan' the things o' the speerit? Aye
jeerin', an' jeerin'!"
"Weel! weel! Thamas," rejoined Macwha, mollified in perceiving that he
had not had altogether the worst in the tilt of words; "I wad only tak'
the leeberty o' thinkin' that, when He was aboot it, the Almighty micht
as weel mak' a new body a'thegither, as gang patchin' up the auld ane.
Sae I s' twa hame."
"Mind ye yer immortal pairt, George," said Thomas with a final thrust,
as he likewise rose to go home with him on the box of the hearse.
"Gin the Lord tak's sic guid care o' the body, Thamas," retorted
Macwha, with less of irreverence than appeared in his words, "maybe he
winna objec' to gie a look to my puir soul as weel; for they say it's
worth a hantle mair. I wish he wad, for he kens better nor me hoo to
set aboot the job."
So saying, he strode briskly over the graves and out of the churchyard,
leaving Thomas to follow as fast as suited his unwieldy strength.
CHAPTER IV.
Meantime another conversation was going on in one of the gigs, as it
bore two of the company from the place of tombs, which will serve a
little for the purposes of this history. One of the twain was a cousin
of the deceased, already incidentally mentioned as taking some
direction in the matter of refreshment. His name was no less than
Robert Bruce. The other was called Andrew Constable, and was a worthy
elder of the kirk.
"Weel, Robert," began the latter, after they had jogged on in silence
for half a mile or so, "what's to be done wi' little Annie Anderson and
her Auntie Meg, noo that the douce man's gane hame, an' left them
theroot, as't war?"
"They canna hae that muckle to the fore efter the doctor an' a' 's
sattled for."
"It's no to be thought. It's lang sin' ever he wrought a day's darg
(contracted from 'daywerk')."
"Jeames Dow luikit weel after the farmin', though."
"Nae doot. He's a guid servant that, to ony man he ca's master. But
there canna be muckle siller to the fore."
A pause followed.
"What think ye noo, Andrew?" recommenced Bruce. "Ye're weel kent for an
honest an' a langheided man. Do ye think that folk wad expec' onything
o' me gin the warst cam to the warst?"
"Weel, Robert, I dinna think there's muckle guid in luikin' to what
fowk micht or micht not expec' o' ye."
"That's jist what I was thinkin' mysel'; for, ye see, I hae a sma'
family o' my ain to haud chowin' already."
"Nae doot--nae doot. But--"
"Ay, ay; I ken what ye wad say. I maunna a'thegither disregaird what
fowk think, 'cause there's the chop (shop); an' gin I ance got--no to
say an ill name, but jist the wind o' no being sae considerate as I
micht hae been, there's no sayin' but twa or three micht gang by my
door, and across to Jamie Mitchell's yonner."
"Do ye what's richt, Robert Bruce, and sae defy fowk and fairy."
"Na, na, that winna _aye_ work. A body maun tak' care o' their ain,
else wha's to do't?"
"Weel," rejoined Andrew with a smile, for he understood Bruce well
enough, although he pretended to have mistaken his meaning--"weel, gin
the bairnie falls to you, nae doot ye maun take chairge o' her."
"I dinna mean Jeames Anderson's bairns--I mean my ain bairns."
"Robert, whatever way ye decide, I houp it may be sic a deceesion as
will admit o' yer castin' yer care upo' _Him_."
"I ken a' aboot that, Andrew. But my opeenion upo' that text is jist
this--that ilka vessel has to haud the fill o' 't, and what rins ower
may be committed to Him, for ye can haud it no langer. Them that winna
tak tent (care) 'll tak scathe. It's a sweer (lazy) thochtless way to
gang to the Almichty wi' ilka fash. Whan I'm driven to ane mair, that
ane sall aye be Him. Ye min' the story about my namesake and the
spidder?"
"Ay, weel eneuch," answered Andrew.
But he did not proceed to remark that he could see no connection
between that story and the subject in hand, for Bruce's question did
not take him by surprise, it being well understood that he was in the
habit of making all possible and some impossible references to his
great namesake. Indeed, he wished everybody to think, though he seldom
ventured to assert it plainly, that he was lineally descended from the
king. Nor did Andrew make further remark of any sort with regard to the
fate of Annie or the duty of Bruce, for he saw that his companion
wanted no advice--only some talk, and possibly some sympathy with his
perplexity as to what the world might think of him. But with this
perplexity Andrew could accord him very little sympathy indeed; for he
could not take much interest in the buttressing of a reputation which
he knew to be already quite undermined by widely-reported acts of petty
meanness and selfishness. Nor was this fact much to be wondered at, if
his principles were really those which he had so openly advocated.
Indeed, Andrew knew well that it would be a bad day for poor Annie when
she came under Bruce's roof, and therefore sincerely hoped that Auntie
Meg might find some way of managing so as to avoid parting with the
child; for he knew, too, that, though her aunt was fierce and hard, she
had yet a warm spot somewhere about her heart.
Margaret Anderson had known perfectly well for some time that she and
Annie must part before long. The lease of the farm would expire at the
close of the autumn of next year; and as it had been rather a losing
affair for some time, she had no inclination to request a renewal. When
her brother's debts should be paid, there would not remain, even after
the sale of the stock, more than a hundred and fifty pounds. For
herself, she believed she must go into service--which would hurt her
pride more than it would alter her position, for her hands had done far
more of the necessary labour than those of the maid who assisted her.
Indeed, in her proudest mood, she would have welcomed death rather than
idleness. What was to become of Annie she did not yet see.
Meantime there remained for the child just a year more of the native
farm, with all the varieties of life which had been so dear to her.
Auntie Meg did not spare to put her in mind of the coming change; but
it seemed to Annie so long in coming that it never would come. The
impression was worn off by the daily attempt to deepen it, she gave
herself up to the childish pleasures within her reach, without thinking
of their approaching loss.
CHAPTER V.
And why should Annie think of the future? The future was not: the
present was--and full of delights. If she did not receive much
tenderness from auntie, at least she was not afraid of her. The
pungency of her temper was but as the salt and vinegar which brought
out the true flavour of the other numberless pleasures around her. Were
her excursions far afield, perched aloft on Dowie's shoulder, and
holding on by the top of his head, or clinging to his back with her
arms round his neck, at all the less delightful that auntie was
scolding at home? They would have been less delightful if she had
thought of the future; but she thought only of the present joy; or
rather she took it as it came, and let it play upon her, without
thinking about it at all. And if she was late for one of her meals, for
Annie had no very correct sense of the lapse of time, and auntie had
declared she should go fasting, it was yet not without her connivance
that rosy-faced Betty got the child the best of everything that was at
hand, and put cream in her milk, and butter on her oat cake, Annie
managing to consume everything with satisfaction, notwithstanding the
hurdy-gurdy accompaniment of her aunt's audible reflections. And
Brownie was always friendly; ever ready on any serious emergency, when
auntie's temper was still less placid than usual, to yield a corner of
her manger for a refuge to the child. And the cocks and hens, even the
peacock and the turkey-cock, knew her perfectly, and would come when
she called them, if not altogether out of affection for her, at least
out of hope in her bounty; and she had not yet arrived at the painful
wisdom of beginning to question motives--a wisdom which misleads more
than it guides. She loved _them_, and that was enough for her. And she
would ride the horses to water, sitting sideways on their broad backs
like a barefooted lady; for Dowie had such respect for his little
mistress, as he called her, that he would never let her get astride
"like a laddie," however much she wanted to do so. And when the morning
was wet, and the sound of the flails came to her from the barn, she
would watch for the moment when her aunt's back would be turned, and
then scurry across the yard, like a mouse to its hole; for auntie's
first impulse was always to oppose whatever Annie desired. Once in the
barn, she would bury herself like a mole in the straw, and listen to
the unfailing metronome of the flails, till she would fall so fast
asleep as to awake only when her uncomfortable aunt, believing that at
last the awful something or other _had_ happened to the _royt_ lassie,
dragged her out ignominiously by the heels. But the _royt_ lassie was
one of the gentlest of girls, what adventurousness she had being the
result of faith, and not of hardihood.
And then came the delights of the harvest-field--soon to become great
golden splendours to the memory. With the reapers she would remain from
morning till night, sharing in their meals, and lightening their labour
with her gentle frolic. Every day, after the noon-tide meal, she would
go to sleep on the shady side of a _stook_, upon two or three sheaves
which Dowie would lay down for her in a choice spot. Indeed the little
mistress was very fond of sleep, and would go to sleep anywhere; this
habit being indeed one of her aunt's chief grounds of complaint. For
before hay-time, for instance, when the grass was long in the fields,
if she came upon any place that took her fancy, she would tumble down
at once, and show that she loved it by going to sleep upon it. Then it
was no easy task to find her amidst the long grass that closed over
her, as over a bird in its nest. But the fact was, this habit indicated
a feebleness of constitution, to which sleep itself was the best
restorative. And in the harvest-field, at least, no harm could come of
it; for Dooie, as she always called him, watched her like a mother; so
that sometimes when she awoke, she would find a second stook of ten
sheaves, with a high-uplifted crowning pair above, built at right
angles to the first, to shelter her from the sun which had peered round
the corner, and would soon have stared her awake.
The only discomfort of the harvest-field was, that the sharp stubble
forced her to wear shoes. But when the corn had all been carried home,
and the potatoes had been dug up and heaped in warm pits against the
winter, and the mornings and evenings grew cold, and, though still
friendly to strong men and women, were rather too keen for delicate
little Annie--she had to put on both shoes and stockings, which she did
not like at all.
So with "gentle gliding," through a whole winter of ice and snow,
through a whole spring of promises tardily fulfilled, through a summer
of glory, and another autumn of harvest joy, the day drew on when they
must leave the farm. And still to Annie it seemed as far off as ever.
CHAPTER VI.
One lovely evening in October, when the shadows were falling from the
western sun, and the light that made them was as yellow as a marigold,
and a keen little wind was just getting ready to come out and blow the
moment the sun would be out of sight, Annie, who was helping to fasten
up the cows for the night, drawing iron chains round their soft necks,
saw a long shadow coming in at the narrow entrance of the yard. It came
in and in; and was so long in coming in, that she began to feel as if
it was something not quite _cannie_, and to fancy herself frightened.
But, at length, she found that the cause of the great shadow was only a
little man; and that this little man was no other than her father's
cousin, Robert Bruce. Alas! how little a man may cast a great shadow!
He came up to Annie, and addressed her in the smoothest voice he could
find, fumbling at the same time in his coat-pocket.
"Hoo are ye the nicht dawtie? Are ye verra weel? An' hoo's yer auntie?"
He waited for no reply to any of these questions, but went on.
"See what I hae brocht ye frae the chop."
So saying, he put into her hand about half-a-dozen _sweeties_, screwed
up in a bit of paper. With this gift he left her, and walked on to the
open door of the house, which, as a cousin, he considered himself
privileged to enter unannounced even by a knock. He found the mistress
of it in the kitchen, superintending the cooking of the supper.
"Hoo are ye the nicht, Marget?" he said, still in a tone of
conciliatory smoothness, through which, however, he could not prevent a
certain hardness from cropping out plentifully. "Ye're busy as usual, I
see. Weel, the hand o' the diligent maketh rich, ye ken."
"That portion o' the Word maun be o' leemited application, I doot,"
returned Marget, as, withdrawing her hand from her cousin's, she turned
again to the pot hanging over the fire. "No man daurs to say that my
han' has not been the han' o' the diligent; but Guid kens I'm nane the
richer."
"We maunna repine, Marget. Richt or wrang, it's the Lord's will."
"It's easy to you, Robert Bruce, wi' yer siller i' the bank, to speik
that gait til a puir lone body like me, that maun slave for my bread
whan I'm no sae young as I micht be. No that I'm like to dee o' auld
age either."
"I haena sae muckle i' the bank as some folk may think; though what
there is is safe eneuch. But I hae a bonny business doun yonner, and it
micht be better yet. It's jist the land o' Goshen, only it wants a
wheen mair tap-dressin'."
"Tak it frae the bank, than, Robert."
"The bank! said ye, Marget? I canna do that."
"And what for no?"
"'Cause I'm jist like the hens, Marget. Gin they dinna see ae egg i'
the nest, they hae no hert to lay anither. I daurna meddle wi' the
bank."
"Weel, lat sit than; an' lay awa' at yer leisur'. Hoo's the mistress?"
"No that weel, and no that ill. The faimily's rather sair upo' her. But
I canna haud her oot o' the chop for a' that. She's like mysel'--she
wad aye be turnin' a bawbee. But what are ye gaein to do yersel',
Marget?"
"I'm gaein to my uncle and aunt--auld John Peterson and his wife.
They're gey and frail noo, and they want somebody to luik efter them."
"Than ye're weel provided for; Praise be thankit! Marget."
"Ow, ay; nae doot," replied Marget, with bitterness, of which Bruce
took no notice.
"And what's to come o' the bairnie?" pursued he.
"I maun jist get some dacent auld body i' the toon to tak' her in, and
lat her gang to the schuil. It's time. The auld fowk wadna pit up wi'
her a week."
"And what'll that cost ye, Marget?"
"I dinna ken. But the lassie's able to pay for her ain upbringin'."
"It's no far 'at a hunner and fifty'll gang i' thae times, woman. An'
it's a pity to tak frae the prencipal. She'll be merryin' some day."
"Ow, 'deed, maybe. Bairns will be fules."
"Weel, end na ye pit it oot at five per cent., and there wad aye be
something comin' o' 't? That wad be seven pun' ten i' the year, an' the
bairnie micht amaist--no freely but nigh-han'--be broucht up upo'
that."
Margaret lifted her head and looked at him.
"An' wha wad gie five per cent. for her bit siller, whan he can get it
frae the bank, on guid security, for four an' a half?"
"Jist mysel', Marget. The puir orphan has naebody but you and me to
luik till; an' I wad willin'ly do that muckle for her. I'll tell ye
what--I'll gie her five per cent. for her siller; and for the bit
interest, I'll tak her in wi' my ain bairns, an' she s' hae bit and sup
wi' them, an' gang to the school wi' them, and syne--efter a bit--we'll
see what comes neist."
To Margaret this seemed a very fair offer. It was known to all that the
Bruce children were well-enough dressed for their station, and looked
well-fed; and although Robert had the character of being somewhat mean,
she did not regard that as the worst possible fault, or one likely to
operate for the injury of the child. So she told her cousin that she
would think about it; which was quite as much as he could have
expected. He took his leave all but satisfied that he had carried his
point, and not a little uplifted with his prospects.
For was it not a point worth carrying--to get both the money and the
owner of it into his own hands? Not that he meant conscious dishonesty
to Annie. He only rejoiced to think that he would thus satisfy any
expectations that the public might have formed of him, and would enjoy
besides a splendid increase of capital for his business; while he hoped
to keep the girl upon less than the interest would come to. And then,
if anything should happen to her--seeing she was not over vigorous--the
result was worth waiting for; whereas--if she throve--he had sons
growing up, one of whom might take a fancy to the heiress, and would
have facilities for marrying her, &c. &c.; for Grocer Robert was as
deep in his foresight and scheming as King Robert, the crowning triumph
of whose intellect, in the eyes of his descendant, was the strewing of
the caltrops on the field of Bannockburn.
But James Dow was _ill-pleased_ when he heard of the arrangement--which
was completed in due time. "For," said he, "I canna bide that Bruce.
He's a naisty mean cratur. He wadna fling a bane till a dog, afore he
had ta'en a pyke at it himsel'." He agreed, however, with his mistress,
that it would be better to keep Annie in ignorance of her destiny as
long as possible; a consideration which sprung from the fact that her
aunt, now that she was on the eve of parting with her, felt a little
delicate growth of tenderness sprouting over the old stone wall of her
affection for the child, owing its birth, in part, to the doubt whether
she would be comfortable in her new home.
CHAPTER VII.
A day that is fifty years off comes as certainly as if it had been in
the next week; and Annie's feeling of infinite duration did not stop
the sand-glass of Old Time. The day arrived when everything was to be
sold by public _roup_. A great company of friends, neighbours, and
acquaintances gathered; and much drinking of whisky-punch went on in
the kitchen as well as in the room where, a few months before, the
solemn funeral-assembly had met.
Little Annie speedily understood what all the bustle meant: that the
day of desolation so long foretold by the Cassandra-croak of her aunt,
had at length actually arrived, and that all the things she knew so
well were vanishing from her sight for ever.
She was in the barn when the sound of the auctioneer's voice in the
corn-yard made her look over the half-door and listen. Gradually the
truth dawned upon her; and she burst into tears over an old rake which
she had been accustomed to call hers, because she had always dragged it
at hay-making. Then wiping her eyes hastily--for, partly from her
aunt's hardness, she never could bear to be seen crying, even when a
child--she fled to Brownie's stall, and burying herself in the manger,
began weeping afresh. After a while, the fountain of tears was for the
time exhausted, and she sat disconsolately gazing at the old cow
feeding away, as if food were everything and a _roup_ nothing at all,
when footsteps approached the _byre_, and, to her dismay, two men, whom
she did not know, came in, untied Brownie, and actually led her away
from before her eyes. She still stared at the empty space where Brownie
had stood,--stared like a creature stranded by night on the low coast
of Death, before whose eyes in the morning the sea of Life is visibly
ebbing away. At last she started up. How could she sit there without
Brownie! Sobbing so that she could not breathe, she rushed across the
yard, into the crowded and desecrated house, and up the stair to her
own little room, where she threw herself on the bed, buried her eyes in
the pillow, and, overcome with grief, fell fast asleep.
When she woke in the morning, she remembered nothing of Betty's
undressing and putting her to bed. The dreadful day that was gone
seemed only a dreadful dream, that had left a pain behind it. But when
she went out, she found that yesterday would not stay amongst her
dreams. Brownie's stall was empty. The horses were all gone, and many
of the cattle. Those that remained looked like creatures forgotten. The
pigs were gone, and most of the poultry. Two or three favourite hens
were left, which auntie was going to take with her. But of all the
living creatures she had loved, not one had been kept for Annie. Her
life grew bitter with the bitterness of death.
In the afternoon, her aunt came up to her room, where she sat in
tearful silence, and telling her that she was going to take her into
the town, proceeded, without further explanation, to put all her little
personal effects into an old hair-trunk, which Annie called her own.
Along with some trifles that lay about the room, she threw into the
bottom of the box about a dozen of old books, which had been on the
chest of drawers since long before Annie could remember. She, poor
child, let her do as she pleased, and asked no questions; for the
shadow in which she stood was darkening, and she did not care what came
next. For an hour the box stood on the floor like a coffin, and then
Betty came, with red eyes and a red nose, and carried it downstairs.
Then auntie came up again, dressed in her Sunday clothes. She put on
Annie's best frock and bonnet--adorning the victim for sacrifice--at
least, so Annie's face would have suggested--and led her down to the
door. There stood a horse and cart. In the cart was some straw, and a
sack stuffed with hay. As auntie was getting into the cart, Betty
rushed out from somewhere upon Annie, caught her up, kissed her in a
vehement and disorderly manner, and before her mistress could turn
round in the cart, gave her into James Dow's arms, and vanished with
strange sounds of choking. Dowie thought to put her in with a kiss, for
he dared not speak; but Annie's arms went round his neck, and she clung
to him sobbing--clung till she roused the indignation of auntie, at the
first sound of whose voice, Dowie was free, and Annie lying in the
cart, with her face buried in the straw. Dowie then mounted in front,
with his feet on the shaft; the horse--one Annie did not know--started
off gently; and she was borne away helpless to meet the unknown.
And the road was like the going. She had often been upon it before, but
it had never looked as it did now. The first half-mile went through
fields whose crops were gone. The stubble was sticking through the
grass, and the potato stalks, which ought to have been gathered and
burnt, lay scattered about all over the brown earth. Then came two
miles of moorland country, high, and bleak, and barren, with hillocks
of peat in all directions, standing beside the black holes whence they
had been dug. These holes were full of dark water, frightful to look
at; while along the side of the road went deep black ditches half-full
of the same dark water. There was no danger of the cart getting into
them, for the ruts were too deep to let the wheels out; but it jolted
so dreadfully from side to side, as it crawled along, that Annie was
afraid every other moment of being tilted into one of the frightful
pools. Across the waste floated now and then the cry of a bird, but
other sound there was none in this land of drearihead. Next came some
scattered and ragged fields, the skirts of cultivation, which seemed to
draw closer and closer together, while the soil grew richer and more
hopeful, till, after two miles more, they entered the first straggling
precincts of the grey market-town.
By this time the stars were shining clear in the cold, frosty sky, and
candles or train-oil lamps were burning in most of the houses; for all
these things took place long before gas had been heard of in those
quarters. A few faces were pressed close to the window-panes as the
cart passed; and some rather untidy women came to the house-doors to
look. And they spoke one to another words which, though inaudible
through the noise of the cart, were yet intelligible enough to Annie,
with her own forebodings to interpret the expression of their faces.
"That'll be little Annie Anderson," they said. "She's gaein hame to
bide wi' her cousin, Robert Bruce, up i' the Wast Wynd. Puir wee
lassie!"
For, on the way, Annie had been informed of her destination.
But she was too miserable already, because of leaving her old home, to
care much to what new one she was going. Had it not been for the
absorption of this grief, she could not have been indifferent to the
prospect of going to live with her cousin, although her dislike to him
had never assumed a more active form than that of wishing to get away
from him, as often as he came near her.
The cart stopped at Bruce's shop-door. It looked a heavy door, although
the upper half was of glass--in small panes. Dowie got down and went
into the shop; and before he returned Annie had time to make some
listless observations. The house was a low one, although of two
stories, built of grey stone, and thatched. The heavy door was between
two windows belonging to the shop, in each of which burned a single
tallow candle, revealing to the gaze of Annie, in all the enhancing
mystery of candlelight, what she could not but regard as a perfect mine
of treasures. For besides calico and sugar, and all the multifarious
stock in the combined trades of draper and grocer, Robert Bruce sold
penny toys, and halfpenny picture-books, and all kinds of confectionery
which had been as yet revealed to the belated generations of Glamerton.
But she had not to contemplate these wonders long from the outside; for
Bruce came to the door, and, having greeted his cousin and helped her
down, turned to take Annie. Dowie had been before him, however, and now
held the pale child silent in his arms. He carried her into the shop,
and set her down on a sack that stood outside the counter, leaning
against it. He then went back to his horse's head.
The sack made no bad seat, for it was half-full of turnip-seed; and
upon it Annie sat, and drearily surveyed the circumstances.
Auntie was standing in the middle of the shop. Bruce was holding the
counter open, and inviting her to enter.
"Ye'll come in and tak a cup o' tay, efter yer journey, Marget?" said
he.
"Na, I thank ye, Robert Bruce. Jeames and I maun jist turn and gae hame
again. There's a hantle to look efter yet, and we maunna neglec' oor
wark. The hoose-gear's a' to be roupit the morn."
Then turning to Annie, she said:
"Noo, Annie, lass, ye'll be a guid bairn, and do as ye're tell't. An'
min' and no pyke the things i' the chop."
A smile of peculiar import glimmered over Bruce's face at the sound of
this injunction. Annie made no reply, but stared at Mr Bruce, and sat
staring.
"Good-bye to ye, Annie!" said her aunt, and roused her a little from
her stupor.
She then gave her a kiss--the first, as far as the child knew, that she
had ever given her--and went out. Bruce followed her out, and Dowie
came in. He took her up in his arms, and said:
"Good-bye to ye, my bonnie bairn. Be a guid lass, and ye'll be ta'en
care o'. Dinna forget that. Min' and say yer prayers."
Annie kissed him with all her heart, but could not reply. He set her
down again, and went out. She heard the harness rattle, and the cart go
off. She was left sitting on the sack.
Presently Mr Bruce came in, and passing behind his counter, proceeded
to make an entry in a book. It could have been no order from poor,
homeless Margaret. It was, in fact, a memorandum of the day and the
hour when Annie was set down on that same sack--so methodical was he!
And yet it was some time before he seemed to awake to the remembrance
of the presence of the child. Looking up suddenly at the pale, weary
thing, as she sat with her legs hanging lifelessly down the side of the
sack, he said--pretending to have forgotten her--
"Ow, bairn, are ye there yet?"
And going round to her, he set her on the floor, and leading her by the
hand through the mysterious gate of the counter, and through a door
behind it, called in a sharp decided tone:
"Mother, ye're wanted!"
Thereupon a tall, thin, anxious-looking woman appeared, wiping her
hands in her apron.
"This is little Miss Anderson," said Bruce, "come to bide wi's. Gie her
a biscuit, and tak' her up the stair till her bed."
As it was the first, so it was the last time he called her _Miss_
Anderson, at least while she was one of his household.--Mrs Bruce took
Annie by the hand in silence, and led her up two narrow stairs, into a
small room with a skylight. There, by the shine of the far-off stars,
she undressed her. But she forgot the biscuit; and, for the first time
in her life, Annie went supperless to bed.
She lay for a while trying to fancy herself in Brownie's stall among
the grass and clover, and so get rid of the vague fear she felt at
being in a strange place without light, for she found it unpleasant not
to know what was next her in the dark. But the fate of Brownie and of
everything she had loved came back upon her; and the sorrow drove away
the fear, and she cried till she could cry no longer, and then she
slept. It is by means of sorrow, sometimes, that He gives his beloved
sleep.
CHAPTER VIII.
She woke early, rose, and dressed herself. But there was no water for
her to wash with, and she crept down-stairs to look for help in this
her first need. Nobody, however, was awake. She looked long and
wistfully at the house-door, but seeing that she could not open it, she
went back to her room. If she had been at home, she would soon have had
a joyous good-morrow from the burst of fresh wind meeting her as she
lifted the ready latch, to seek the companionship of yet earlier risers
than herself; but now she was as lonely as if she had anticipated the
hour of the resurrection, and was the little only one up of the buried
millions. All that she had left of that home was her box, and she would
have betaken herself to a desolate brooding over its contents; but it
had not been brought up, and neither could she carry it up herself, nor
would she open it in the kitchen where it stood. So she sat down on the
side of her bed, and gazed round the room. It was a cheerless room. At
home she had had chequered curtains to her bed: here there were none of
any kind; and her eyes rested on nothing but bare rafters and boards.
And there were holes in the roof and round the floor, which she did not
like. They were not large, but they were dreadful. For they were black,
nor did she know where they might go to. And she grew very cold.
At length she heard some noise in the house, and in her present mood
any human noise was a sound of deliverance. It grew; was presently
enriched by the admixture of baby-screams, and the sound of the
shop-shutters being taken down; and at last footsteps approached her
door. Mrs Bruce entered, and finding her sitting dressed on her bed,
exclaimed:
"Ow! ye call dress yersel! can ye?"
"Ay, weel that," answered Annie, as cheerily as she could. "But," she
added, "I want some water to wash mysel' wi'."
"Come doon to the pump, than," said Mrs Bruce.
Annie followed her to the pump, where she washed in a tub. She then ran
dripping into the house for a towel, and was dried by the hands of Mrs
Bruce in her dirty apron.--This mode of washing lasted till the first
hoar-frost, after which there was a basin to be had in the kitchen,
with plenty of water and not much soap.
By this time breakfast was nearly ready, and in a few minutes more, Mrs
Bruce called Mr Bruce from the shop, and the children from the yard,
and they all sat round the table in the kitchen--Mr Bruce to his tea
and oat-cake and butter--Mrs Bruce and the children to badly-made
oatmeal porridge and sky-blue milk. This quality of the milk was
remarkable, seeing they had cows of their own. But then they sold milk.
And if any customer had accused her of watering it, Mrs Bruce's best
answer would have been to show how much better what she sold was than
what she retained; for she put twice as much water in what she used for
her own family--with the exception of the portion destined for her
husband's tea, whose two graces were long and strong enough for a
better breakfast. But then his own was good enough.
There were three children, two boys with great jaws--the elder rather
older than Annie--and a very little baby. After Mr Bruce had prayed for
the blessing of the Holy Spirit upon their food, they gobbled down
their breakfasts with all noises except articulate ones. When they had
finished--that is, eaten everything up--the Bible was brought; a psalm
was sung, after a fashion not very extraordinary to the ears of Annie,
or, indeed, of any one brought up in Scotland; a chapter was read--it
happened to tell the story of Jacob's speculations in the money-market
of his day and generation; and the _exercise_ concluded with a prayer
of a quarter of an hour, in which the God of Jacob especially was
invoked to bless the Bruces, His servants, in their basket and in their
store, and to prosper the labours of that day in particular. The prayer
would have been longer, but for the click of the latch of the
shop-door, which brought it to a speedier close than one might have
supposed even Mr Bruce's notions of decency would have permitted. And
almost before the _Amen_ was out of his month, he was out of the
kitchen.
When he had served the early customer, he returned, and sitting down,
drew Annie towards him--between his knees, in fact, and addressed her
with great solemnity.
"Noo, Annie," said he, "ye s' get the day to play yersel'; but ye maun
gang to the school the morn. We can hae no idle fowk i' this hoose, sae
we maun hae nae words aboot it."
Annie was not one to make words about that or anything. She was only
too glad to get away from him. Indeed the prospect of school, after
what she had seen of the economy of her home, was rather enticing. So
she only answered,
"Verra weel, sir. Will I gang the day?"
Whereupon, finding her so tractable, Mr Bruce added, in the tone of one
conferring a great favour, and knowing that he did so,
"Ye can come into the shop for the day, and see what's gaein on. Whan
ye're a muckle woman, ye may be fit to stan' ahin' the coonter some day
yersel'--wha kens?"
Robert Bruce regarded the shop as his Bannockburn, where all his
enemies, namely customers, were to be defeated, that he might be
enriched with their spoils. It was, therefore, a place of so great
interest in his eyes, that he thought it must be interesting to
everybody else. And, indeed, the permission did awake some ill-grounded
expectations in the mind of Annie.
She followed him into the shop, and saw quite a fabulous wealth of good
things around her; of which, however, lest she should put forth her
hand and take, the militant eyes of Robert Bruce never ceased watching
her, with quick-recurring glances, even while he was cajoling some
customer into a doubtful purchase.
Long before dinner-time arrived, she was heartily sick of the monotony
of buying and selling in which she had no share. Not even a
picture-book was taken down from the window for her to look at; so that
she soon ceased to admire even the picture-books--a natural result of
the conviction that they belonged to a sphere above her reach. Mr
Bruce, on the other hand, looked upon them as far below the notice of
his children, although he derived a keen enjoyment from the
transference, by their allurements, of the half-pence of other children
from their pockets into his till.
"Naisty trash o' lees," he remarked, apparently for Annie's behoof, as
he hung the fresh bait up in his window, after two little urchins, with
_bawbees_ to spend, had bought a couple of the radiant results of
literature and art combined. "Naisty trash o' lees--only fit for dirrty
laddies and lassies."
He stood on the watch in his shop like a great spider that ate
children; and his windows were his web.
They dined off salt herrings and potatoes--much better fare than bad
porridge and watered milk. Robert Bruce the younger, who inherited his
father's name and disposition, made faces at Annie across the table as
often as he judged it prudent to run the risk of discovery; but Annie
was too stupefied with the awful change to mind it much, and indeed
required all the attention she had at command, for the arrest of
herring bones on their way to her throat.
After dinner, business was resumed in the shop, with at least the
resemblance of an increase of vigour, for Mrs Bruce went behind the
counter, and gave her husband time to sit down at the desk to write
letters and make out bills. Not that there was much of either sort of
clerkship necessary; but Bruce, like Chaucer's Man of Law, was so fond
of business, that he liked to seem busier than he was. As it happened
to be a half-holiday, Annie was sent with the rest of the children into
the garden to play up and down the walks.
"An' min'," said Bruce, "an' haud oot ower frae the dog."
In the garden Annie soon found herself at the mercy of those who had
none.
It is marvellous what an amount of latent torment there is in boys,
ready to come out the moment an object presents itself. It is not
exactly cruelty. The child that tears the fly to pieces does not
represent to himself the sufferings the insect undergoes; he merely
yields to an impulse to disintegrate. So children, even ordinarily good
children, are ready to tease any child who simply looks teasable, and
so provokes the act. Now the Bruces were not good children, as was
natural; and they despised Annie because she was a girl, and because
she had no self-assertion. If she had shown herself aggressively
disagreeable, they would have made some attempt to conciliate her; but
as it was, she became at once the object of a succession of spiteful
annoyances, varying in intensity with the fluctuating invention of the
two boys. At one time they satisfied themselves with making grimaces of
as insulting a character as they could produce; at another they rose to
the rubbing of her face with dirt, or the tripping up of her heels.
Their persecution bewildered her, and the resulting stupefaction was a
kind of support to her for a time; but at last she could endure it no
longer, being really hurt by a fall, and ran crying into the shop,
where she sobbed out,
"Please, sir, they winna lat me be."
"Dinna come into the chop wi' yer stories. Mak' it up amo' yersels."
"But they winna mak' it up."
Robert Bruce rose indignant at such an interruption of his high
calling, and went out with the assumption of much parental grandeur. He
was instantly greeted with a torrent of assurances that Annie had
fallen, and then laid the blame upon them; whereupon he turned sternly
to her, and said--
"Annie, gin ye tell lees, ye'll go to hell."
But paternal partiality did not prevent him from reading them also a
lesson, though of a quite different tone.
"Mind, boys," he said, in a condescending whine, "that poor Annie has
neither father nor mither; an' ye maun be kind till her."
He then turned and left them for the more important concerns
within-doors; and the persecution recommenced, though in a somewhat
mitigated form. The little wretches were perfectly unable to abstain
from indulging in a pleasure of such intensity. Annie had indeed fallen
upon evil days.
I am thus minute in my description of her first day, that my reader,
understanding something similar of many following days, may be able to
give due weight to the influence of other events, when, in due time,
they come to be recorded. But I must not conclude the account without
mentioning something which befell her at the close of the same day, and
threatened to be productive of yet more suffering.
After _worship_, the boys crawled away to bed, half-asleep already; or,
I should rather say, only half-awake from their prayers. Annie
lingered.
"Can ye no tak' aff yer ain claes, as weel as pit them on, Annie?"
asked Mrs Bruce.
"Ay, weel eneuch. Only I wad sair like a bittie o' can'le," was Annie's
trembling reply, for she had a sad foreboding instinct now.
"Can'le! Na, na, bairn," answered Mrs Bruce. "Ye s' get no can'le here.
Ye wad hae the hoose in a low (flame) aboot oor lugs (ears). I canna
affoord can'les. Ye can jist mak' a can'le o' yer han's, and fin (feel)
yer gait up the twa stairs. There's thirteen steps to the firs, and
twal to the neist."
With choking heart, but without reply, Annie went.
Groping her way up the steep ascent, she found her room without any
difficulty. As it was again a clear, starlit night, there was light
enough for her to find everything she wanted; and the trouble at her
heart kept her imagination from being as active as it would otherwise
have been, in recalling the terrible stories of ghosts and dead people
with which she was far too familiar. She soon got into bed, and, as a
precautionary measure, buried her head under the clothes before she
began to say her prayers, which, under the circumstances, she had
thought she might be excused for leaving till she had lain down. But
her prayers were suddenly interrupted by a terrible noise of scrambling
and scratching and scampering in the very room beside her.
"I tried to cry oot," she said afterwards, "for I kent 'at it was
rottans; but my tongue booed i' my mou' for fear, and I cudna speak ae
word."
The child's fear of rats amounted to a frenzied horror. She dared not
move a finger. To get out of bed with those creatures running about the
room was as impossible as it was to cry out. But her heart did what her
tongue could not do--cried out with a great and bitter cry to one who
was more ready to hear than Robert and Nancy Bruce. And what her heart
cried was this:
"O God, tak care o' me frae the rottans."
There was no need to send an angel from heaven in answer to this little
one's prayer: the cat would do. Annie heard a scratch and a mew at the
door. The rats made one frantic scramble and were still.
"It's pussy!" she cried, recovering the voice for joy that had failed
her for fear.
Fortified by her arrival, and still more by the feeling that she was a
divine messenger sent to succour her because she had prayed, she sprang
out of bed, darted across the room, and opened the door to let her in.
A few moments and she was fast asleep, guarded by God's angel, the cat,
for whose entrance she took good care ever after to leave the door
ajar.
There are ways of keeping the door of the mind also, ready as it is to
fall to, ajar for the cat.
CHAPTER IX.
"Noo, Annie, pit on yer bonnet, an' gang to the schuil wi' the lave
(rest); an' be a good girrl."
This was the Bruce's parting address to Annie, before he left the
kitchen for the shop, after breakfast and worship had been duly
observed; and having just risen from his knees, his voice, as he
stooped over the child, retained all the sanctity of its last
occupation. It was a quarter to ten o'clock, and the school was some
five minutes distant.
With a flutter of fearful hope, Annie obeyed. She ran upstairs, made
herself as tidy, as she could, smoothed her hair, put on her bonnet,
and had been waiting a long time at the door when her companions joined
her. It was very exciting to look forward to something that might not
be disagreeable.
As they went, the boys got one on each side of her in a rather sociable
manner. But they had gone half the distance and not a word had been
spoken, when Robert Bruce, junior, opened the conversation abruptly.
"Ye'll get it!" he said, as if he had been brooding upon the fact for
some time, and now it had broken out.
"What'll I get?" asked Annie timidly, for his tone had already filled
her with apprehension.
"Sic lickins," answered the little wretch, drawing back his lips till
his canine teeth were fully disclosed, as if he gloated in a
carnivorous sort of way over the prospect. "Wonna she, Johnnie?"
"Ay wull she," answered Johnnie, following his leader with confidence.
Annie's heart sank within her. The poor little heart was used to
sinking now. But she said nothing, resolved, if possible, to avoid all
occasion for "getting it."
Not another word was spoken before they reached the school, the door of
which was not yet open. A good many boys and a few girls were
assembled, waiting for the master, and filling the lane, at the end of
which the school stood, with the sound of voices fluctuating through a
very comprehensive scale. In general the school-door was opened a few
minutes before the master's arrival, but on this occasion no one
happened to have gone to his house to fetch the key, and the scholars
had therefore to wait in the street. None of them took any notice of
Annie; so she was left to study the outside of the school. It was a
long, low, thatched building, of one story and a garret, with five
windows to the lane, and some behind, for she could see light through.
It had been a weaving-shop originally, full of hand-looms, when the
trade in linen was more prosperous than it was now. From the thatch
some of the night's frost was already dripping in slow clear drops.
Past the door, which was in a line with the windows, went a gutter, the
waters of which sank through a small grating a few steps further on.
But there was no water running in it now.
Suddenly a boy cried out: "The maister's comin'!" and instantly the
noise sunk to a low murmur. Looking up the lane, which rose
considerably towards the other end, Annie saw the figure of the
descending dominie. He was dressed in what seemed to be black, but was
in reality gray, almost as good as black, and much more thrifty. He
came down the hill swinging his arms, like opposing pendulums, in a
manner that made the rapid pace at which he approached like a long slow
trot. With the door-key in his hand, already pointed towards the
key-hole, he went right through the little crowd, which cleared a wide
path for him, without word or gesture of greeting on either side. I
might almost say he swooped upon the door, for with one hand on the
key, and the other on the latch, he seemed to wrench it open the moment
he touched it. In he strode, followed at the heels by the troop of
boys, big and little, and lastly by the girls--last of all, at a short
distance, by Annie, like a motherless lamb that followed the flock,
because she did not know what else to do. She found she had to go down
a step into a sunk passage or lobby, and then up another step, through
a door on the left, into the school. There she saw a double row of
desks, with a clear space down the middle between the rows. Each
scholar was hurrying to his place at one of the desks, where, as he
arrived, he stood. The master already stood in solemn posture at the
nearer end of the room on a platform behind his desk, prepared to
commence the extempore prayer, which was printed in a kind of blotted
stereotype upon every one of their brains. Annie had hardly succeeded
in reaching a vacant place among the girls when he began. The boys were
as still as death while the master prayed; but a spectator might easily
have discovered that the chief good some of them got from the ceremony
was a perfect command of the organs of sound; for the restraint was
limited to those organs; and projected tongues, deprived of their
natural exercise, turned themselves, along with winking eyes, contorted
features, and a wild use of hands and arms, into the means of
telegraphic despatches to all parts of the room, throughout the
ceremony. The master, afraid of being himself detected in the attempt
to combine prayer and vision, kept his "eyelids screwed together
tight," and played the spy with his ears alone. The boys and girls,
understanding the source of their security perfectly, believed that the
eyelids of the master would keep faith with them, and so disported
themselves without fear in the delights of dumb show.
As soon as the prayer was over they dropped, with no little noise and
bustle, into their seats. But presently Annie was rudely pushed out of
her seat by a hoydenish girl, who, arriving late, had stood outside the
door till the prayer was over, and then entered unperceived during the
subsequent confusion. Some little ones on the opposite form, however,
liking the look of her, and so wishing to have her for a companion,
made room for her beside them. The desks were double, so that the two
rows at each desk faced each other.
"Bible-class come up," were the first words of the master, ringing
through the room, and resounding awfully in Annie's ears.
A moment of chaos followed, during which all the boys and girls,
considered capable of reading the Bible, were arranging themselves in
one great crescent across the room in front of the master's desk. Each
read a verse--neither more nor less--often leaving the half of a
sentence to be taken up as a new subject in a new key; thus perverting
what was intended as an assistance to find the truth into a means of
hiding it--a process constantly repeated, and with far more serious
results, when the words of truth fall, not into the hands of the
incapable, but under the protection of the ambitious.
The chapter that came in its turn was one to be pondered over by the
earnest student of human nature, not one to be blundered over by boys
who had still less reverence for humanity than they had for Scripture.
It was a good thing that they were not the sacred fountains of the New
Testament that were thus dabbled in--not, however, that the latter were
considered at all more precious or worthy; as Saturday and the Shorter
Catechism would show.
Not knowing the will of the master, Annie had not dared to stand up
with the class, although she could read very fairly. A few moments
after it was dismissed she felt herself overshadowed by an awful
presence, and, looking up, saw, as she had expected, the face of the
master bending down over her. He proceeded to question her, but for
some time she was too frightened to give a rational account of her
acquirements, the best of which were certainly not of a kind to be
appreciated by the master, even if she had understood them herself
sufficiently to set them out before him. For, besides her aunt, who had
taught her to read, and nothing more, her only instructors had been
Nature, with her whole staff, including the sun, moon, and wind; the
grass, the corn, Brownie the cow, and her own faithful subject, Dowie.
Still, it was a great mortification to her to be put into the
spelling-book, which excluded her from the Bible-class. She was also
condemned to follow with an uncut quill, over and over again, a single
straight stroke, set her by the master. Dreadfully dreary she found it,
and over it she fell fast asleep. Her head dropped on her outstretched
arm, and the quill dropped from her sleeping fingers--for when Annie
slept she all slept. But she was soon roused by the voice of the
master. "Ann Anderson!" it called in a burst of thunder to her ear; and
she awoke to shame and confusion, amidst the titters of those around
her.
Before the morning was over she was called up, along with some children
considerably younger than herself, to read and spell. The master stood
before them, armed with a long, thick strap of horse-hide, prepared by
steeping in brine, black and supple with constant use, and cut into
fingers at one end, which had been hardened in the fire.
Now there was a little pale-faced, delicate-looking boy in the class,
who blundered a good deal. Every time he did so the cruel serpent of
leather went at him, coiling round his legs with a sudden, hissing
swash. This made him cry, and his tears blinded him so that he could
not even see the words which he had been unable to read before. But he
still attempted to go on, and still the instrument of torture went
swish-swash round his little thin legs, raising upon them, no doubt,
plentiful blue wales, to be revealed, when he was undressed for the
night, to the indignant eyes of pitying mother or aunt, who would yet
send him back to the school the next morning without fail.
At length either the heart of the master was touched by the sight of
his sufferings and repressed weeping, or he saw that he was compelling
the impossible; for he stayed execution, and passed on to the next, who
was Annie.
It was no wonder that the trembling child, who could read very fairly,
should yet, after such an introduction to the ways of school, fail
utterly in making anything like coherence of the sentence before her.
What she would have done, had she been left to herself, would have been
to take the little boy in her arms and cry too. As it was, she
struggled mightily with her tears, and yet she did not read to much
better purpose than the poor boy, who was still busy wiping his eyes
with his sleeves, alternately, for he never had had a handkerchief. But
being a new-comer, and a girl to boot, and her long frock affording no
facilities for this kind of incentive to learning, she escaped for the
time.
It was a dreadful experience of life, though, that first day at school.
Well might the children have prayed with David--"Let us fall now into
the hand of the Lord, for his mercies are great; and let us not fall
into the hand of man." And well might the children at many another
school respond with a loud _Amen_!
At one o'clock they were dismissed, and went home to dinner, to return
at three.
In the afternoon she was set to make figures on a slate. She made
figures till her back ached. The monotony of this occupation was
relieved only by the sight of the execution of criminal law upon
various offending boys; for, as must be already partially evident, the
master was a hard man, with a severe, if not an altogether cruel
temper, and a quite savage sense of duty. The punishment was mostly in
the form of _pandies_,--blows delivered with varying force, but
generally with the full swing of the _tag_, as it was commonly called,
thrown over the master's shoulder, and brought down with the whole
strength of his powerful right arm upon the outstretched hand of the
culprit. But there were other modes of punishment, of which the
restraints of art would forbid the description, even if it were
possible for any writer to conquer his disgust so far as to attempt it.
Annie shivered and quaked. Once she burst out crying, but managed to
choke her sobs, if she could not hide her tears.
A fine-looking boy, three or four years older than herself, whose open
countenance was set off by masses of dark brown hair, was called up to
receive chastisement, merited or unmerited as the case might be; for
such a disposition as that of Murdoch Malison must have been more than
ordinarily liable to mistake. Justice, according to his idea, consisted
in vengeance. And he was fond of justice. He did not want to punish the
innocent, it is true; but I doubt whether the discovery of a boy's
innocence was not a disappointment to him. Without a word of
expostulation or defence, the boy held out his hand, with his arm at
full length, received four stinging blows upon it, grew very red in the
face, gave a kind of grotesque smile, and returned to his seat with the
suffering hand sent into retirement in his trowsers-pocket. Annie's
admiration of his courage as well as of his looks, though perhaps
unrecognizable as such by herself, may have had its share with her pity
in the tears that followed. Somehow or other, at all events, she made
up her mind to bear more patiently the persecutions of the little
Bruces, and, if ever her turn should come to be punished, as no doubt
it would, whether she deserved it or not, to try to take the whipping
as she had seen Alec Forbes take it. Poor Annie! If it should come to
that--nervous organizations are so different!
At five, the school was dismissed for the day, not without another
extempore prayer. A succession of jubilant shouts arose as the boys
rushed out into the lane. Every day to them was a cycle of strife,
suffering, and deliverance. Birth and death, with the life-struggle
between, were shadowed out in it--with this difference, that the God of
a corrupt Calvinism, in the person of Murdoch Malison, ruled that
world, and not the God revealed in the man Christ Jesus. And most of
them having felt the day more or less a burden, were now going home to
heaven for the night.
Annie, having no home, was amongst the few exceptions. Dispirited and
hopeless--a terrible condition for a child--she wondered how Alec
Forbes could be so merry. But he had had his evil things, and they were
over; while hers were all about her still. She had but one comfort
left--that no one would prevent her from creeping up to her own
desolate garret, which was now the dreary substitute for Brownie's
stall. Thither the persecuting boys were not likely to follow her. And
if the rats were in that garret, so was the cat; or at least the cat
knew the way to it. There she might think in peace about some things
about which she had never before seemed to have occasion to think.
CHAPTER X.
Thus at home, if home it could be called, and at school, Annie's days
passed--as most days pass--with family resemblance and individual
difference wondrously mingled. She became interested in what she had to
learn, if not from the manner in which it was presented to her
comprehension, yet from the fact that she had to learn it. Happily or
unhappily, too, she began to get used to the sight of the penal
suffering of her schoolfellows. Nor had anything of the kind as yet
visited her; for it would have been hard for even a more savage master
than Mr Malison to find occasion, now that the first disabling
influences had passed away, to punish the nervous, delicate, anxious
little orphan, who was so diligent, and as quiet as a mouse that fears
to awake a sleeping cat. She had a scared look too, that might have
moved the heart of Malison even, if he had ever paid the least
attention to the looks of children. For the absence of human
companionship in bestial forms; the loss of green fields, free to her
as to the winds of heaven, and of country sounds and odours; and an
almost constant sense of oppression from the propinquity of one or
another whom she had cause to fear, were speedily working sad effects
upon her. The little colour she had died out of her cheek. Her face
grew thin, and her blue eyes looked wistful and large out of their
sulken cells. Not often were tears to be seen in them now, and yet they
looked well acquainted with tears--like fountains that had been full
yesterday. She never smiled, for there was nothing to make her smile.
But she gained one thing by this desolation: the thought of her dead
father came to her, as it had never come before; and she began to love
him with an intensity she had known nothing of till now. Her mother had
died at her birth, and she had been her father's treasure; but in the
last period of his illness she had seen less of him, and the blank left
by his death had, therefore, come upon her gradually. Before she knew
what it was, she had begun to forget. In the minds of children the
grass grows very quickly over their buried dead. But now she learned
what death meant, or rather what love had been; not, however, as an
added grief: it comforted her to remember how her father had loved her;
and she said her prayers the oftener, because they seemed to go
somewhere near the place where her father was. She did not think of her
father being where God was, but of God being where her father was.
The winter was drawing nearer too, and the days were now short and
cold. A watery time began, and for many days together the rain kept
falling without intermission. I almost think Annie would have died, but
for her dead father to think about. On one of those rainy days,
however, she began to find that it is in the nature of good things to
come in odd ways. It had rained the whole day, not tamely and
drizzingly, but in real earnest, dancing and rebounding from the pools,
and raising a mist by the very "crash of water-drops." Now and then the
school became silent, just to listen to the wide noise made by the busy
cataract of the heavens, each drop a messenger of good, a sweet
returning of earth's aspirations, in the form of Heaven's _Amen_! But
the boys thought only of the fun of dabbling in the torrents as they
went home; or the delights of net-fishing in the swollen and muddy
rivers, when the fish no longer see their way, but go wandering about
in perplexity, just as we human mortals do in a thick fog, whether of
the atmosphere or of circumstance.
The afternoon was waning. It was nearly time to go; and still the rain
was pouring and plashing around. In the gathering gloom there had been
more than the usual amount of wandering from one part of the school to
another, and the elder Bruce had stolen to a form occupied by some
little boys, next to the one on which Annie sat with her back towards
them. If it was not the real object of his expedition, at least he took
the opportunity to give Annie a spiteful dig with his elbow; which,
operating even more powerfully than he had intended, forced from her an
involuntary cry. Now the master indulged in an occasional refinement of
the executive, which consisted in this: he threw the _tawse_ at the
offender, not so much for the sake of hurting--although that, being a
not infrequent result, may be supposed to have had a share in the
intention--as of humiliating; for the culprit had to bear the
instrument of torture back to the hands of the executioner. He threw
the tawse at Annie, half, let us suppose, in thoughtless cruelty, half
in evil jest. It struck her rather sharply, before she had recovered
breath after the blow Bruce had given her. Ready to faint with pain and
terror, she rose, pale as death, and staggered up to the master,
carrying the tawse with something of the same horror she would have
felt had it been a snake. With a grim smile, he sent her back to her
seat. The moment she reached it her self-control gave way, and she
burst into despairing, though silent tears. The desk was still shaking
with her sobs, and some of the girls were still laughing at her grief,
when a new occurrence attracted their attention. Through the noise of
the falling rain a still louder rushing of water was heard, and the
ears and eyes of all sought the source of the sound. Even Annie turned
her wet cheeks and overflowing eyes languidly towards the door. Mr
Malison went and opened it. A flood of brown water was pouring into the
sunk passage already described. The grating by which the rain-torrent
that flowed past the door should have escaped, had got choked, the
stream had been dammed back, and in a few moments more the room itself
would be flooded. Perceiving this, the master hastily dismissed his
pupils.
There could be no better fun for most of the boys and some of the
girls, than to wade through the dirty water. Many of the boys dashed
through it at once, shoes and all; but some of the boys, and almost all
the girls, took off their shoes and stockings. When Annie got a peep of
the water, writhing and tumbling in the passage, it looked so ugly,
that she shrunk from fording it, especially if she must go in with her
bare feet. She could not tell what might be sweeping about in that
filthy whirlpool. She was still looking at it as it kept rising, in
pale perplexity and dismay, with the forgotten tears still creeping
down her checks, when she was caught up from behind by a boy, who, with
his shoes and stockings in one hand, now seated her on the other arm.
She peeped timidly round to see who it was, and the brave brown eyes of
Alec Forbes met hers, lighted by a kind, pitying smile. In that smile
the cloudy sky of the universe gently opened, and the face of God
looked out upon Annie. It gave her, for the moment, all that she had
been dying for want of for many weeks--weeks long as years. She could
not help it--she threw her arms round Alec Forbes's neck, laid her wet
cheek against his, and sobbed as if her heart would break. She did not
care for the Bruces, or the rats, or even the schoolmaster now. Alec
clasped her tighter, and vowed in his heart that if ever that brute
Malison lifted the tag to her, he would fly at his throat. He would
have carried her all the way home, for she was no great weight; but as
soon as they were out of the house Annie begged him to set her down so
earnestly, that he at once complied, and, bidding her good night, ran
home barefoot through the flooded roads.
The Bruces had gone on with the two umbrellas, one of which, more to
her discomfort than protection, Annie had shared in coming to the
school; so that she was very wet before she got home. But no notice was
taken of the condition she was in; the consequence of which was a
severe cold and cough, which however, were not regarded as any
obstacles to her going to school the next day.
That night she lay awake for a long time, and when at last she fell
asleep, she dreamed that she took Alec Forbes home to see her
father--out the street and the long road; over the black moor, and
through the fields; in at the door of the house, and up the stair to
her father's room, where he lay in bed. And she told him how kind Alec
had been to her, and how happy she was going to be now. And her father
put his hand out of the bed, and laid it on Alec's head, and said:
"Thank ye, Alec for being kind to my poor Annie." And then she cried,
and woke crying--strange tears out of dreamland, half of delicious
sorrow and half of trembling joy.
With what altered feelings she seated herself after the prayer, next
day, and glanced round the room to catch a glimpse of her new friend!
There he was, radiant as usual. He took no notice of her, and she had
not expected that he would. But it was not long before he found out,
now that he was interested in her, that her cousins were by no means
friendly to her; for their seats were not far from the girl's quarter,
and they took every sheltered opportunity of giving her a pinch or a
shove, or of making vile grimaces at her.
In the afternoon, while she was busy over an addition sum which was
more than usually obstinate, Robert came stealthily behind her, and,
licking his hand, watched his opportunity, and rubbed the sum from her
slate. The same moment he received a box on the ear, that no doubt
filled his head with more noises than that of the impact. He yelled
with rage and pain, and, catching sight of the administrator of justice
as he was returning to his seat, bawled out in a tone of fierce
complaint: "Sanny Forbes!"
"Alexander Forbes! come up," responded the voice of the master. Forbes
not being a first-rate scholar, was not a favourite with him, for Mr
Malison had no sense for what was fine in character or disposition. Had
the name been that of one of his better Latin scholars, the cry of
Bruce would most likely have passed unheeded.
"Hold up your hand," he said, without requesting or waiting for an
explanation.
Alec obeyed. Annie gave a smothered shriek, and, tumbling from her
seat, rushed up to the master. When she found herself face to face with
the tyrant, however, not one word could she speak. She opened her
mouth, but throat and tongue refused their offices, and she stood
gasping. The master stared, his arm arrested in act to strike, and his
face turned over his left shoulder, with all the blackness of his anger
at Forbes lowering upon Annie. He stood thus for one awful moment, then
motioning her aside with a sweep of his head, brought down the tawse
upon the hand which Alec had continued to hold outstretched, with the
vehemence of accumulated wrath. Annie gave a choking cry, and Alec, so
violent was the pain, involuntarily withdrew his hand. But instantly,
ashamed of his weakness, he presented it again, and received the
remainder of his punishment without flinching. The master then turned
to Annie; and finding her still speechless, gave her a push that nearly
threw her on her face, and said,
"Go to your seat, Ann Anderson. The next time you do that I will punish
you severely."
Annie sat down, and neither sobbed nor cried. But it was days before
she recovered from the shock. Once, long after, when she was reading
about the smothering of the princes in the Tower, the whole of the
physical sensations of those terrible moments returned upon her, and
she sprang from her seat in a choking agony.
CHAPTER XI.
For some time neither of the Bruces ventured even to make a wry face at
her in school; but their behaviour to her at home was only so much the
worse.
Two days after the events recorded, as Annie was leaving the kitchen,
after worship, to go up to bed, Mr Bruce called her.
"Annie Anderson," he said, "I want to speak to ye."
Annie turned, trembling.
"I see ye ken what it's aboot," he went on, staring her full in the
pale face, which grew paler as he stared. "Ye canna luik me i' the
face. Whaur's the candy-sugar an' the prunes? I ken weel eneuch whaur
they are, and sae do ye."
"I ken naething aboot them," answered Annie, with a sudden revival of
energy.
"Dinna lee, Annie. It's ill eneuch to steal, without leein'."
"I'm no leein'," answered she, bursting into tears of indignation. "Wha
said 'at I took them?"
"That's naething to the pint. Ye wadna greit that gait gin ye war
innocent. I never missed onything afore. And ye ken weel eneuch there's
an ee that sees a' thing, and ye canna hide frae hit."
Bruce could hardly have intended that it was by inspiration from on
high that he had discovered the thief of his sweets. But he thought it
better to avoid mentioning that the informer was his own son Johnnie.
Johnnie, on his part, had thought it better not to mention that he had
been incited to the act by his brother Robert. And Robert had thought
it better not to mention that he did so partly to shield himself, and
partly out of revenge for the box on the ear which Alec Forbes had
given him. The information had been yielded to the inquisition of the
parent, who said with truth that he had never missed anything before;
although I suspect that a course of petty and cautious pilfering had at
length passed the narrow bounds within which it could be concealed from
the lynx eyes inherited from the kingly general. Possibly a bilious
attack, which confined the elder boy to the house for two or three
days, may have had something to do with the theft; but if Bruce had any
suspicions of the sort, he never gave utterance to them.
"I dinna want to hide frae 't," cried Annie. "Guid kens," she went on
in desperation, "that I wadna touch a grain o' saut wantin' leave."
"It's a pity, Annie, that some fowk dinna get their ain share o' Mr
Malison's tards." (_Tards_ was considered a more dignified word than
_tag_.) "I dinna like to lick ye mysel', 'cause ye're ither fowk's
bairn; but I can hardly haud my han's aff o' ye."
It must not be supposed from this speech that Robert Bruce ever
ventured to lay his hands on his own children. He was too much afraid
of their mother, who, perfectly submissive and sympathetic in ordinary,
would have flown into the rage of a hen with chickens if even her own
husband had dared to chastise one of _her_ children. The shop might be
more Robert's than hers, but the children were more hers than Robert's.
Overcome with shame and righteous anger, Annie burst out in the midst
of fresh tears:
"I wish Auntie, wad come an tak me awa'! It's an ill hoose to be in."
These words had a visible effect upon Bruce. He expected a visit from
Marget Anderson within a day or two; and he did not know what the
effect of the representations of Annie might be. The use of her money
had not been secured to him for any lengthened period--Dowie, anxious
to take all precautions for his little mistress, having consulted a
friendly lawyer on the subject, lest she should be left defenceless in
the hands of a man of whose moral qualities Dowie had no exalted
opinion. The sale having turned out better than had been expected, the
sum committed to Bruce was two hundred pounds, to lose which now would
be hardly less than ruin. He thought it better, therefore, not doubting
Annie to be the guilty person, to count the few lumps of sugar he might
lose, as an additional trifle of interest, and not quarrel with his
creditor for extorting it. So with the weak cunning of his kind, he
went to the shop, and bringing back a bit of sugar-candy, about the
size of a pigeon's egg, said to the still weeping child:
"Dinna greit, Annie. I canna bide to see ye greitin'. Gin ye want a
bittie o' sugar ony time, jist tell me, an' dinna gang helpin'
yoursel'. That's a'. Hae."
He thrust the lump into Annie's hand; but she dropped it on the floor
with disgust, and rushed up-stairs to her bed as fast as the darkness
would let her: where, notwithstanding her indignation, she was soon
fast asleep.
Bruce searched for the sugar-candy which she had rejected, until he
found it. He then restored it to the drawer whence he had taken
it--which he could find in the dark with perfect ease--resolving as he
did so, to be more careful in future of offending little Annie
Anderson.
When the day arrived upon which he expected Marget's visit, that being
a Saturday, Bruce was on the watch the whole afternoon. From his
shop-door he could see all along the street, and a good way beyond it;
and being very quick-sighted, he recognized Marget at a great distance
by her shawl, as she sat in a slow-nearing cart.
"Annie!" he called, opening the inner door, as he returned behind the
counter.
Annie, who was up-stairs in her own room, immediately appeared.
"Annie," he said, "rin oot at the back door, and through the yard, and
ower to Laurie Lumley's, and tell him to come ower to me direckly.
Dinna come back withoot him. There's a guid bairn!"
He sent her upon this message, knowing well enough that the man had
gone into the country that day, and that there was no one at his house
who would be likely to know where he had gone. He hoped, therefore,
that she would go and look for him in the town, and so be absent during
her aunt's visit.
"Weel, Marget," he said, with his customary greeting, in which the
foreign oil sought to overcome the home-bred vinegar, "hoo are ye the
day?"
"Ow! nae that ill," answered Marget with a sigh.
"And hoo's Mr and Mistress Peterson?"
"Brawly. Hoo's Annie comin' on?"
"Nae that ill. She's some royt (riotous) jist."
He thought to please her by the remark, because she had been in the
habit of saying so herself. But distance had made Annie dearer; and her
aunt's nose took fire with indignation, as she replied:
"The lassie's weel eneuch. _I_ saw naething o' the sort aboot her. Gin
ye canna guide her, that's _your_ wyte."
Bruce was abashed, but not confounded. He was ready in a moment.
"I never kent ony guid come o' bein' ower sair upo' bairns," said he.
"She's as easy guidit as a coo gaein' hame at nicht, only ye maun jist
lat her ken that ye're there, ye ken."
"Ow! ay," said Marget, a little nonplussed in her turn.
"Wad ye like to see her?"
"What ither did I come for?"
"Weel, I s' gang and luik for her."
He went to the back door, and called aloud: "Annie, yer auntie's here
and wants to see ye."
"She'll be here in a minute," he said to Marget, as he re-entered the
shop.
After a little more desultory conversation, he pretended to be
surprised that she she did not make her appearance, and going once more
to the door, called her name several times. He then pretended to search
for her in the garden and all over the house, and returned with the
news that she was nowhere to be seen.
"She's feared that ye're come to tak her wi' ye, and she's run awa oot
aboot some gait. I'll sen' the laddies to luik for her."
"Na, na, never min'. Gin she disna want to see me, I'm sure I needna
want to see her. I'll awa doon the toon," said Margaret, her face
growing very red as she spoke.
She bustled out of the shop, too angry with Annie to say farewell to
Bruce. She had not gone far, however, before Annie came running out of
a narrow close, almost into her aunt's arms. But there was no refuge
for her there.
"Ye little limmer!" cried Margaret, seizing her by the shoulder, "what
gart ye rin awa'? I dinna want ye, ye brat!"
"I didna rin awa', Auntie."
"Robert Bruce cried on ye to come in, himsel'."
"It wis himsel' that sent me to Laurie Lumley's to tell him to come
till him direckly."
Margaret could not make "head or tail" of it. But as Annie had never
told her a lie, she could not doubt her. So taking time to think about
it, she gave her some rough advice and a smooth penny, and went away on
her errands. She was not long in coming to the conclusion that Bruce
wanted to sunder her and the child; and this offended her so much, that
she did not go near the shop for a long time. Thus Annie was forsaken,
and Bruce had what he wanted.
He needed not have been so full of scheming, though. Annie never said a
word to her aunt about their treatment of her. It is one of the marvels
in the constitution of children, how much they will bear without
complaining. Parents and guardians have no right to suppose that all is
well in the nursery or school-room, merely from the fact that the
children do not complain. Servants and tutors may be cruel, and
children will be silent--partly, I presume, because they forget so
soon.
But vengeance of a sort soon overtook Robert Bruce the younger; for the
evil spirit in him, derived from no such remote ancestor as the king,
would not allow him a long respite from evil-doing, even in school. He
knew Annie better than his father, that she was not likely to complain
of anything, and that the only danger lay in the chance of being
discovered in the deed. One day when the master had left the room to
confer with some visitor at the door, he spied Annie in the act of
tying her shoe. Perceiving, as he believed, at a glance, that Alec
Forbes was totally unobservant, he gave her an ignominious push from
behind, which threw her out on her face in the middle of the floor. But
Alec did catch sight of him in the very deed, was down upon him in a
moment, and, having already proved that a box on the ear was of no
lasting effect, gave him a downright good thrashing. He howled
vigorously, partly from pain, partly in the hope that the same
consequences as before would overtake Forbes; and therefore was still
howling when Mr Malison re-entered.
"Robert Bruce, come up," bawled he, the moment he opened the door.
And Robert Bruce went up, and notwithstanding his protestations,
received a second, and far more painful punishment from the master,
who, perhaps, had been put out of temper by his visitor. But there is
no good in speculating on that or any other possibility in the matter;
for, as far at least as the boys could see, the master had no fixed
principle as to the party on whom the punishment should fall.
Punishment, in his eyes, was perhaps enough in itself. If he was
capable of seeing that _punishment_, as he called it, falling on the
wrong person, was not _punishment_, but only _suffering_, certainly he
had not seen the value of the distinction.
If Bruce howled before, he howled tenfold now, and went home howling.
Annie was sorry for him, and tried to say a word of comfort to him; but
he repelled her advances with hatred and blows. As soon as he reached
the shop he told his father that Forbes had beaten him without his
having even spoken to him, which was as correct as it was untrue, and
that the master had taken Forbes's part, and _licked_ him over again,
of which latter assertion there was proof enough on his person. Robert
the elder was instantly filled with smouldering wrath, and from that
moment hated Alec Forbes. For, like many others of low nature, he had
yet some animal affection for his children, combined with an endless
amount of partisanship on their behalf, which latter gave him a full
right to the national motto of Scotland. Indeed, for nothing in the
world but money, would he have sacrificed what seemed to him their
interests.
A man must learn to love his children, not because they are his, but
because they are _children_, else his love will be scarcely a better
thing at last than the party-spirit of the faithful politician. I doubt
if it will prove even so good a thing.
From this hatred to Alec Forbes came some small consequences at length.
But for the present it found no outlet save in sneers and prophetic
hints of an "ill hinner en'."
CHAPTER XII.
In her inmost heart Annie dedicated herself to the service of Alec
Forbes. Nor was it long before she had an opportunity of helping him.
One Saturday the master made his appearance in black instead of white
stockings, which was regarded by the scholars as a bad omen; and fully
were their prognostications justified, on this occasion, at least. The
joy of the half-holiday for Scotch boys and girls has a terrible weight
laid in the opposite scale--I mean the other half of the day. This
weight, which brings the day pretty much on a level with all other
days, consists in a free use of the Shorter Catechism. This, of course,
made them hate the Catechism, though I am not aware that that was of
any great consequence, or much to be regretted. For my part, I wish the
spiritual engineers who constructed it had, after laying the grandest
foundation-stone that truth could afford them, glorified God by going
no further. Certainly many a man would have enjoyed Him sooner, if it
had not been for their work. But, alas! the Catechism was not enough,
even of the kind. The tormentors of youth had gone further, and
provided what they called Scripture proofs of the various assertions of
the Catechism; a support of which it stood greatly in need. Alas! I
say, for the boys and girls who had to learn these proofs, called texts
of Scripture, but too frequently only morsels torn bleeding and
shapeless from "the lovely form of the Virgin Truth!" For these tasks,
combined with the pains and penalties which accompanied failure, taught
them to dislike the Bible as well as the Catechism, and that was a
matter of altogether different import.
Every Saturday, then, Murdoch Malison's pupils had to learn so many
questions of the Shorter Catechism, with proofs from Scripture; and
whoever failed in this task was condemmed to imprisonment for the
remainder of the day, or, at least, till the task should be
accomplished. The imprisonment was sometimes commuted for
chastisement--or finished off with it, when it did not suit the
convenience of the master to enforce the full term of a school-day.
Upon certain Saturdays, moreover, one in each month, I think, a
repetition was required of all the questions and proofs that had been,
or ought to have been, learned since the last observance of the same
sort.
Now the day in question was one of these of accumulated labour, and
Alec Forbes only succeeded in bringing proof of his inability for the
task, and was in consequence condemned "to be keepit in"--a trial hard
enough for one whose chief delights were the open air and the active
exertion of every bodily power.
Annie caught sight of his mortified countenance, the expression of
which, though she had not heard his doom, so filled her with concern
and indignation, that--her eyes and thoughts fixed upon him, at the
other end of the class--she did not know when her turn came, but
allowed the master to stand before her in bootless expectation. He did
not interrupt her, but with a refinement of cruelty that ought to have
done him credit in his own eyes, waited till the universal silence had
at length aroused Annie to self-consciousness and a sense of
annihilating confusion. Then, with a smile on his thin lips, but a
lowering thunder-cloud on his brow, he repeated the question:
"What doth every sin deserve?"
Annie, bewildered, and burning with shame at finding herself the core
of the silence--feeling is if her poor little spirit stood there naked
to the scoffs and jeers around--could not recall a word of the answer
given in the Catechism. So, in her bewilderment, she fell back on her
common sense and experience, which, she ought to have known, had
nothing to do with the matter in hand.
"What doth every sin deserve?" again repeated the tyrant.
"A lickin'," whimpered Annie, and burst into tears.
The master seemed much inclined to consider her condemned out of her
own mouth, and give her a whipping at once; for it argued more than
ignorance to answer _a whipping_, instead of _the wrath and curse of
God_, &c., &c., as plainly set down in the Scotch Targum. But
reflecting, perhaps, that she was a girl, and a little one, and that
although it would be more gratification to him to whip her, it might be
equal suffering to her to be _kept in_, he gave that side wave of his
head which sealed the culprit's doom, and Annie took her place among
the condemned, with a flutter of joy at her heart that Alec Forbes
would not be left without a servant to wait upon him. A few more boys
made up the unfortunate party, but they were all little ones, and so
there was no companion for Forbes, who evidently felt the added
degradation of being alone. The hour arrived; the school was dismissed;
the master strode out, locking the door behind him; and the defaulters
were left alone, to chew the bitter cud of ill-cooked Theology.
For some time a dreary silence reigned. Alec sat with his elbows on his
desk, biting his nails, and gnawing his hands. Annie sat dividing her
silent attention between her book and Alec. The other boys were, or
seemed to be, busy with their catechisms, in the hope of getting out as
soon as the master returned. At length Alec took out his knife, and
began, for very vacancy, to whittle away at the desk before him. When
Annie saw that, she crept across to his form, and sat down on the end
of it. Alec looked up at her, smiled, and went on with his whittling.
Annie slid a little nearer to him, and asked him to hear her say her
catechism. He consented, and she repeated the lesson perfectly.
"Now let me hear you, Alec," she said.
"Na, thank ye, Annie. I canna say't. And I wonna say't for a' the
dominies in creation."
"But he'll lick ye, Alec; an' I 'canna bide it," said Annie, the tears
beginning to fill her eyes.
"Weel, I'll try--to please you, Annie," said Alec, seeing that the
little thing was in earnest.
How her heart bounded with delight! That great boy, so strong and so
brave, trying to learn a lesson to please her!
But it would not do.
"I canna min' a word o' 't, Annie. I'm dreidfu' hungry, forbye. I was
in a hurry wi' my brakfast the day. Gin I had kent what was comin', I
wad hae laid in a better stock," he added, laughing rather drearily.
As he spoke he looked up; and his eyes wandered from one window to
another for a few moments after he had ceased speaking.
"Na; it's no use," he resumed at last. "I hae eaten ower muckle for
that, ony gait."
Annie was as pitiful over Alec's hunger as any mother over her child's.
She felt it pure injustice that he should ever be hungry. But, unable
to devise any help, she could only say,
"I dinna ken what ye mean, Alec."
"Whan I was na bigger than you, Annie, I could win oot at a less hole
than that," answered he, and pointed to the open wooden pane in an
upper corner of one the windows; "but I hae eaten ower muckle sin
syne."
And he laughed again; but it was again an unsuccessful laugh.
Annie sprang to her feet.
"Gin ye could win throu that hole ance, I can win throu't noo, Alec.
Jist haud me up a bit. Ye _can_ lift me, ye ken."
And she looked up at him shyly and gratefully.
"But what will ye do when ye _are_ oot, Annie?"
"Rin hame, and fess a loaf wi' me direckly."
"But Rob Bruce'll see yer heid atween yer feet afore he'll gie ye a
loaf, or a mou'fu' o' cakes either; an' it's ower far to rin to my
mither's. Murdoch wad be back lang or that."
"Jist help me oot, an' lea' the lave to me," said Annie, confidently.
"Gin I dinna fess a loaf o' white breid, never lippen (trust) to me
again."
The idea of the bread, always a rarity and consequent delicacy to
Scotch country boys, so early in the century as the date of my story,
was too much for Alec's imagination. He jumped up, and put his head out
of one of those open panes to reconnoitre. He saw a woman approaching
whom he knew.
"I say, Lizzie," he called.
The woman stopped.
"What's yer wull, Maister Alec?"
"Jist stan' there an' pu' this lassie oot. We're a' keepit in
thegither, and nearhan' hungert."
"The Lord preserve 's! I'll gang for the key."
"Na, na; _we_ wad hae to pay for that. Tak her oot--that's a' we want."
"He's a coorse crayter--that maister o' yours. I wad gang to see him
hangt."
"Bide a wee; that'll come in guid time," said Alec,
pseudo-prophetically.
"Weel I s' hae a pu' at the legs o' him, to help him to jeedgement; for
he'll be the deith o' ane or twa o' ye afore lang."
"Never min' Murder Malison. Will ye tak oot the bit lassie?"
"Od will I! Whaur is she?"
Alec jumped down and held her up to the open pane, not a foot square.
He told her to put her arms through first. Then between them they got
her head through, whereupon Lizzie caught hold of her--so low was the
school-room--and dragged her out, and set her on her feet. But alas, a
window was broken in the process!
"Noo, Annie," cried Alec, "never min' the window. Rin."
She was off like a live bullet.
She scampered home prepared to encounter all dangers. The worst of them
all to her mind was the danger of not succeeding, and of so breaking
faith with Alec. She had sixpence of her own in coppers in her
box,--the only difficulty was to get into the house and out again
without being seen. By employing the utmost care and circumspection,
she got in by the back or house door unperceived, and so up to her
room. In a moment more the six pennies were in her hand, and she in the
street; for she did not use the same amount of precaution in getting
out again, not minding discovery so much now, if she could only have a
fair start. No one followed her, however. She bolted into a baker's
shop.
"A saxpenny-loaf," she panted out.
"Wha wants it?" asked the baker's wife.
"There's the bawbees," answered Annie, laying them on the counter.
The baker's wife gave her the loaf, with the biscuit which, from time
immemorial, had always graced a purchase to the amount of sixpence; and
Annie sped back to the school like a runaway horse to his stable.
As she approached, out popped the head of Alec Forbes. He had been
listening for the sound of her feet. She held up the loaf as high as
she could, and he stretched down as low as he could, and so their hands
met on the loaf.
"Thank ye, Annie," said Alec with earnestness. "I shanna forget this.
Hoo got ye't?"
"Never ye min' that. I didna steal't," answered Annie. "But I maun win
in again," she added, suddenly awaking to that difficult necessity, and
looking up at the window above her head.
"I'm a predestined idiot!" said Alec, with an impious allusion to the
Shorter Catechism, as he scratched his helpless head. "I never thocht
o' that."
It was clearly impossible.
"Ye'll catch't," said one of the urchins to Annie, with his nose
flattened against the window.
The roses of Annie's face turned pale, but she answered stoutly,
"Weel! I care as little as the lave o' ye, I'm thinkin'."
By this time the "idiot" had made up his mind. He never could make up
any other than a bull-headed mind.
"Rin hame, Annie," he said; "and gin Murder offers to lay a finger o'
ye upo' Monday, _I'll_ murder him. Faith! I'll kill him. Rin hame afore
he comes and catches ye at the window."
"No, no, Alec," pleaded Annie.
"Haud yer tongue," interrupted Alec, "and rin, will ye?"
Seeing he was quite determined, Annie, though loath to leave him, and
in terror of what was implied in the threats he uttered against the
master and might be involved in the execution of them, obeyed him and
walked leisurely home, avoiding the quarters in which there was a
chance of meeting her gaoler.
She found that no one had observed her former visit; the only remarks
made being some _goody_ ones about the disgrace of being kept in.
When Mr Malison returned to the school about four o'clock, he found all
quiet as death. The boys appeared totally absorbed in _committing_ the
Shorter Catechism, as if the Shorter Catechism was a sin, which perhaps
it was not. But, to his surprise, which he pretended to be considerably
greater than it really was, the girl was absent.
"Where is Ann Anderson?" were the first words he condescended to utter.
"Gane hame," cried two of the little prisoners.
"Gone home!" echoed the master in a tone of savage incredulity;
although not only was it plain that she was gone, but he must have
known well enough, from former experience, how her escape had been
effected.
"Yes," said Forbes; "it was me made her go. I put her out at the
window. And I broke the window," he added, knowing that it must soon be
found out, "but I'll get it mended on Monday."
Malison turned as white as a sheet with venomous rage. Indeed, the
hopelessness of the situation had made Alec speak with too much
nonchalance.
Anxious to curry favour, the third youngster now called out,
"Sandy Forbes gart her gang an' fess a loaf o' white breid."
Of this bread, the wretched informer had still some of the crumbs
sticking to his jacket--so vitiating is the influence of a reign of
terror. The bread was eaten, and the giver might be betrayed in the
hope of gaining a little favour with the tyrant.
"Alexander Forbes, come up."
Beyond this point I will not here prosecute the narrative.
Alec bore his punishment with great firmness, although there were few
beholders, and none of them worth considering. After he had spent his
wrath, the master allowed them all to depart without further reference
to the Shorter Catechism.
CHAPTER XIII.
The Sunday following was anything but a day of repose for Annie--she
looked with such frightful anticipation to the coming Monday. Nor was
the assurance with which Alec Forbes had sent her away, and which she
was far from forgetting, by any means productive of unmingled
consolation; for, in a conflict with such a power of darkness as Mr
Malison, how could Alec, even if sure to be victorious as any knight of
old story, come off without injury terrible and not to be contemplated!
Yet, strange to tell--or was it really strange?--as she listened to the
evening sermon, a sermon quietly and gently enforcing the fate of the
ungodly, it was not with exultation at the tardy justice that would
overtake such men as Murdock Malison or Robert Bruce, nor yet with pity
for their fate, that she listened; but with anxious heart-aching fear
for her friend, the noble, the generous Alec Forbes, who withstood
authority, and was therefore in danger of hell-fire. About her own
doom, speculation was uninteresting.
The awful morning dawned. When she woke, and the thought of what she
had to meet came back on her, though it could hardly be said to have
been a moment absent all night long, she turned, not metaphorically,
but physically sick. Yet breakfast time would come, and worship did not
fail to follow, and then to school she must go. There all went on as
usual for some time. The Bible-class was called up, heard, and
dismissed; and Annie was beginning to hope that the whole affair was
somehow or other wrapt up and laid by. She had heard nothing of Alec's
fate after she had left him imprisoned, and except a certain stoniness
in his look, which a single glance discovered, his face gave no sign.
She dared not lift her eyes from the spelling-book before her, to look
in the direction of the master. No murderer could have felt more keenly
as if all the universe were one eye, and that eye fixed on him, than
Annie.
Suddenly the awful voice resounded through the school, and the words it
uttered--though even after she heard them it seemed too terrible to be
true--were,
"Ann Anderson, come up."
For a moment she lost consciousness--or at least memory. When she
recovered herself, she found herself standing before the master. His
voice seemed to have left two or three unanswered questions somewhere
in her head. What they were she had no idea. But presently he spoke
again, and, from the tone, what he said was evidently the repetition of
a question--probably put more than once before.
"Did you, or did you not, go out at the window on Saturday?"
She did not see that Alec Forbes had left his seat, and was slowly
lessening the distance between them and him.
"Yes," she answered, trembling from head to foot.
"Did you, or did you not, bring a loaf of bread to those who were kept
in?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where did you get it?"
"I bought it, sir."
"Where did you get the money?"
Of course every eye in the school was fixed upon her, those of her
cousins sparkling with delight.
"I got it oot o' my ain kist, sir."
"Hold up your hand."
Annie obeyed, with a most pathetic dumb terror pleading in her face.
"Don't touch her," said Alec Forbes, stepping between the executioner
and his victim. "You know well enough it was all my fault. I told you
so on Saturday."
Murder Malison, as the boys called him, turned with the tawse over his
shoulder, whence it had been on the point of swooping upon Annie, and
answered him with a hissing blow over his down-bent head, followed by a
succession of furious blows upon every part of his person, as it
twisted and writhed and doubled; till, making no attempt at resistance,
he was knocked down by the storm, and lay prostrate under the fierce
lashes, the master holding him down with one foot, and laying on with
the whole force of the opposite arm. At length Malison stopped,
exhausted, and turning, white with rage, towards Annie, who was almost
in a fit with agony, repeated the order:
"Hold up your hand."
But as he turned Alec bounded to his feet, his face glowing, and his
eyes flashing, and getting round in front, sprang at the master's
throat, just as the tawse was descending. Malison threw him off, and
lifting his weapon once more, swept it with a stinging lash round his
head and face. Alec, feeling that this was no occasion on which to
regard the rules of fair fight, stooped his head, and rushed, like a
ram, or a negro, full tilt against the pit of Malison's stomach, and
doubling him up, sent him with a crash into the peat fire which was
glowing on the hearth. In the attempt to save himself, he thrust his
hand right into it, and Alec and Annie were avenged.
Alec rushed to drag him off the fire; but he was up before he reached
him.
"Go home!" he bawled to the scholars generally, and sat down at his
desk to hide his suffering.
For one brief moment there was silence. Then a tumult arose, a
shouting, and holloing, and screeching, and the whole school rushed to
the door, as if the devil had been after them to catch the hindmost.
Strange uproar invaded the ears of Glamerton--strange, that is, at
eleven o'clock in the forenoon of Monday--the uproar of jubilant
freedom.
But the culprits, Annie and Alec, stood and stared at the master, whose
face was covered with one hand, while the other hung helpless at his
side. Annie stopped partly out of pity for the despot, and partly
because Alec stopped. Alec stopped because he was the author of the
situation--at least he never could give any better reason.
At length Mr Malison lifted his head, and made a movement towards his
hat. He started when he saw the two standing there. But the moment he
looked at them their courage failed them.
"Rin, Annie!" said Alec.
Away she bolted, and he after her, as well as he could, which was not
with his usual fleetness by any means. When Annie had rounded a corner,
not in the master's way home, she stopped, and looked back for Alec. He
was a good many paces behind her; and then first she discovered the
condition of her champion. For now that the excitement was over, he
could scarcely walk, and evidence in kind was not wanting that from
head to foot he must be one mass of wales and bruises. He put his hand
on her shoulder to help him along, and made no opposition to her
accompanying him as far as the gate of his mother's garden, which was
nearly a mile from the town, on the further bank of one of the rivers
watering the valley-plain in which Glamerton had stood for hundreds of
years. Then she went slowly home, bearing with her the memory of the
smile which, in spite of pain, had illuminated his tawse-waled cheeks,
as she took her leave.
"Good-bye, dear Alec!" she had said.
"Good-bye, Annie dear," he had answered, with the smile; and she had
watched him crawl into the house before she turned away.
When she got home, she saw at once, from the black looks of the Bruce,
that the story, whether in its trite shape or not, had arrived before
her.
Nothing was said, however, till after worship; when Bruce gave her a
long lecture, as impressive as the creature was capable of making it,
on the wickedness and certain punishment of "takin' up wi' ill loons
like Sandy Forbes, wha was brakin' his mither's hert wi' his baad
behaviour." But he came to the conclusion, as he confided to his wife
that night, that the lassie "was growin' hardent already;" probably
from her being in a state of too great excitement from the events of
the day to waste a tear upon his lecture; for, as she said in the
hearing of the rottans, when she went up to bed, she "_didna care a
flee for't_." But the moment she lay down she fell to weeping bitterly
over the sufferings of Alec. She was asleep in a moment after, however.
If it had not been for the power of sleeping that there was in the
child, she must long before now have given way to the hostile
influences around her, and died.
There was considerable excitement about the hearths of Glamerton,
generally, in consequence of the news of the master's defeat carried
home by the children. For, although it was amazing how little of the
doings at school the children were in the habit of reporting--so
little, indeed, that this account involved revelations of the character
and proceedings of Mr Malison which appeared to many of the parents
quite incredible--the present occurrence so far surpassed the ordinary,
and had excited the beholders so much, that they could not be quiet
about it. Various were the judgments elicited by the story. The
religious portion of the community seemed to their children to side
with the master; the worldly--namely, those who did not profess to be
particularly religious--all sided with Alec Forbes; with the exception
of a fish-cadger, who had one son, the plague of his life.
Amongst the religious, there was, at least, one exception, too; but he
had no children of his own, and had a fancy for Alec Forbes. That
exception was Thomas Crann, the stone-mason.
CHAPTER XIV.
Thomas Crann was building a house; for he was both contractor--in a
small way, it is true, not undertaking to do anything without the
advance of a good part of the estimate--and day-labourer at his own
job. Having arrived at the point in the process where the assistance of
a carpenter was necessary, he went to George Macwha, whom he found at
his bench, planing. This bench was in a work-shop, with two or three
more benches in it, some deals set up against the wall, a couple of red
cart-wheels sent in for repair, and the tools and materials of his
trade all about. The floor was covered with shavings, or _spales_, as
they are called by northern consent, which a poor woman was busy
gathering into a sack. After a short and gruff greeting on the part of
Crann, and a more cordial reply from Macwha, who ceased his labour to
attend to his visitor, they entered on the business-question, which
having been carefully and satisfactorily discussed, with the aid of
various diagrams upon the half-planed deal, Macwha returned to his
work, and the conversation took a more general scope, accompanied by
the sounds of Macwha's busy instrument.
"A terrible laddie, that Sandy Forbes!" said the carpenter, with a sort
of laugh in the _whishk_ of his plane, as he threw off a splendid
_spale_. "They say he's lickit the dominie, and 'maist been the deid o'
him."
"I hae kent waur laddies nor Sandy Forbes," was Thomas's curt reply.
"Ow, deed ay! I ken naething agen the laddie. Him an' oor Willie's unco
throng."
To this the sole answer Thomas gave was a grunt, and a silence of a few
seconds followed before he spoke, reverting to the point from which
they had started.
"I'm no clear but Alec micht hae committed a waur sin than thrashin'
the dominie. He's a dour crater, that Murdoch Malison, wi' his fair
face and his picket words. I doot the bairns hae the warst o' 't in
general. And for Alec I hae great houpes. He comes o' a guid stock. His
father, honest man, was ane o' the Lord's ain, although he didna mak'
sic a stan' as, maybe, he ought to hae dune; and gin his mither has
been jist raither saft wi' him, and gi'en him ower lang a tether, he'll
come a' richt afore lang, for he's worth luikin efter."
"I dinna richtly unnerstan' ye, Thamas."
"I dinna think the Lord 'll tyne the grip o' his father's son. He's no
convertit yet, but he's weel worth convertin', for there's guid stuff
in him."
Thomas did not consider how his common sense was running away with his
theology. But Macwha was not the man to bring him to book on that
score. His only reply lay in the careless _whishk whashk_ of his plane.
Thomas resumed:
"He jist wants what ye want, Gleorge Macwha."
"What's that, Thamas?" asked George, with a grim attempt at a smile, as
if to say: "I know what's coming, but I'm not going to mind it."
"He jist wants to be weel shaken ower the mou' o' the pit. He maun
smell the brunstane o' the everlastin' burnin's. He's nane o' yer saft
buirds, that ye can sleek wi' a sweyp o' yer airm; he's a blue
whunstane that's hard to dress, but, anes dressed, it bides the weather
bonnie. I like to work upo' hard stane mysel. Nane o' yer saft
freestane, 'at ye cud cut wi' a k-nife, for me!"
"Weel, I daursay ye're richt, Thamas."
"And, forbye, they say he took a' his ain licks ohn said a word, and
flew at the maister only whan he was gaein to lick the puir orphan
lassie--Jeames Anderson's lassie, ye ken."
"Ow! ay. It's the same tale they a' tell. I hae nae doobt it's
correck."
"Weel, lat him tak it, than, an' be thankfu'! for it's no more than was
weel waured (spent) on him."
With these conclusive words, Thomas departed. He was no sooner out of
the shop, than out started, from behind the deal boards that stood
against the wall, Willie, the eldest hope of the house of Macwha, a
dusky-skinned, black-eyed, curly-headed, roguish-looking boy, Alec
Forbes's companion and occasional accomplice. He was more mischievous
than Alec, and sometimes led him into unforeseen scrapes; but whenever
anything extensive had to be executed, Alec was always the leader.
"What are ye hidin' for, ye rascal?" said his father. "What mischeef
hae ye been efter noo?"
"Naething by ordinar'," was Willie's cool reply.
"What garred ye hide, than?"
"Tam Crann never sets ee upo' me, but he misca's me, an' I dinna like
to be misca'd, mair nor ither fowk."
"Ye get nae mair nor ye deserve, I doobt," returned George. "Here, tak
the chisel, and cut that beadin' into len'ths."
"I'm gaein' ower the water to speir efter Alec," was the excusatory
rejoinder.
"Ay, ay! pot and pan!--What ails Alec noo?"
"Mr Malison's nearhan' killed him. He hasna been at the schuil this twa
days."
With these words Willie bolted from the shop, and set off at full
speed. The latter part of his statement was perfectly true.
The day after the fight, Mr Malison came to the school as usual, but
with his arm in a sling. To Annie's dismay, Alec did not make his
appearance.
It had of course been impossible to conceal his corporal condition from
his mother; and the heart of the widow so yearned over the suffering of
her son, though no confession of suffering escaped Alec's lips, that
she vowed in anger that he should never cross the door of that school
again. For three or four days she held immovably to her resolution,
much to Alec's annoyance, and to the consternation of Mr Malison, who
feared that he had not only lost a pupil, but made an enemy. For Mr
Malison had every reason for being as smooth-faced with the parents as
he always was: he had ulterior hopes in Glamerton. The clergyman was
getting old, and Mr Malison was a licentiate of the Church; and
although the people had no direct voice in the filling of the pulpit,
it was very desirable that a candidate should have none but friends in
the parish.
Mr Malison made no allusion whatever to the events of Monday, and
things went on as usual in the school, with just one exception: for a
whole week the tawse did not make its appearance. This was owing in
part at least to the state of his hand; but if he had ever wished to be
freed from the necessity of using the lash, he might have derived hope
from the fact that somehow or other the boys were during this week no
worse than usual. I do not pretend to explain the fact, and beg leave
to refer it to occult meteorological influences.
As soon as school was over on that first day of Alec's absence, Annie
darted off on the road to Howglen, where he lived, and never dropped
into a walk till she reached the garden-gate. Fully conscious of the
inferiority of her position, she went to the kitchen door. The door was
opened to her knock before she had recovered breath enough to speak.
The servant, seeing a girl with a shabby dress, and a dirty bonnet,
from underneath which hung disorderly masses of hair--they would have
_glinted_ in the eye of the sun, but in the eye of the maid they looked
only dusky and disreputable--for Annie was not kept so tidy on the
interest of her money as she had been at the farm--the girl, I say,
seeing this, and finding besides, as she thought, that Annie had
nothing to say, took her for a beggar, and returning into the kitchen,
brought her a piece of oat-cake, the common dole to the young
mendicants of the time. Annie's face flushed crimson, but she said
gently, having by this time got her runaway breath a little more under
control,
"No, I thank ye; I'm no a beggar. I only wanted to ken hoo Alec was the
day."
"Come in," said the girl, anxious to make some amends for her blunder,
"and I'll tell the mistress."
Annie would gladly have objected, contenting herself with the maid's
own account; but she felt rather than understood that there would be
something undignified in refusing to face Alec's mother; so she
followed the maid into the kitchen, and sat down on the edge of a
wooden chair, like a perching bird, till she should return.
"Please, mem, here's a lassie wantin' to ken hoo Maister Alec is the
day," said Mary, with the handle of the parlour door in her hand.
"That must be little Annie Anderson, mamma," said Alec, who was lying
on the sofa very comfortable, considering what he had to lie upon.
It may be guessed at once that Scotch was quite discouraged at home.
Alec had told his mother all about the affair; and some of her friends
from Glamerton, who likewise had sons at the school, had called and
given their versions of the story, in which the prowess of Alec made
more of than in his own account. Indeed, all his fellow-scholars except
the young Bruces, sung his praises aloud; for, whatever the degree of
their affection for Alec, every one of them hated the master--a
terrible thought for him, if he had been able to appreciate it; but I
do not believe he had any suspicion of the fact that he was the centre
of converging thoughts of revengeful dislike. So the mother was proud
of her boy--far prouder than she was willing for him to see: indeed,
she put on the guise of the offended proprieties as much as she could
in his presence, thus making Alec feel like a culprit in hers, which
was more than she intended, or would have liked, could she have peeped
into his mind. So she could not help feeling some interest in Annie,
and some curiosity to see her. She had known James Anderson, her
father, and he had been her guest more than once when he had called
upon business. Everybody had liked him; and this general approbation
was owing to no lack of character, but to his genuine kindness of
heart. So Mrs Forbes was prejudiced in Annie's favour--but far more by
her own recollections of the father, than by her son's representations
of the daughter.
"Tell her to come up, Mary," she said.
So Annie, with all the disorganization of school about her, was shown,
considerably to her discomfort, into Mrs Forbes's dining-room.
There was nothing remarkable in the room; but to Annie's eyes it seemed
magnificent, for carpet and curtains, sideboard and sofa, were luxuries
altogether strange to her eyes. So she entered very timidly, and stood
trembling and pale--for she rarely blushed except when angry--close to
the door. But Alec scrambled from the sofa, and taking hold of her by
both hands, pulled her up to his mother.
"There she is, mamma!" he said.
And Mrs Forbes, although her sense of the fitness of things was not
gratified at seeing her son treat with such familiarity a girl so
neglectedly attired, yet received her kindly and shook hands with her.
"How do you do, Annie?" she said.
"Quite well, I thank ye, mem," answered Annie, showing in her voice
that she was owerawed by the grand lady, yet mistress enough of her
manners not to forget a pretty modest courtesy as she spoke.
"What's gaein' on at the school the day, Annie?" asked Alec.
"Naething by ordidar," answered Annie, the sweetness of her tones
contrasting with the roughness of the dialect. "The maister's a hantle
quaieter than usual. I fancy he's a' the better behaved for's brunt
fingers. But, oh, Alec!"
And here the little maiden burst into a passionate fit of crying.
"What's the matter, Annie," said Mrs Forbes, as she drew her nearer,
genuinely concerned at the child's tears.
"Oh! mem, ye didna see hoo the maister lickit him, or ye wad hae
grutten yersel'."
Tears from some mysterious source sprang to Mrs Forbes's eyes. But at
the moment Mary opened the door, and said--
"Here's Maister Bruce, mem, wantin' to see ye."
"Tell him to walk up, Mary."
"Oh! no, no, mem; dinna lat him come till I'm out o' this. He'll tak'
me wi' him," cried Annie.
Mary stood waiting the result.
"But you must go home, you know, Annie," said Mrs Forbes, kindly.
"Ay, but no wi' _him_," pleaded Annie.
From what Mrs Forbes knew of the manners and character of Bruce, she
was not altogether surprised at Annie's reluctance. So, turning to the
maid, she said--
"Have you told Mr Bruce that Miss Anderson is here?"
"Me tell him! No, mem. What's _his_ business?"
"Mary, you forget yourself."
"Weel, mem, I canna bide him."
"Hold your tongue, Mary," said her mistress, hardly able to restrain
her own amusement, "and take the child into my room till he is gone.
But perhaps he knows you are here, Annie?"
"He canna ken that, mem. He jumps at things whiles, though, sharp
eneuch."
"Well, well! We shall see."
So Mary led Annie away to the sanctuary of Mrs Forbes's bed-room.
But the Bruce was not upon Annie's track at all. His visit wants a few
words of explanation.
Bruce's father had been a faithful servant to Mr Forbes's father, who
held the same farm before his son, both having been what are called
gentlemen-farmers. The younger Bruce, being anxious to set up a shop,
had, for his father's sake, been assisted with money by the elder
Forbes. This money he had repaid before the death of the old man, who
had never asked any interest for it. More than a few years had not
passed before Bruce, who had a wonderful capacity for petty business,
was known to have accumulated some savings in the bank. Now the younger
Forbes, being considerably more enterprising than his father, had spent
all his capital upon improvements--draining, fencing, and such
like--when a younger brother, to whom he was greatly attached, applied
to him for help in an emergency, and he had nothing of his own within
his reach wherewith to aid him. In this difficulty he bethought him of
Bruce, to borrow from whom would not involve the exposure of the fact
that he was in any embarrassment, however temporary--an exposure very
undesirable in a country town like Glamerton.
After a thorough investigation of the solvency of Mr Forbes, and a
proper delay for consideration besides, Bruce supplied him with a
hundred pounds upon personal bond, at the usual rate of interest, for a
certain term of years. Mr Forbes died soon after, leaving his affairs
in some embarrassment in consequence of his outlay. Mrs Forbes had paid
the interest of the debt now for two years; but, as the rent of the
farm was heavy, she found this additional trifle a burden. She had good
reason, however, to hope for better times, as the farm must soon
increase its yield. Mr Bruce, on his part, regarded the widow with
somewhat jealous eyes, because he very much doubted whether, when the
day arrived, she would be able to pay him the money she owed him. That
day was, however, not just at hand. It was this diversion of his
resources, and not the moral necessity for a nest-egg, as he had
represented the case to Margaret Anderson, which had urged him to show
hospitality to Annie Anderson and her little fortune.
So neither was it anxiety for the welfare of Alec that induced him to
call on Mrs Forbes. Indeed if Malison had killed him outright, he would
have been rather pleased than otherwise. But he was in the habit of
reminding the widow of his existence by all occasional call, especially
when the time approached for the half-yearly payment of the interest.
And now the report of Alec's condition gave him a suitable pretext for
looking in upon his debtor, without, as he thought, appearing too
greedy after his money.
"Weel, mem, hoo are ye the day?" said he, as he entered, rubbing his
hands.
"Quite well, thank you, Mr Bruce. Take a seat."
"An' hoo's Mr Alec?"
"There he is to answer for himself," said Mrs Forbes, looking towards
the sofa.
"Hoo are ye, Mr Alec, efter a' this?" said Bruce, turning towards him.
"Quite well, thank you," answered Alec, in a tone that did not
altogether please either of the listeners.
"I thocht ye had been raither sair, sir," returned Bruce, in an acid
tone.
"I've got a wale or two, that's all," said Alec.
"Weel, I houp it'll be a lesson to ye."
"To Mr Malison, you should have said, Mr Bruce. I am perfectly
satisfied, for my part."
His mother was surprised to hear him speak like a grown man, as well as
annoyed at his behaviour to Bruce, in whose power she feared they might
one day find themselves to their cost. But she said nothing. Bruce,
likewise, was rather nonplussed. He grinned a smile and was silent.
"I hear you have taken James Anderson's daughter into your family now,
Mr Bruce."
"Ow, ay, mem. There was nobody to luik efter the bit lassie; sae,
though I cud but ill affoord it, wi' my ain sma' faimily comin' up, I
was jist in a mainner obleeged to tak' her, Jeames Anderson bein' a
cousin o' my ain, ye ken, mem."
"Well, I am sure it was very kind of you and Mrs Bruce. How does the
child get on?"
"Middlin', mem, middlin'. She's jist some ill for takin' up wi' loons."
Here he glanced at Alec, with an expression of successful spite. He
certainly had the best of it now.
Alec was on the point of exclaiming "That's a lie," but he had prudence
enough to restrain himself, perceiving that the contradiction would
have a better chance with his mother if he delayed its utterance till
after the departure of Bruce. So, meantime, the subject was not
pursued. A little desultory conversation followed, and the visitor
departed, with a laugh from between his teeth as he took leave of Alec,
which I can only describe as embodying an _I told you so_ sort of
satisfaction.
Almost as soon as he was out of the house the parlour-door opened, and
Mary brought in Annie. Mrs Forbes's eyes were instantly fixed on her
with mild astonishment, and something of a mother's tenderness awoke in
her heart towards the little maid-child. What would she not have given
for such a daughter! During Bruce's call, Mary had been busy with the
child. She had combed and brushed her thick brown hair, and, taken with
its exceeding beauty, had ventured on a stroke of originality no one
would have expected of her: she had left it hanging loose on her
shoulders. Any one would think such an impropriety impossible to a
Scotchwoman. But then she had been handling the hair, and contact with
anything alters so much one's theories about it. If Mary had found it
so, instead of making it so, she would have said it was "no dacent."
But the hair gave her its own theory before she had done with it, and
this was the result. She had also washed her face and hands and neck,
made the best she could of her poor, dingy dress, and put one of her
own Sunday collars upon her.
Annie had submitted to it all without question; and thus adorned, Mary
introduced her again to the dining-room. Before Mrs Forbes had time to
discover that she was shocked, she was captivated by the pale, patient
face, and the longing blue eyes, that looked at her as if the child
felt that she ought to have been her mother, but somehow they had
missed each other. They gazed out of the shadows of the mass of dark
brown wavy hair that fell to her waist, and there was no more any need
for Alec to contradict Bruce's calumny. But Mrs Forbes was speedily
recalled to a sense of propriety by observing that Alec too was staring
at Annie with a mingling of amusement, admiration, and respect.
"What have you been about, Mary?" she said, in a tone of attempted
reproof. "You have made a perfect fright of the child. Take her away."
When Annie was once more brought back, with her hair restored to its
net, silent tears of mortification were still flowing down her
cheeks.--When Annie cried, the tears always rose and flowed without any
sound or convulsion. Rarely did she sob even.--This completed the
conquest of Mrs Forbes's heart. She drew the little one to her, and
kissed her, and Annie's tears instantly ceased to rise, while Mrs
Forbes wiped away those still lingering on her face. Mary then went to
get the tea, and Mrs Forbes having left the room for a moment to
recover that self-possession, the loss of which is peculiarly
objectionable to a Scotchwoman, Annie was left seated on a footstool
before the bright fire, the shadows from which were now dancing about
the darkening room, and Alec lay on the sofa looking at her. There was
no great occasion for his lying on the sofa, but his mother desired it,
and Alec had at present no particular objection.
"I wadna like to be gran' fowk," mused Annie aloud, for getting that
she was not alone.
"We're no gran' fowk, Annie," said Alec.
"Ay are ye," returned Annie, persistently.
"Weel, what for wadna ye like it?"
"Ye maun be aye feared for blaudin' things."
"Mamma wad tell ye a different story," rejoined Alec laughing. "There's
naething here to blaud (spoil)."
Mrs Forbes returned. Tea was brought in. Annie comported herself like a
lady, and, after tea, ran home with mingled feelings of pleasure and
pain. For, notwithstanding her assertion that she would not like to be
"gran' fowk," the kitchen fire, small and dull, the smelling shop, and
her own dreary garret-room, did not seem more desirable from her peep
into the warmth and comfort of the house at Howglen.
Questioned as to what had delayed her return from school, she told the
truth; that she had gone to ask after Alec Forbes, and that they had
kept her to tea.
"I tauld them that ye ran efter the loons!" said Bruce triumphantly.
Then stung with the reflection that _he_ had not been asked to stay to
tea, he added: "It's no for the likes o' you, Annie, to gang to
gentlefowk's hooses, makin' free whaur ye're no wantit. Sae dinna lat
me hear the like again."
But it was wonderful how Bruce's influence over Annie, an influence of
distress, was growing gradually weaker. He could make her uncomfortable
enough; but as to his opinion of her, she had almost reached the point
of not caring a straw for that. And she had faith enough in Alec to
hope that he would defend her from whatever Bruce might have said
against her.
Whether Mary had been talking in the town, as is not improbable, about
little Annie Anderson's visit to her mistress, and so the story of the
hair came to be known, or not, I cannot tell; but it was a notable
coincidence that a few days after, Mrs Bruce came to the back-door,
with a great pair of shears in her hand, and calling Annie, said:
"Here, Annie! Yer hair's ower lang. I maun jist clip it. It's giein ye
sair een."
"There's naething the maitter wi' my een," said Annie gently.
"Dinna answer back. Sit doon," returned Mrs Bruce, leading her into the
kitchen.
Annie cared very little for her hair, and well enough remembered that
Mrs Forbes had said it made a fright of her; so it was with no great
reluctance that she submitted to the operation. Mrs Bruce chopped it
short off all round. As, however, this permitted what there was of it
to fall about her face, there being too little to confine in the usual
prison of the net, her appearance did not bear such marks of
deprivation, or, in other and Scotch words, "she didna luik sae
dockit," as might have been expected.
Her wavy locks of rich brown were borne that night, by the careful hand
of Mrs Bruce, to Rob Guddle, the barber. Nor was the hand less careful
that brought back their equivalent in money. With a smile to her
husband, half loving and half cunning, Mrs Bruce dropped the amount
into the till.
CHAPTER XV.
Although Alec Forbes was not a boy of quick receptivity as far as books
were concerned, and therefore was no favourite with Mr Malison, he was
not by any means a common or a stupid boy. His own eyes could teach him
more than books could, for he had a very quick observation of things
about him, both in what is commonly called nature and in humanity. He
knew all the birds, all their habits, and all their eggs. Not a boy in
Glamerton could find a nest quicker than he, or when found treated it
with such respect. For he never took young birds, and seldom more than
half of the eggs. Indeed he was rather an uncommon boy, having, along
with more than the usual amount of activity even for a boy, a
tenderness of heart altogether rare in boys. He was as familiar with
the domestic animals and their ways of feeling and acting as Annie
herself. Anything like cruelty he detested; and yet, as occasion will
show, he could execute stern justice. With the world of men around him,
he was equally conversant. He knew the characters of the simple people
wonderfully well; and _took to_ Thomas Crann more than to any one else,
notwithstanding that Thomas would read him a long lecture sometimes. To
these lectures Alec would listen seriously enough, believing Thomas to
be right; though he could never make up his mind to give any after
attention to what he required of him.
The first time Alec met Thomas after the affair with the dominie, was
on the day before he was to go back to school; for his mother had
yielded at last to his entreaties. Thomas was building an addition to a
water-mill on the banks of the Glamour not far from where Alec lived,
and Alec had strolled along thither to see how the structure was going
on. He expected a sharp rebuke for his behaviour to Mr Malison, but
somehow he was not afraid of Thomas, and was resolved to face it out.
The first words Thomas uttered, however, were:
"Weel, Alec, can ye tell me what was the name o' King Dawvid's mither?"
"I can_not_, Thomas," answered Alec. "What was it?"
"Fin' ye that oot. Turn ower yer Bible. Hae ye been back to the school
yet?"
"No. I'm gaein the morn."
"Ye're no gaein to strive wi' the maister afore nicht, are ye?"
"I dinna ken," answered Alec. "Maybe he'll strive wi' me.--But ye ken,
Thomas," he continued, defending himself from what he supposed Thomas
was thinking, "King Dawvid himsel' killed the giant."
"Ow! ay; a' richt. I'm no referrin' to that. Maybe ye did verra richt.
But tak care, Alec--" here Thomas paused from his work, and turning
towards the boy with a trowelful of mortar in his hand, spoke very
slowly and solemnly--"tak ye care that ye beir no malice against the
maister. Justice itsel," dune for the sake o' a private grudge, will
bunce back upo' the doer. I hae little doobt the maister'll be the
better for't; but gin ye be the waur, it'll be an ill job, Alec, my
man."
"I hae no ill-will at him, Thomas."
"Weel, jist watch yer ain hert, and bewaur ye o' that. I wad coonsel ye
to try and please him a grainie mair nor ordinar'. It's no that easy to
the carnal man, but ye ken we ought to crucify the auld man, wi' his
affections and lusts."
"Weel, I'll try," said Alec, to whom it was not nearly so difficult as
Thomas imagined. His _man_ apparently was not very old yet.
And he did try; and the master seemed to appreciate his endeavours, and
to accept them as a peace-offering, thus showing that he really was the
better for the punishment he had received.
It would be great injustice to Mr Malison to judge him by the feeling
of the present day. It was the custom of the time and of the country to
use the tawse unsparingly; for _law_ having been, and still, in a great
measure, being, the highest idea generated of the divine by the
ordinary Scotch mind, it must be supported, at all risks even, by means
of the leather strap. In the hands of a wise and even-tempered man, no
harm could result from the use of this instrument of justice; but in
the hands of a fierce-tempered and therefore changeable man, of small
moral stature, and liable to prejudices and offence, it became the
means of unspeakable injury to those under his care; not the least of
which was the production, in delicate natures, of doubt and hesitancy,
sometimes deepening into cowardice and lying.
Mr Malison had nothing of the childlike in himself, and consequently
never saw the mind of the child whose person he was assailing with a
battery of excruciating blows. A _man_ ought to be able to endure grief
suffering wrongfully, and be none the worse; but who dares demand that
of a child? Well it is for such masters that even they are judged by
the heart of a father, and not by the law of a king, that worst of all
the fictions of an ignorant and low theology. And if they must receive
punishment, at least it will not be the heartless punishment which they
inflicted on the boys and girls under their law.
Annie began to be regarded as a protegee of Alec Forbes, and as Alec
was a favourite with most of his schoolfellows, and was feared where he
was not loved, even her cousins began to look upon her with something
like respect, and mitigate their persecutions. But she did not
therefore become much more reconciled to her position; for the habits
and customs of her home were distasteful to her, and its whole
atmosphere uncongenial. Nor could it have been otherwise in any house
where the entire anxiety was, first, to make money, and next, not to
spend it. The heads did not in the least know that they were unkind to
her. On the contrary, Bruce thought himself a pattern of generosity if
he gave her a scrap of string; and Mrs Bruce, when she said to
inquiring gossips "The bairn's like ither bairns--she's weel eneuch,"
thought herself a pattern of justice or even of forbearance. But both
were jealous of her, in relation to their own children; and when Mrs
Forbes sent for her one Saturday, soon after her first visit, they
hardly concealed their annoyance at the preference shown her by one who
was under such great obligation to the parents of other children every
way superior to her whose very presence somehow or other made them
uncomfortable.
CHAPTER XVI.
The winter drew on--a season as different from the summer in those
northern latitudes, as if it belonged to another solar system. Cold and
stormy, it is yet full of delight for all beings that can either romp,
sleep, or think it through. But alas for the old and sickly, in poor
homes, with scanty food and firing! Little children suffer too, though
the gift of forgetfulness does for them what the gift of faith does for
their parents--helps them over many troubles, besides tingling fingers
and stony feet. There would be many tracks of those small feet in the
morning snow, leading away across the fresh-fallen clouds from the
house and cottage doors; for the barbarity of _morning-school_, that
is, an hour and a half of dreary lessons before breakfast, was in full
operation at Glamerton.
The winter came. One morning, all the children awoke, and saw a white
world around them. Alec jumped out of bed in delight. It was a sunny,
frosty morning. The snow had fallen all night, with its own silence,
and no wind had interfered with the gracious alighting of the feathery
water. Every branch, every twig, was laden with its sparkling burden of
down-flickered flakes, and threw long lovely shadows on the smooth
featureless dazzle below. Away, away, stretched the outspread glory,
the only darkness in it being the line of the winding river. All the
snow that fell on it vanished, as death and hell shall one day vanish
in the fire of God. It flowed on, black through its banks of white.
Away again stretched the shine to the town, where every roof had the
sheet that was let down from heaven spread over it, and the streets lay
a foot deep in yet unsullied snow, soon, like the story of the ages, to
be trampled, soiled, wrought, and driven with human feet, till, at
last, God's strong sun would wipe it all away.
From the door opening into this fairy-land, Alec sprang into the
untrodden space, as into a new America. He had discovered a world,
without even the print of human foot upon it. The keen air made him
happy; and the face of nature, looking as peaceful as the face of a
dead man dreaming of heaven, wrought in him jubilation and leaping. He
was at the school door before a human being had appeared in the streets
of Glamerton. Its dwellers all lay still under those sheets of snow,
which seemed to hold them asleep in its cold enchantment.
Before any of his fellows made their appearance, he had kneaded and
piled a great heap of snowballs, and stood by his pyramid, prepared for
the offensive. He attacked the first that came, and soon there was a
troop of boys pelting away at him. But with his store of balls at his
foot, he was able to pay pretty fairly for what he received; till, that
being exhausted, he was forced to yield the unequal combat. By-and-by
the little ones gathered, with Annie amongst them; but they kept aloof,
for fear of the flying balls, for the boys had divided into two equal
parties, and were pelting away at each other. At length the woman who
had charge of the school-room, having finished lighting the fire,
opened the door, and Annie, who was very cold, made a run for it,
during a lull in the fury of the battle.
"Stop," cried Alec; and the balling ceased, that Annie, followed by a
few others, might pass in safety through the midst of the combatants.
One boy, however, just as Annie was entering, threw a ball after her.
He missed her, but Alec did not miss him; for scarcely was the ball out
of his hand when he received another, right between his eyes. Over he
went, amidst a shout of satisfaction.
When the master appeared at the top of the lane the fight came to a
close; and as he entered the school, the group round the fire broke up
and dispersed. Alec, having entered close behind the master, overtook
Annie as she went to her seat, for he had observed, as she ran into the
school, that she was lame--indeed limping considerably.
"What's the maitter wi' ye, Annie?" he said. "What gars ye hirple?"
"Juno bitet me," answered Annie.
"Ay! Verra weel!" returned Alec, in a tone that had more meaning than
the words.
Soon after the Bible-class was over, and they had all taken their
seats, a strange quiet stir and excitement gradually arose, like the
first motions of a whirlpool at the turn of the tide. The master became
aware of more than the usual flitting to and fro amongst the boys, just
like the coming and going which preludes the swarming of bees. But as
he had little or no constructive power, he never saw beyond the
symptoms. They were to him mere isolated facts, signifying present
disorder.
"John Morison, go to your seat," he cried.
John went.
"Robert Rennie, go to your seat."
Robert went. And this continued till, six having been thus passed by,
and a seventh appearing three forms from his own, the master, who
seldom stood it so long, could stand it no longer. The _tag_ was
thrown, and a _licking_ followed, making matters a little better from
the master's point of view.
Now I will try to give, from the scholars' side, a peep of what passed.
As soon as he was fairly seated, Alec said in a low voice across the
double desk to one of the boys opposite, calling him by his nickname,
"I say, Divot, do ye ken Juno?"
"Maybe no!" answered Divot. "But gin I dinna, my left leg dis."
"I thocht ye kent the shape o' her teeth, man. Jist gie Scrumpie there
a dig i' the ribs."
"What are ye efter, Divot? I'll gie ye a cloot o' the lug," growled
Scrumpie.
"Hoot man! The General wants ye."
_The General_ was Alec's nickname.
"What is't, General?"
"Do ye ken Juno?"
"Hang the bitch! I ken her ower weel. She took her denner aff o' ane o'
my hips, ae day last year."
"Jist creep ower to Cadger there, and speir gin he kens Juno. Maybe
he's forgotten her."
Cadger's reply was interrupted by the interference of the master, but a
pantomimic gesture conveyed to the General sufficient assurance of the
retentiveness of Cadger's memory in regard to Juno and her favours.
Such messages and replies, notwithstanding more than one licking, kept
passing the whole of the morning.
Now Juno was an animal of the dog kind, belonging to Robert Brace. She
had the nose and the legs of a bull-dog, but was not by any means
thorough-bred, and her behaviour was worse than her breed. She was a
great favourite with her master, who ostensibly kept her chained in his
back-yard for the protection of his house and property. But she was not
by any means popular with the rising generation. For she was given to
biting, with or without provocation, and every now and then she got
loose--upon sundry of which occasions she had bitten boys. Complaint
had been made to her owner, but without avail; for he only professed
great concern, and promised she should not get loose again, which
promise had been repeatedly broken. Various vows of vengeance had been
made, and forgotten. But now Alec Forbes had taken up the cause of
humanity and justice: for the brute had bitten Annie, and _she_ could
have given no provocation.
It was soon understood throughout the school that war was to be made
upon Juno, and that every able-bodied boy must be ready when called out
by the General. The minute they were dismissed, which, at this season
of the year, took place at three o'clock, no interval being given for
dinner, because there was hardly any afternoon, the boys gathered in a
knot at the door.
"What are ye gaein' to do, General?" asked one.
"Kill her," answered Alec.
"What way?"
"Stane her to death, loons, like the man 'at brak the Sabbath."
"Broken banes for broken skins--eh? Ay!"
"The damned ill-faured brute, to bite Annie Anderson!"
"But there's nae stanes to be gotten i' the snaw, General," said
Cadger.
"Ye gomeril! Ye'll get mair stanes nor ye'll carry, I doobt, up o' the
side o' the toll-road yonner. Naething like road-metal!"
A confused chorus of suggestions and exclamations now arose, in the
midst of which Willie Macwha, whose cognomen was Curly-pow, came up. He
was not often the last in a conspiracy. His arrival had for the moment
a sedative effect.
"Here's Curly! Here's Curly!"
"Weel, is't a' sattled?" asked he.
"She's condemned, but no execute yet," said Grumpie.
"Hoo are we to win at her?" asked Cadger.
"That's jist the pint," said Divot.
"We canna weel kill her in her ain yard," suggested Houghie.
"Na. We maun bide our time, an' tak her when she's oot aboot," said the
General.
"But wha's to ken that? an' hoo are we to gather?" asked Cadger, who
seemed both of a practical and a despondent turn of mind.
"Noo, jist haud yer tongues, an' hearken to me," said Alec.
The excited assembly was instantly silent.
"The first thing," began Alec, "is to store plenty o' ammunition."
"Ay, ay, General."
"Haud yer tongues.--Whaur had we best stow the stanes, Curly?"
"In oor yard. They'll never be noticed there."
"That'll do. Some time the nicht, ye'll a' carry what stanes ye can
get--an' min' they're o' a serviceable natur'--to Curly's yard. He'll
be o' the ootluik for ye. An,' I say, Curly, doesna your riggin-stane
owerluik the maist o' the toon?"
"Ay, General."
"Ye can see our hoose frae't--canna ye?"
"Ay."
"Weel, ye jist buy a twa three blue lichts. Hae ye ony bawbees?"
"Deil ane, General."
"Hae than, there's fower an' a bawbee for expenses o' the war."
"Thank ye, General."
"Ye hae an auld gun, haena' ye?"
"Ay have I; but she's nearhan' the rivin'."
"Load her to the mou', and lat her rive. We'll may be hear't. But haud
weel oot ower frae her. Ye can lay a train, ye ken."
"I s' tak care o' that, General."
"Scrumpie, ye bide no that far frae the draigon's den. Ye jist keep yer
ee--nae the crookit ane--upo' her ootgoins an' incomins; or raither, ye
luik efter her comin oot, an' we'll a' luik efter her gaein in again.
Jist mak a regiment o' yer ain to watch her, and bring ye word o' her
proceedins. Ye can easy luik roun the neuk o' the back-yett, an' nobody
be a hair the wiser. As sune as ever ye spy her lowse i' the yard be
aff wi' ye to Willie Macwha. Syne, Curly, ye fire yer gun, and burn the
blue lichts o' the tap o' the hoose; and gin I see or hear the signal,
I'll be ower in seven minutes an' a half. Ilka ane o' ye 'at hears,
maun luik efter the neist; and sae we'll a' gether at Curly's. Fess yer
bags for the stanes, them 'at has bags."
"But gin ye dinna see or hear, for it's a lang road, General?"
interposed Cadger.
"Gin I'm no at your yard, Curly, in saiven minutes an' a half, sen'
Linkum efter me. He's the only ane o' ye 'at can rin. It's a' that he
can do, but he does't weel.--Whan Juno's ance oot, she's no in a hurry
in again."
The boys separated and went home in a state of excitement, which
probably, however, interfered very little with their appetites, seeing
it was moderated in the mean time by the need and anticipation of their
dinners.
The sun set now between two and three o'clock, and there were long
forenights to favour the plot. Perhaps their hatred of the dog would
not have driven them to such extreme measures, even although she had
bitten Annie Anderson, had her master been a favourite, or even
generally respected. But Alec knew well enough that the townsfolk were
not likely to sympathize with Bruce on the ill-treatment of his cur.
When the dinner and the blazing fire had filled him so full of comfort
that he was once more ready to encounter the cold, Alec could stay in
the house no longer.
"Where are you going, Alec?" said his mother.
"Into the garden, mamma."
"What can you want in the garden--full of snow?"
"It's just the snow I want, mamma. It won't keep."
And, in another moment, he was under the clear blue night-heaven, with
the keen frosty air blowing on his warm cheek, busy with a wheelbarrow
and a spade, slicing and shovelling in the snow. He was building a hut
of it, after the fashion of the Esquimaux hut, with a very thick
circular wall, which began to lean towards its own centre as soon as it
began to rise. This hut he had pitched at the foot of a flag-staff on
the green-�_lawn_ would be too grand a word for the hundred square feet
in front of his mother's house, though the grass which lay beneath the
snowy carpet was very green and lovely grass, smooth enough for any
lawn. In summer Alec had quite revelled in its greenness and softness,
as he lay on it reading the _Arabian Nights_ and the Ettrick Shepherd's
stories: now it was "white with the whiteness of what is dead;" for is
not the snow just dead water? The flag-staff he had got George Macwha
to erect for him, at a very small outlay; and he had himself fitted it
with shrouds and a cross-yard, and signal halliards; for he had always
a fancy for the sea, and boats, and rigging of all sorts. And he had a
great red flag, too, which he used to hoist on special occasions-�on
market-days and such like; and often besides when a good wind blew. And
very grand it looked, as it floated in the tide of the wind.
Often he paused in his work, and turned-�and oftener without raising
himself he glanced towards the town; but no signal burned from the
ridge of Curly's house, and he went on with his labour. When called in
to tea, he gave a long wistful look townwards, but saw no sign. Out
again he went, but no blue fire rejoiced him that night with the news
that Juno was ranging the streets; and he was forced to go to bed at
last, and take refuge from his disappointment in sleep.
The next day he strictly questioned all his officers as to the manner
in which they had fulfilled their duty, and found no just cause of
complaint.
"In future," he said to Curly, with the importance of one who had the
affairs of boys and dogs upon his brain�-so that his style rose into
English�-"in future, Curly, you may always know I am at home when you
see the red flag flying from my flag-staff."
"That's o' sma' service, General, i' the lang forenichts. A body canna
see freely so far."
"But Linkum wad see't fleein', lang or he wan to the yett (gate)."
"It wad flee nae mair nor a deid deuke i' this weather. It wad be
frozen as stiff's a buird."
"Ye gowk! Do ye think fowk wash their flags afore they hing them oot,
like sarks or sheets? Dinna ye be ower clever, Curly, my man."
Whereupon Curly shut up.
******
"What are you in such a state about, Alec?" asked his mother.
"Nothing very particular, mamma," answered Alec, ashamed of his want of
self-command.
"You've looked out at the window twenty times in the last half-hour,"
she persisted.
"Curly promised to burn a blue light, and I wanted to see if I could
see it."
Suspecting more, his mother was forced to be content with this answer.
But that night was also passed without sight or sound. Juno kept safe
in her barrel, little thinking of the machinations against her in the
wide snow-covered country around. Alec finished the Esquimaux hut, and
the snow falling all night, the hut looked the next morning as if it
had been there all the winter. As it seemed likely that a long spell of
white weather had set in, Alec resolved to extend his original plan,
and carry a long snow passage, or covered vault, from the
lattice-window of a small closet, almost on a level with the ground, to
this retreat by the flag-staff. He was hard at work in the execution of
this project, on the third night, or rather late afternoon: they called
it _forenight_ there.
CHAPTER XVII.
"What can that be, mem, awa ower the toon there?" said Mary to her
mistress, as in passing she peeped out of the window, the blind of
which Alec had drawn up behind the curtain.
"What is it, Mary?"
"That's jist what I dinna ken, mem. It canna be the rory-bories, as
Alec ca's them. It's ower blue.--It's oot.--It's in agin.--It's no
canny.--And, preserves a'! it's crackin' as weel," cried Mary, as the
subdued sound of a far-off explosion reached her.
This was of course no other than the roar of Curly's gun in the act of
bursting and vanishing; for neither stock, lock, nor barrel was ever
seen again. It left the world like a Norse king on his fire-ship. But,
at the moment, Alec was too busy in the depths of his snow-vault to
hear or see the signals.
By-and-by a knock came to the kitchen door, Mary went and opened it.
"Alec's at hame, I ken," said a rosy boy, almost breathless with past
speed and present excitement.
"Hoo ken ye that, my man?" asked Mary.
"'Cause the flag's fleein'. Whaur is he?"
"Gin ye ken sae muckle aboot him already, ye can jist fin' him to
yersel'!"
"The bick's oot!" panted Linkum.
But Mary shut the door.
"Here's a job!" said Linkum to himself. "I canna gang throu a steekit
door. And there's Juno wi' the rin o' the haill toun. Deil tak her!"
But at the moment he heard Alec whistling a favourite tune, as he
shovelled away at the snow.
"General!" cried Linkum, in ecstasy.
"Here!" answered Alec, flinging his spade twenty feet from him, and
bolting in the direction of the call. "Is't you, Linkum?"
"She's oot, General."
"Deil hae her, gin ever she wins in again, the curst worryin' brute!
Did ye gang to Curly?"
"Ay did I. He fired the gun, and brunt three blue lichts, and waited
seven minutes and a half; and syne he sent me for ye, General."
"_Con_foon' 't," cried Alec, and tore through shrubbery and hedge, the
nearest way to the road, followed by Linkum, who even at full speed was
not a match for Alec. Away they flew like the wind, along the
well-beaten path to the town, over the footbridge that crossed the
Glamour, and full speed up the hill to Willie Macwha, who, with a dozen
or fifteen more, was anxiously waiting for the commander. They all had
their book-bags, pockets, and arms filled with stones lately broken for
mending the turnpike road, mostly granite, but partly whinstone and
flint. One bag was ready filled for Alec.
"Noo," said the General, in the tone of Gideon of old, "gin ony o' ye
be fleyt at the brute, jist gang hame."
"Ay! ay! General."
But nobody stirred, for those who were afraid had slunk away the moment
they saw Alec coming up the hill, like the avenger of blood.
"Wha's watchin' her?"
"Doddles, Gapy, and Goat."
"Whaur was she last seen?"
"Takin' up wi' anither tyke on the squaure."
"Doddles 'll be at the pump, to tell whaur's the ither twa and the
tyke."
"Come along, then. This is hoo ye're to gang. We maunna a' gang
thegither. Some o' ye--you three--doon the Back Wynd; you sax, up Lucky
Hunter's Close; and the lave by Gowan Street; an' first at the pump
bides for the lave."
"Hoo are we to mak the attack, General?"
"I'll gie my orders as the case may demand," said Alec.
And away they shot.
The muffled sounds of the feet of the various companies as they
thundered past upon the snow, roused the old wives dozing over their
knitting by their fires of spent oak-bark; and according to her temper
would be the remark with which each startled dame turned again to her
former busy quiescence:--"Some mischeef o' the loons!" "Some ploy o'
the laddies!" "Some deevilry o' thae rascals frae Malison's school!"
They reached the square almost together, and found Doddles at the pump;
who reported that Juno had gone down the inn-yard, and Gapey and Goat
were watching her. Now she must come out to get home again, for there
was no back-way; so by Alec's orders they dispersed a little to avoid
observation, and drew gradually between the entrance of the inn-yard,
and the way Juno would take to go home.
The town was ordinarily lighted at night with oil lamps, but moonlight
and snow had rendered them for some time unnecessary.
"Here she is! Here she is!" cried several at once in a hissing whisper
of excitement. "Lat at her!"
"Haud still!" cried Alec. "Bide till I tell ye. Dinna ye see there's
Lang Tam's dog wi' her, an' he's done naething. Ye maunna punish the
innocent wi' the guilty."
A moment after the dogs took their leave of each other, and Juno went,
at a slow slouching trot, in the direction of her own street.
"Close in!" cried Alec.
Juno found her way barred in a threatening manner, and sought to pass
meekly by.
"Lat at her, boys!" cried the General.
A storm of stones was their answer to the order; and a howl of rage and
pain burst from the animal. She turned; but found that she was the
centre of a circle of enemies.
"Lat at her! Haud at her!" bawled Alec.
And thick as hail the well-aimed stones flew from practised hands;
though of course in the frantic rushes of the dog to escape, not half
of them took effect. She darted first at one and then at another,
snapping wildly, and meeting with many a kick and blow in return.
The neighbours began to look out at their shop-doors and their windows;
for the boys, rapt in the excitement of the sport, no longer laid any
restraint upon their cries. Andrew Constable, the clothier, from his
shop-door; Rob Guddle, the barber, from his window, with his face
shadowed by Annie's curls; Redford, the bookseller, from the top of the
stairs that led to his shop; in short, the whole of the shopkeepers on
the square of Glamerton were regarding this battle of odds. The
half-frozen place looked half-alive. But none of the good folks cared
much to interfere, for flying stones are not pleasant to encounter. And
indeed they could not clearly make out what was the matter.--In a
minute more, a sudden lull came over the hubbub. They saw all the group
gather together in a murmuring knot.
The fact was this. Although cowardly enough now, the brute, infuriated
with pain, had made a determined rush at one of her antagonists, and a
short hand-to-teeth struggle was now taking place, during which the
stoning ceased.
"She has a grip o' my leg," said Alec quietly; "and I hae a grip o' her
throat. Curly, pit yer han' i' my jacket-pooch, an' tak' oot a bit
towie ye'll fin' there."
Curly did as he was desired, and drew out a yard and a half of
garden-line.
"Jist pit it wi' ae single k-not roon' her neck, an' twa three o' ye
tak' a haud at ilka en', and pu' for the life o' ye!"
They hauled with hearty vigour, Juno's teeth relaxed their hold of
Alec's calf; in another minute her tongue was hanging out her mouth,
and when they ceased the strain she lay limp on the snow. With a shout
of triumph, they started off at full speed, dragging the brute by the
neck through the street. Alec essayed to follow them; but found his leg
too painful; and was forced to go limping home.
When the victors had run till they were out of breath, they stopped to
confer; and the result of their conference was that in solemn silence
they drew her home to the back gate, and finding all still in the yard,
deputed two of their company to lay the dead body in its kennel.
Curly and Linkum drew her into the yard, tumbled her into her barrel,
which they set up on end, undid the string, and left Juno lying neck
and tail together in ignominious peace.
"Before Alec reached home his leg had swollen very much, and was so
painful that he could hardly limp along; for Juno had taken no passing
snap, but a great strong mouthful. He concealed his condition from his
mother for that night; but next morning his leg was so bad, that there
was no longer a possibility of hiding the fact. To tell a lie would
have been so hard for Alec, that he had scarcely any merit in not
telling one. So there was nothing for it but confession. His mother
scolded him to a degree considerably beyond her own sense of the wrong,
telling him he would get her into disgrace in the town as the mother of
a lawless son, who meddled with other people's property in a way little
better than stealing.
"I fancy, mamma, a loun's legs are aboot as muckle his ain property as
the tyke was Rob Bruce's. It's no the first time she's bitten half a
dizzen legs that were neither her ain nor her maister's."
Mrs Forbes could not well answer this argument; so she took advantage
of the fact that Alec had, in the excitement of self-defence, lapsed
into Scotch.
"Don't talk so vulgarly to me, Alec," she said; "keep that for your
ill-behaved companions in the town."
"They are no worse than I am, mamma. _I_ was at the bottom of it."
"I never said they were," she answered.
But in her heart she thought if they were not, there was little amiss
with them.
CHAPTER XVIII.
Alec was once more condemned to the sofa, and Annie had to miss him,
and wonder what had become of him. She always felt safe when Alec was
there, and when he was not she grew timid; although whole days would
sometimes pass without either speaking to the other. But before the
morning was over she learned the reason of his absence.
For about noon, when all was tolerably harmonious in the school, the
door opened, and the face of Robert Bruce appeared, with gleaming eyes
of wrath.
"Guid preserve's!" said Scrumpie to his next neighbour. "Sic a hidin'
as we s' a' get! Here's Rob Bruce! Wha's gane and tell't him?"
But some of the gang of conspirators, standing in a class near the
door, stared in horror. Amongst them was Curly. His companions declared
afterwards that had it not been for the strength of the curl, his hair
would have stood upright. For, following Bruce, led in fact by a
string, came an awful apparition--Juno herself, a pitiable mass of
caninity--looking like the resuscitated corpse of a dog that had been
nine days buried, crowded with lumps, and speckled with cuts, going on
three legs, and having her head and throat swollen to a size past
recognition.
"She's no deid efter a'! Deil tak' her! for he's in her," said Doddles.
"We haena killed her eneuch," said Curly.
"I tell't ye, Curly! Ye had little ado to lowse the tow. She wad ha'
been as deid afore the mornin' as Lucky Gordon's cat that ye cuttit the
heid aff o'," said Linkum.
"Eh! but she luiks bonnie!" said Curly, trying to shake off his dismay.
"Man, we'll hae't a' to do ower again. Sic fun!"
But he could not help looking a little rueful when Linkum expressed a
wish that they were themselves well through with their share of the
killing.
And now the storm began to break. The master had gone to the door and
shaken hands with his visitor, glancing a puzzled interrogation at the
miserable animal in the string, which had just shape enough left to
show that it was a dog.
"I'm verra sorry, Maister Malison, to come to you wi' my complaints,"
said Bruce; "but jist luik at the puir dumb animal! She cudna come
hersel', an' sae I bude to bring her. Stan' still, ye brute!"
For Juno having caught sight of some boy-legs, through a corner of one
eye not quite _bunged up_, began to tug at the string with feeble
earnestness-�no longer, however, regarding the said legs as made for
dogs to bite, but as fearful instruments of vengeance, in league with
stones and cords. So the straining and pulling was all homewards. But
her master had brought her as chief witness against the boys, and she
must remain where she was.
"Eh, lass!" he said, hauling her back by the string; "gin ye had but
the tongue o' the prophet's ass, ye wad sune pint out the rascals that
misguided and misgrugled ye that gait. But here's the just judge
that'll gie ye yer richts, and that wi'oot fee or reward.--Mr Malison,
she was ane o' the bonniest bicks ye cud set yer ee upo'--"
A smothered laugh gurgled through the room.
-�"till some o' your loons--nae offence, sir--I ken weel eneuch they're
no yours, nor a bit like ye--some o' your peowpils, sir, hae jist ca'd
(driven) the sowl oot o' her wi' stanes."
"Whaur does the sowl o' a bitch bide?" asked Goat, in a whisper, of his
neighbour.
"De'il kens," answered Gapey; "gin it binna i' the boddom o' Rob
Bruce's wame."
The master's wrath, ready enough to rise against boys and all their
works, now showed itself in the growing redness of his face. This was
not one of his worst passions--in them, he grew white--for the injury
had not been done to himself.
"Can you tell me which of them did it?"
"No, sir. There maun hae been mair nor twa or three at it, or she wad
hae worried them. The best-natered beast i' the toon!"
"William Macwha," cried Malison.
"Here, sir."
"Come up."
Willie ascended to the august presence. He had made up his mind that,
seeing so many had known all about it, and some of them had turned
cowards, it would be of no service to deny the deed.
"Do you know anything about this cruelty to the poor dog, William?"
said the master.
Willie gave a Scotchman's answer, which, while evasive, was yet answer
and more.
"She bet me, sir."
"When? While you were stoning her?"
"No, sir. A month ago."
"Ye're a leein' vratch, Willie Macwha, as ye weel ken i' yer ain
conscience!" cried Bruce. "She's the quaietest, kin'list beast 'at ever
was wholpit. See, sir; jist luik ye here. She'll lat me pit my han' in
her mou', an' tak' no more notice nor gin it was her ain tongue."
Now whether it was that the said tongue was still swollen and painful,
or that Juno, conscious of her own ill deserts, disapproved of the
whole proceeding, I cannot tell; but the result of this proof of her
temper was that she made her teeth meet through Bruce's hand.
"Damn the bitch!" he roared, snatching it away with the blood beginning
to flow.
A laugh, not smothered this time, billowed and broke through the whole
school; for the fact that Bruce should be caught swearing, added to the
yet more delightful fact that Juno had bitten her master, was
altogether too much.
"Eh! isna't weel we didna kill her efter a'?" said Curly.
"Guid doggie!" said another, patting his own knee, as if to entice her
to come and be caressed.
"At him again, Juno!" said a third.
"I'll gie her a piece the neist time I see her," said Curly.
Bruce, writhing with pain, and mortified at the result of his ocular
proof of Juno's incapability of biting, still more mortified at having
so far forgotten himself as to utter an oath, and altogether
discomfited by the laughter, turned away in confusion.
"It's a' their wyte, the baad boys! She never did the like afore. They
hae ruined her temper," he said, as he left the school, following Juno,
which was tugging away at the string as if she had been a blind man's
dog.
"Well, what have you to say for yourself, William?" said Malison.
"She began 't, sir."
This best of excuses would not, however, satisfy the master. The
punishing mania had possibly taken fresh hold upon him. But he would
put more questions first.
"Who besides you tortured the poor animal?"
Curly was silent. He had neither a very high sense of honour, nor any
principles to come and go upon; but he had a considerable amount of
devotion to his party, which is the highest form of conscience to be
found in many.
"Tell me their names, sir?"
Curly was still silent.
But a white-headed urchin, whom innumerable whippings, not bribes, had
corrupted, cried out in a wavering voice:
"Sanny Forbes was ane o' them; an' he's no here, 'cause Juno worried
him."
The poor creature gained little by his treachery; for the smallest of
the conspirators fell on him when school was over, and gave him a
thrashing, which he deserved more than ever one of Malison's.
But the effect of Alec's name on the master was talismanic. He changed
his manner at once, sent Curly to his seat, and nothing more was heard
of Juno or her master.
The opposite neighbours stared across, the next morning, in bewildered
astonishment, at the place where the shop of Robert Bruce had been wont
to invite the public to enter and buy. Had it been possible for an
avalanche to fall like a thunderbolt from the heavens, they would have
supposed that one had fallen in the night, and overwhelmed the house.
Door and windows were invisible, buried with the rude pavement in front
beneath a mass of snow. Spades and shovels in boys' hands had been busy
for hours during the night, throwing it up against the house, the door
having first been blocked up with a huge ball, which they had rolled in
silence the whole length of the long street.
Bruce and his wife slept in a little room immediately behind the shop,
that they might watch over their treasures; and Bruce's first movement
in the morning was always into the shop to unbolt the door and take
down the shutters. His astonishment when he looked upon a blank wall of
snow may be imagined. He did not question that the whole town was
similarly overwhelmed. Such a snow-storm had never been heard of
before, and he thought with uneasy recollection of the oath he had
uttered in the school-room; imagining for a moment that the whole of
Glamerton lay overwhelmed by the divine wrath, because he had, under
the agony of a bite from his own dog, consigned her to a quarter where
dogs and children are not admitted. In his bewilderment, he called
aloud:
"Nancy! Robbie! Johnnie! We're a' beeriet alive!"
"Preserve's a', Robert! what's happent?" cried his wife, rushing from
the kitchen.
"I'm no beeriet, that I ken o'," cried Robert the younger, entering
from the yard.
His father rushed to the back-door, and, to his astonishment and
relief, saw the whole world about him. It was a private judgment, then,
upon him and his shop. And so it was--a very private judgment. Probably
it was the result of his meditations upon it, that he never after
carried complaints to Murdoch Malison.
Alec Forbes had nothing to do with this revenge. But Bruce always
thought he was at the bottom of it, and hated him the more. He disliked
all _loons_ but his own; for was not the spirit of _loons_ the very
antipodes to that of money-making? But Alec Forbes he hated, for he was
the very antipode to Robert Bruce himself. Mrs Bruce always followed
her husband's lead, being capable only of two devotions--the one to her
husband and children, the other to the shop.--Of Annie they highly and
righteously disapproved, partly because they had to feed her, and
partly because she was friendly with Alec. This disapproval rose into
dislike after their sons had told them that it was because Juno had
bitten her that the boys of the school, with Alec for a leader, had
served her as they had. But it was productive of no disadvantage to
her; for it could not take any active form because of the money-bond
between them, while its negative operation gave rise chiefly to
neglect, and so left her more at liberty, to enjoy herself as she could
after her own fashion.
For the rest of Juno's existence, the moment she caught sight of a boy
she fled as fast as her four bow-legs would carry her, not daring even
to let her tail stick out behind her, lest it should afford a handle
against her.
CHAPTER XIX.
When Annie heard that Alec had been bitten she was miserable. She knew
his bite must be worse than hers, or he would not be kept at home.
Might she not venture to go and see him again? The modesty of a
maidenly child made her fear to intrude; but she could not constrain
her feet from following the path to his house. And as it was very dusk,
what harm could there be in going just inside the gate, and on to the
green? Through the parlour windows she saw the fire burning bright, and
a shadow moving across the walls and the ceiling; but she could not
make up her mind to knock at the door, for she was afraid of Mrs
Forbes, notwithstanding her kindness. So she wandered on--for here
there was no dog--wondering what that curious long mound of snow, with
the round heap at the end, by the flag-staff, could be? What could Alec
have made it for? Examining it closely all along, she came to the end
of it next the house, and looking round, saw that it was hollow.
Without a moment's thought, for she had no fear of Alec, she entered.
The passage was dark, but she groped her way, on and on, till she came
to the cell at the end. Here a faint ghostly light glimmered; for Alec
had cleared a small funnel upwards through the roof, almost to the
outside, so that a thin light filtered through a film of snow. This
light being reflected from the white surface of the cave, showed it all
throbbing about her with a faint bluish white, ever and anon whelmed in
the darkness and again glimmering out through its folds. She seated
herself on a ledge of snow that ran all round the foundation. It was
not so cold here as in the outer air, where a light frosty wind was
blowing across the world of snow. And she had not sat long, before,
according to her custom when left to herself, she fell fast asleep.
Meantime Alec, his mother having gone to the town, was sitting alone,
finishing, by the light of the fire, the last of a story. At length the
dreariness of an ended tale was about him, and he felt the inactivity
to which he had been compelled all day no longer tolerable. He would go
and see how his snow-chamber looked by candlelight. His mother had told
him not to go out; but that, he reasoned, could hardly be called going
out, when there was not more than a yard of open air to cross. So he
got a candle, was out of the window in a moment, notwithstanding his
lameness, and crept through the long vault of snow towards the inmost
recess. As he approached the end he started. Could he believe his eyes?
A figure was there--motionless--dead perhaps. He went on--he went
in--and there he saw Annie, leaning against the white wall, with her
white face turned up to the frozen ceiling. She might have been the
frost-queen, the spirit that made the snow, and built the hut, and
dwelt in it; for all the powers that vivify nature must be children.
The popular imagination seems to have caught this truth, for all the
fairies and gnomes and goblins, yes, the great giants too, are only
different sizes, shapes, and characters of children. But I have
wandered from Alec's thoughts into my own. He knew it was Annie, and no
strange creature of the elements. And if he had not come, she might
have slept on till her sleep was too deep for any voice of the world to
rouse her.
It was, even then, with difficulty that he woke her. He took hold of
her hands, but she did not move. He sat down, took her in his arms,
spoke to her--got frightened and shook her, but she would not open her
eyes. Her long dark eyelashes sloped still upon her white cheek, like
the low branches of a cedar upon the lawn at its foot. But he knew she
was not dead yet, for he could feel her heart beating. At length she
lifted her eyelids, looked up in his face, gave a low happy laugh, like
the laugh of a dreaming child, and was fast asleep again in a moment.
Alec hesitated no longer. He rose with her in his arms, carried her
into the parlour, and laid her down on the rug before the fire, with a
sofa-pillow under her head. There she might have her sleep out. When
Mrs Forbes came home she found Alec reading, and Annie sleeping by the
fireside. Before his mother had recovered from her surprise, and while
she was yet staring at the lovely little apparition, Alec had the first
word.
"Mamma!" he said, "I found her sleeping in my snow hut there; and if I
had not brought her in, she would have been dead by this time."
"Poor little darling!" thought Mrs Forbes; but she was Scotch, and
therefore she did not say it. But she stooped, and drew the child back
from the fire, lest she should have her face scorched, and after making
the tea, proceeded to put off her bonnet and shawl. By the time she had
got rid of them, Annie was beginning to move, and Alec rose to go to
her.
"Let her alone," said his mother. "Let her come to herself by degrees.
Come to the table."
Alec obeyed. They could see that Annie had opened her eyes, and lay
staring at the fire. What was she thinking about? She had fallen asleep
in the snow-hut, and here she was by a bright fire!
"Annie, dear, come to your tea," were the first words she heard. She
rose and went, and sat down at the table with a smile, taking it all as
the gift of God, or a good dream, and never asking how she had come to
be so happy.
CHAPTER XX.
The spirit of mischief had never been so thoroughly aroused in the
youth of Glamerton as it was this winter. The snow lay very deep, while
almost every day a fresh fall added to its depth, and this rendered
some of their winter-amusements impossible; while not many of them had
the imagination of Alec Forbes to suggest new ones. At the same time
the cold increased, and strengthened their impulses to muscular
exertion.
"Thae loons are jist growin' perfect deevils," said Charlie Chapman,
the wool-carder, as he bolted into his own shop, with the remains of a
snowball melting down the back of his neck. "We maun hae anither
constable to haud them in order."
The existing force was composed of one long-legged, short-bodied,
middle-aged man, who was so slow in his motions, apparently from the
weight of his feet, which were always dragging behind him, that the
boys called him Stumpin' Steenie (dim. for "Stephen"), and stood in no
more awe of him than they did of his old cow--which, her owner being a
widower, they called _Mrs Stephen_--when she went up the street, hardly
able to waddle along for the weight of her udder. So there was some
little ground for the wool-carder's remark. How much a second constable
would have availed, however, is doubtful.
"I never saw sic widdiefows!" (gallows-birds), chimed in a farmer's
wife who was standing in the shop. "They had a tow across the Wast Wynd
i' the snaw, an' doon I cam o' my niz, as sure's your name's Charles
Chapman--and mair o' my legs oot o' my coats, I doobt, than was
a'thegither to my credit."
"I'm sure ye can hae no rizzon to tak' shame o' your legs, gude wife,"
was the gallant rejoinder; to which their owner replied, with a laugh:
"They warna made for public inspection, ony gait."
"Hoot! hoot! Naebody saw them. I s' warran' ye didna lie lang! But thae
loons--they're jist past a'! Heard ye hoo they saired Rob Bruce?"
"Fegs! they tell me they a' but buried him alive."
"Ow! ay. But it's a later story, the last."
"It's a pity there's no a dizzen or twa o' them in Awbrahawm's
boasom.--What did they till him neist?"
Here Andrew Constable dropped in, and Chapman turned towards him with
the question:
"Did _ye_ hear, Mr Constable, what the loons did to Robert Bruce the
nicht afore last?"
"No. What was that? They hae a spite at puir Rob, I believe."
"Weel, it didna look a'thegither like respeck, I maun alloo.--I was
stannin' at the coonter o' his shop waitin' for an unce o' sneeshin';
and Robert he was servin' a bit bairnie ower the coouter wi' a
pennyworth o' triacle, when, in a jiffey, there cam' sic a blast, an' a
reek fit to smore ye, oot o' the bit fire, an' the shop was fu' o'
reek, afore ye could hae pitten the pint o' ae thoom upo' the pint o'
the ither. 'Preserve's a'!' cried Rob; but or he could say anither
word, butt the house, scushlin in her bauchles, comes Nancy, rinnin',
an' opens the door wi' a scraich: 'Preserve's a'!' quo' she, 'Robert,
the lum's in a low!' An' fegs! atween the twa reeks, to sunder them,
there was nothing but Nancy hersel. The hoose was as fu' as it cud
haud, frae cellar to garret, o' the blackest reek 'at ever crap oot o'
coal. Oot we ran, an' it was a sicht to see the crater wi' his lang
neck luikin' up at the chimleys. But deil a spark cam' oot o' them--or
reek either, for that maitter. It was easy to see what was amiss. The
loons had been o' the riggin, and flung a han'fu' o' blastin' powther
down ilka smokin' chimley, and syne clappit a divot or a truf upo' the
mou' o' 't. Deil ane o' them was in sicht, but I doobt gin ony o' them
was far awa'. There was naething for't but get a ladder, and jist gang
up an' tak aff the pot-lids. But eh! puir Robert was jist rampin' wi'
rage! No 'at he said muckle, for he daur hardly open his mou' for
sweerin'; and Robert wadna sweer, ye ken; but he was neither to haud
nor bin'."
"What laddies war they, Charles, do ye ken?" asked Andrew.
"There's a heap o' them up to tricks. Gin I haena the rheumateese
screwin' awa' atween my shoothers the nicht it wonna be their fau'ts;
for as I cam' ower frae the ironmonger's there, I jist got a ba' i' the
how o' my neck, 'at amaist sent me howkin' wi' my snoot i' the snaw.
And there it stack, and at this preceese moment it's rinnin' doon the
sma' o' my back as gin 't war a burnie doon a hillside. We maun hae
mair constables!"
"Hoot! toot! Charles. Ye dinna want a constable to dry yer back. Gang
to the gudewife wi' 't," said Andrew, "she'll gie ye a dry sark. Na,
na. Lat the laddies work it aff. As lang's they haud their han's frae
what doesna belang to them, I dinna min' a bit ploy noo and than.
They'll noo turn oot the waur men for a pliskie or twa."
The fact was, none of the boys would have dreamed of interfering with
Andrew Constable. Everybody respected him; not because he was an elder
of the kirk, but because he was a good-tempered, kindly, honest man; or
to sum up all in one word--_a douce chield_--by which word _douce_ is
indicated every sort of propriety of behaviour--a virtue greatly
esteemed by the Scotch. This adjective was universally applied to
Andrew.
While Alec was confined to the house, he had been busy inventing all
kinds of employments for the period of the snow. His lessons never
occupied much of his thoughts, and no pains having yet been taken to
discover in what direction his tastes inclined him, he had of course to
cater for himself. The first day of his return, when school was over,
he set off rejoicing in his freedom, for a ramble through the snow,
still revolving what he was to do next; for he wanted some steady
employment with an end in view. In the course of his solitary walk, he
came to the Wan Water, the other river that flowed through the wide
valley--and wan enough it was now with its snow-sheet over it! As he
stood looking at its still, dead face, and lamenting that the snow lay
too deep over the ice to admit of skating, by a sudden reaction, a
summer-vision of the live water arose before him; and he thought how
delightful it would be to go sailing down the sparkling ripples, with
the green fields all about him, and the hot afternoon sun over his
head. That would be better even than scudding along it on his skates.
His next thought was at once an idea and a resolve. Why should he not
build a boat? He _would_ build a boat. He would set about it
directly.--Here was work for the rest of the winter!
His first step must be to go home and have his dinner; his next--to
consult George Macwha, who had been a ship-carpenter in his youth. He
would run over in the evening before George should have dropped work,
and commit the plan to his judgment.
In the evening, then, Alec reached the town, on his way to George
Macwha. It was a still lovely night, clear and frosty, with--yes, there
were--millions of stars overhead. Away in the north, the streamers were
shooting hither and thither, with marvellous evanescence and
re-generation. No dance of goblins could be more lawless in its
grotesqueness than this dance of the northern lights in their ethereal
beauty, shining, with a wild ghostly changefulness and feebleness, all
colours at once; now here, now there, like a row of slender
organ-pipes, rolling out and in and along the sky. Or they might have
been the chords of some gigantic stringed instrument, which chords
became visible only when mighty hands of music struck their keys and
set them vibrating; so that, as the hands swept up and down the Titanic
key-board, the chords themselves seemed to roll along the heavens,
though in truth some vanished here and others appeared yonder. Up and
down they darted, and away and back--and always in the direction he did
not expect them to take. He thought he heard them crackle, and he stood
still to listen; but he could not be sure that it was not the snow
sinking and _crisping_ beneath his feet. All around him was still as a
world too long frozen: in the heavens alone was there motion. There
this entrancing dance of colour and shape went on, wide beneath, and
tapering up to the zenith! Truly there was revelry in heaven! One might
have thought that a prodigal son had just got home, and that the music
and the dancing had begun, of which only the far-off rhythmic shine
could reach the human sense; for a dance in heaven might well show
itself in colour to the eyes of men.--Alec went on till the lights from
the windows of the town began to throw shadows across the snow. The
street was empty. From end to end nothing moved but an occasional
shadow. As he came near to Macwha's shop, he had to pass a row of
cottages which stood with their backs to a steep slope. Here too all
was silent as a frozen city. But when he was about opposite the middle
of the row, he heard a stifled laugh, and then a kind of muffled sound
as of hurrying steps, and, in a moment after, every door in the row was
torn open, and out bolted the inhabitants--here an old woman, halting
on a stick as she came, there a shoemaker, with last and awl in his
hands, here a tailor with his shears, and there a whole family of
several trades and ages. Every one rushed into the middle of the road,
turned right round and looked up. Then arose such a clamour of tongues,
that it broke on the still air like a storm.
"What's ado, Betty?" asked Alec of a decrepit old creature, bent almost
double with rheumatism, who was trying hard to see something or other
in the air or on the roof of her cottage.
But before she could speak, the answer came in another form, addressing
itself to his nose instead of his ears. For out of the cottages floated
clouds of smoke, pervading the air with a variety of scents--of burning
oak-bark, of burning leather-cuttings, of damp fire-wood and peat, of
the cooking of red herrings, of the boiling of porridge, of the baking
of oat-cake, &c., &c. Happily for all the inhabitants, "thae deevils o'
loons" had used no powder here.
But the old woman, looking round when Alec spoke, and seeing that he
was one of the obnoxious school-boys, broke out thus:
"Gang an' tak the divot (turf) aff o' my lum, Alec, there's a good
laad! Ye sudna play sic tricks on puir auld bodies like me, near
brackin' in twa wi' the rheumateeze. I'm jist greetin' wi' the reek i'
my auld een."
And as she spoke she wiped her eyes with her apron.
Alec did not wait to clear himself of an accusation so gently put, but
was on the roof of Luckie Lapp's cottage before she had finished her
appeal to his generosity. He took the "divot aff o' her lum" and
pitched it half way down the brae, at the back of the cottage. Then he
scrambled from one chimney to the other, and went on pitching the sods
down the hill. At length two of the inhabitants, who had climbed up at
the other end of the row, met him, and taking him for a repentant
sinner at best, made him prisoner, much to his amusement, and brought
him down, protesting that it was too bad of gentle-folk's sons to
persecute the poor in that way.
"I didn't do it," said Alec.
"Dinna lee," was the curt rejoinder.
"I'm no leein'."
"Wha did it, than?"
"I can guiss; an' it shanna happen again, gin I can help it."
"Tell's wha did it, than."
"I wonno say names."
"He's ane o' them."
"The foul thief tak him! I s' gie him a hidin'," said a burly sutor
(shoemaker) coming up. "Thae loons are no to be borne wi' ony langer."
And he caught Alec by the arm.
"I didn't do it," persisted Alec.
"Wha killed Rob Bruce's dog?" asked the sutor, squeezing Alec's arm to
point the question.
"I did," answered Alec; "and I will do yours the same guid turn, gin he
worries bairns."
"And quite richt, too!" said the sutor's wife. "Lat him gang, Donal.
I'll be boun' he's no ane o' them."
"Tell's a' aboot it, than. Hoo cam ye up there?"
"I gaed up to tak the divot aff o' Lucky Lapp's lum. Spier at her. Ance
up I thocht I micht gie the lave o' ye a gude turn, and this is a' I
get for't."
"Weel, weel! Come in and warm ye, than," said the shoemaker, convinced
at last.
So Alec went in and had a chat with them, and then went on to George
Macwha's.
The carpenter took to his scheme at once. Alec was a fair hand at all
sorts of tool-work; and being on the friendliest terms with Macwha, it
was soon arranged that the keel should be laid in the end of the
workshop, and that, under George's directions, and what help Willie
chose to render, Alec should build his boat himself. Just as they
concluded these preliminaries, in came Willie, wiping some traces of
blood from his nose. He made a pantomimic gesture of vengeance at Alec.
"What hae ye been efter noo, laddie?" asked his father.
"Alec's jist gien me a bluidy nose," said Willie.
"Hoo cam' that aboot? Ye weel deserved it, I hae nae doobt. Jist gie
him anither whan he wants it, Alec."
"What do ye mean, Curly?" asked Alec in amazement.
"Yon divot 'at ye flang aff o' Luckie Lapp's riggin'," said Curly,
"cam' richt o' the back o' my heid, as I lay o' the brae, and dang the
blude oot at my niz. That's a'.--Ye'll preten' ye didna see me, nae
doobt."
"I say, Curly," said Alec, putting his arm round his shoulders, and
leading him aside, "we maun hae nae mair o' this kin' o' wark. It's a
dam't shame! Do ye see nae differ atween chokin' an ill-faured tyke an'
chokin' a puir widow's lum?"
"'Twas only for fun."
"It's ill fun that baith sides canna lauch at, Curly."
"Rob Bruce wasna lauchin' whan he brocht the bick to the schuil, nor
yet whan he gaed hame again."
"That was nae fun, Curly. That was doonricht earnest."
"Weel, weel, Alec; say nae mair aboot it."
"No more I will. But gin I was you, Curly, I wad tak Lucky a seck o'
spales the morn."
"I'll tak them the nicht, Alec.--Father, hae ye an auld seck ony gait?"
"There's ane up i' the laft. What want ye wi' a seck?"
But Curly was in the loft almost before the question had left his
father's lips. He was down again in a moment, and on his knees filling
the sack with shavings and all the chips he could find.
"Gie's a han' up wi't, Alec," he said.
And in a moment more Curly was off to Widow Lapp with his bag of
firing.
"He's a fine chield that Willie o' yours, George," said Alec to the
father. "He only wants to hae a thing weel pitten afore him, an' he
jist acts upo' 't direckly.
"It's weel he maks a cronie o' you, Alec. There's a heap o' mischeef in
him. Whaur's he aff wi thae spells?"
Alec told the story, much to the satisfaction of George, who could
appreciate the repentance of his son; although he was "nane o' the unco
guid" himself. From that day he thought more of his son, and of Alec as
well.
"Noo, Curly," said Alec, as soon as he re-appeared with the empty sack,
"yer father's gaein to lat me big a boat, an' ye maun help me."
"What's the use o' a boat i' this weather?" said Curly.
"Ye gomeril!" returned his father; ye never luik an inch afore the pint
o' yer ain neb. Ye wadna think o' a boat afore the spring; an' haith!
the summer wad be ower, an' the water frozen again, afore ye had it
biggit. Luik at Alec there. He's worth ten o' you.
"I ken that ilka bit as weel's ye do, father. Jist set's aff wi' 't,
father."
"I canna attend till't jist i' the noo; but I s' set ye aff wi' 't the
morn's nicht."
So here was an end to the troubles of the townsfolks from the _loons_,
and without any increase of the constabulary force; for Curly being
withdrawn, there was no one else of sufficiently inventive energy to
take the lead, and the loons ceased to be dangerous to the peace of the
community. Curly soon had both his head and his hands quite occupied
with boat-building.
CHAPTER XXI.
Every afternoon, now, the moment dinner was over, Alec set off for the
workshop, and did not return till eight o'clock, or sometimes later.
Mrs Forbes did not at all relish this change in his habits; but she had
the good sense not to interfere.
One day he persuaded her to go with him, and see how the boat was
getting on. This enticed her into some sympathy with his new pursuit.
For there was the boat--a skeleton it is true, and not nearly ready yet
for the clothing of its planks, or its final skin of paint--yet an
undeniable boat to the motherly eye of hope. And there were Alec and
Willie working away before her eyes, doing their best to fulfil the
promise of its looks. A little quiet chat she had with George Macwha,
in which he poured forth the praises of her boy, did not a little, as
well, to reconcile her to his desertion of her.
"Deed, mem," said George, whose acquaintance with Scripture was neither
extensive nor precise, "to my mind he's jist a fulfilment o' the
prophecee, 'An auld heid upo' young shouthers;' though I canna richtly
min' whilk o' the lesser prophets it is that conteens 't."
But Mrs Forbes never saw a little figure, lying in a corner,
half-buried in wood-shavings, and utterly unconscious of her presence,
being fast asleep.
This was, of course, Annie Anderson, who having heard of the new
occupation of her hero, had, one afternoon, three weeks before Mrs
Forbes's visit, found herself at George's shop door, she hardly knew
how. It seemed to her that she had followed her feet, and they had
taken her there before she knew where they were going. Peeping in, she
watched Alec and Willie for some time at their work, without venturing
to show herself. But George, who came up behind her as she stood, and
perceived her interest in the operations of the boys, took her by the
hand, and led her in, saying kindly:
"Here's a new apprentice, Alec. She wants to learn boat-biggin."
"Ou! Annie, is that you, lassie? Come awa'," said Alec. "There's a fine
heap o' spales ye can sit upo', and see what we're aboot."
And so saying he seated her on the shavings, and half-buried her with
an armful more to keep her warm.
"Put to the door, Willie," he added. "She'll be cauld. She's no
workin', ye see."
Whereupon Willie shut the door, and Annie found herself very
comfortable indeed. There she sat, in perfect contentment, watching the
progress of the boat--a progress not very perceptible to her
inexperienced eyes, for the building of a boat is like the building of
a city or the making of a book: it turns out a boat at last. But after
she had sat for a good while in silence, she looked up at Alec, and
said:
"Is there naething I can do to help ye, Alec?"
"Naething, Annie. Lassies canna saw or plane, ye ken. Ye wad tak' aff
yer ain lugs in a jiffey."
Again she was silent for a long time; and then, with a sigh, she looked
up and said:
"Alec, I'm so cauld!"
"I'll bring my plaid to row ye in the morn's nicht."
Annie's heart bounded for joy; for here was what amounted to an express
invitation for to-morrow.
"But," Alec went on, "come wi' me, and we'll sune get ye warm again.
Gie's yer han'."
Annie gave Alec her hand; and he lifted her out of her heap of spales,
and led her away. She never thought of asking where he was leading her.
They had not gone far down the _close_, when a roaring sound fell upon
her ear, growing louder and louder as they went on; till, turning a
sharp corner, there they saw the smithy fire. The door of the smithy
was open, and they could see the smith at work some distance off. The
fire glowed with gathered rage at the impudence of the bellows blowing
in its face. The huge smith, with one arm flung affectionately over the
shoulder of the insulting party, urged it to the contest; while he
stirred up the other to increased ferocity, by poking a piece of iron
into the very middle of it. How the angry glare started out of it and
stared all the murky _smiddy_ in the face, showing such gloomy holes
and corners in it, and such a lot of horse-shoes hung up close to the
roof, ready to be fitted for unbelievable horse-wear; and making the
smith's face and bare arms glow with a dusky red, like hot metal, as if
he were the gnome-king of molten iron. Then he stooped, and took up
some coal dust in a little shovel, and patted it down over the fire,
and blew stronger than ever, and the sparks flew out with the rage of
the fire. Annie was delighted to look at it; but there was a certain
fierceness about the whole affair that made her shrink from going
nearer; and she could not help feeling a little afraid of the giant
smith in particular, with his brawny arms that twisted and tortured
iron bars all day long,--and his black angry-looking face, that seemed
for ever fighting with fire and stiff-necked metal His very look into
the forge-fire ought to have been enough to put it out of countenance.
Perhaps that was why it was so necessary to keep blowing and poking at
it. Again he stooped, caught up a great iron spoon, dipped it into a
tub of water, and poured the spoonful on the fire--a fresh insult, at
which it hissed and sputtered, like one of the fiery flying serpents of
which she had read in her Bible--gigantic, dragon-like creatures to her
imagination--in a perfect insanity of fury. But not the slightest
motion of her hand lying in Alec's, indicated reluctance, as he led her
into the shop, and right up to the wrathful man, saying:
"Peter Whaup, here's a lassie 'at's 'maist frozen to deid wi' cauld.
Will ye tak' her in and lat her stan' by your ingle-neuk, and warm
hersel'?"
"I'll do that, Alec. Come in by, my bairn. What ca' they ye?"
"Annie Anderson."
"Ow, ay! I ken a' aboot ye weel eneuch. Ye can lea' her wi' me, Alec;
I'll luik efter her."
"I maun gang back to my boat, Annie," said Alec, then, apologetically,
"but I'll come in for ye again."
So Annie was left with the smith, of whom she was not the least afraid,
now that she had heard him speak. With his leathern apron, caught up in
both hands, he swept a space on the front of the elevated hearth of the
forge, clear of cinders and dust, and then, having wiped his hands on
the same apron, lifted the girl as tenderly as if she had been a baby,
and set her down on this spot, about a yard from the fire, on a level
with it; and there she sat, in front of the smith, looking at the fire
and the smith and the work he was about, in turns. He asked her a great
many questions about herself and the Bruces, and her former life at
home; and every question he asked he put in a yet kindlier voice.
Sometimes he would stop in the middle of blowing, and lean forward with
his arm on the handle of the bellows, and look full in the child's face
till she had done answering him, with eyes that shone in the firelight
as if the tears would have gathered, but could not for the heat.
"Ay! ay!" he would say, when she had answered him, and resume his
blowing, slowly and dreamily. For this terrible smith's heart was just
like his fire. He was a dreadful fellow for fighting and quarrelling
when he got a drop too much, which was rather too often, if the truth
must be told; but to this little woman-child his ways were as soft and
tender as a woman's: he could burn or warm.
"An' sae ye likit bein' at the ferm best?" he said.
"Ay. But ye see my father deid--"
"I ken that, my bairn. The Lord haud a grip o' ye!"
It was not often that Peter Whaup indulged in a pious ejaculation. But
this was a genuine one, and may be worth recording for the sake of
Annie's answer:
"I'm thinkin' he hauds a grip o' us a', Mr Whaup."
And then she told him the story about the rats and the cat; for hardly
a day passed just at this time without her not merely recalling it, but
reflecting upon it. And the smith drew the back of his hand across both
his eyes when she had done, and then pressed them both hard with the
thumb and forefinger of his right hand, as if they ached, while his
other arm went blowing away as if nothing was the matter but plenty of
wind for the forge-fire. Then he pulled out the red-hot _gad_, or iron
bar, which he seemed to have forgotten ever since Annie came in, and,
standing with his back to her to protect her from the sparks, put it on
his anvil, and began to lay on it, as if in a fury; while the sparks
flew from his blows as if in mortal terror of the angry man that was
pelting at the luminous glory laid thus submissive before him. In fact,
Peter was attempting to hammer out more things than one, upon that
_study_ of his; for in Scotland they call a smith's anvil a study, so
that he ranks with other artists in that respect. Then, as if anxious
to hear the child speak yet again, he said, putting the iron once more
in the fire, and proceeding to rouse the wrath of the coals:
"Ye kent Jeames Dow, than?"
"Ay; weel that. I kent Dooie as weel as Broonie."
"Wha was Broonie?"
"Ow! naebody but my ain coo."
"An' Jeames was kin' to ye?"
To this question no reply followed; but Peter, who stood looking at
her, saw her lips and the muscles of her face quivering an answer,
which if uttered at all, could come only in sobs and tears.
But the sound of approaching steps and voices restored her equanimity,
and a listening look gradually displaced the emotion on her
countenance. Over the half-door of the shop appeared two men, each
bearing on his shoulder the socks (shares) of two ploughs, to be
sharpened, or set. The instant she saw them she tumbled off her perch,
and before they had got the door opened was half way to it, crying,
"Dooie! Dooie!" Another instant and she was lifted high in Dowie's
arms.
"My little mistress!" exclaimed he, kissing her. "Hoo cam ye here?"
"I'm safe eneuch here, Dooie; dinna be fleyt. I'll tell ye a' aboot it.
Alec's in George Macwha's shop yonner."
"And wha's Alec?" asked Dowie.
Leaving them now to their private communications, I will relate, for
the sake of its result, what passed between James Dow's companion and
the smith.
"The last time," said the youth, "that ye set my sock, Peter Whaup, ye
turned it oot jist as saft's potty, and it wore oot raither suner."
"Hoot! man, ye mistak. It wasna the sock. It was the heid that cam'
ahin' 't, and kentna hoo to haud it aff o' the stanes."
"Ha! ha! ha! My heid's nae sae saft's yer ain. It's no rosten a' day
like yours, till it's birstled (scorched) and sung (singed) like a
sheep's. Jist gie me a haud o' the taings, an' I s' set my sock to my
ain min'."
Peter gave up the tongs at once, and the young fellow proceeded to put
the share in the fire, and to work the bellows.
"Ye'll never mak ony thing o' 't that gait," said Peter, as he took the
tongs from his hand, and altered the position of the share for him. "Ye
wad hae 'it black upo' ae side and white upo' the ither. Noo ca (drive)
steady, an' dinna blaw the fire aff o' the forge."
But when it came to the anvil part of the work, Peter found so many
faults with the handling and the execution generally, that at length
the lad threw down the tongs with a laugh and an oath intermingled,
saying:
"Ye can mak' potty o' 't yersel, than, Peter.--Ye jist min' me o' the
Waesome Carl."
"What's that o' 't, Rory, man?"
"Ow! naething but a bit sang that I cam' upo' the ither day i' the neuk
o' an auld newspaper."
"Lat's hear't," said Peter. "Sing't, Rory. Ye're better kent for a guid
sang than for settin' socks."
"I canna sing 't, for I dinna ken the tune o' 't. I only got a glimp'
o' 't, as I tell ye, in an auld news."
"Weel, say't, than. Ye're as weel kent for a guid memory, as a guid
sang."
Without more preamble, Rory repeated, with appropriate gesture,
THE WAESOME CARL.
There cam a man to oor toon-en',
An' a waesome carl was he;
Wi' a snubbert nose, an' a crookit mou',
An' a cock in his left ee.
And muckle he spied, and muckle he spak';
But the burden o' his sang
Was aye the same, and ower again:
There's nane o' ye a' but's wrang.
Ye're a' wrang, and a' wrang,
And a'thegither a' wrang;
There's no a man aboot the town,
But's a'thegither a' wrang.
That's no the gait to bake the breid,
Nor yet to brew the yill;
That's no the gait to haud the pleuch,
Nor yet to ca the mill.
That's no the gait to milk the coo,
Nor yet to spean the calf;
Nor yet to fill the girnel-kist--
Ye kenna yer wark by half.
Ye're a' wrang, &c.
The minister was na fit to pray,
And lat alane to preach;
He nowther had the gift o' grace,
Nor yet the gift o' speech.
He mind 't him o' Balaam's ass,
Wi' a differ ye may ken:
The Lord he open'd the ass's mou'
The minister open'd 's ain.
He's a' wrang, &c.
The puir precentor cudna sing,
He gruntit like a swine;
The verra elders cudna pass
The ladles till his min'.
And for the rulin' elder's grace,
It wasna worth a horn;
He didna half uncurse the meat,
Nor pray for mair the morn.
He's a' wrang, &c.
And aye he gied his nose a thraw,
And aye he crookit his mou';
And aye he cockit up his ee,
And said, "Tak' tent the noo."
We leuch ahint oor loof (palm), man,
And never said him nay:
And aye he spak'--jist lat him speik!
And aye he said his say:
Ye're a' wrang, &c.
Quo' oor guidman: "The crater's daft;
But wow! he has the claik;
Lat's see gin he can turn a han'
Or only luik and craik.
It's true we maunna lippen till him--
He's fairly crack wi' pride;
But he maun live, we canna kill him--
Gin he can work, he s' bide."
He was a' wrang, &c.
"It's true it's but a laddie's turn,
But we'll begin wi' a sma' thing;
There's a' thae weyds to gather an' burn--
An' he's the man for a' thing."
We gaed oor wa's, and loot him be,
To do jist as he micht;
We think to hear nae mair o' him,
Till we come hame at nicht;
But we're a' wrang, &c.
For, losh! or it was denner-time,
The lift (firmament) was in a low;
The reek rase up, as it had been
Frae Sodom-flames, I vow.
We ran like mad; but corn and byre
War blazin'--wae's the fell!�-
As gin the deil had broucht the fire,
To mak' anither hell.
'Twas a' wrang, &c.
And by the blaze the carl stud,
Wi's han's aneath his tails;
And aye he said--"I tauld ye sae,
An' ye're to blame yersels.
It's a' your wite (blame), for ye're a' wrang--
Ye'll maybe own't at last:
What gart ye burn thae deevilich weyds,
Whan the win' blew frae the wast?
Ye're a' wrang, and a' wrang,
And a'thegither a' wrang;
There's no a man in a' the warl'
But's a'thegither a' wrang."
Before the recitation was over, which was performed with considerable
spirit and truth, Annie and Dowie were listening attentively, along
with Alec, who had returned to take Annie back, and who now joined
loudly in the applause which followed the conclusion of the verses.
"Faith, that was a chield to haud oot ower frae," said Alec to Rory.
"And ye said the sang weel. Ye sud learn to sing't though."
"Maybe I may, some day; gin I cud only get a grainie saut to pit upo'
the tail o' the bird that kens the tune o' 't. What ca' they you, noo?"
"Alec Forbes," answered the owner of the name.
"Ay," interposed Annie, addressing herself to Dowie, who still held her
in his arms; "this is Alec, that I tell't ye aboot. He's richt guid to
me. Alec, here's Dooie, 'at I like better nor onybody i' the warl'."
And she turned and kissed the bronzed face, which was a clean face,
notwithstanding the contrary appearance given to it by a beard of three
days' growth, which Annie's kiss was too full of love to mind.
Annie would have been yet more ready to tell Dowie and Alec each who
the other was, had she not been occupied in her own mind with a
discovery she had made. For had not those verses given evident delight
to the company--Alec among the rest? Had he not applauded loudest of
all?--Was there not here something she could do, and so contribute to
the delight of the workmen, Alec and Willie, and thus have her part in
the boat growing beneath their hands? She would then be no longer a
tolerated beholder, indebted to their charity for permission to enjoy
their society, but a contributing member of the working community--if
not working herself, yet upholding those that wrought. The germ of all
this found itself in her mind that moment, and she resolved before next
night to be able to emulate Rory.
Dowie carried her home in his arms, and on the way she told him all
about the kindness of Alec and his mother. He asked her many questions
about the Bruces; but her patient nature, and the instinctive feeling
that it would make Dowie unhappy, withheld her from representing the
discomforts of her position in strong colours. Dowie, however, had his
own thoughts on the matter.
"Hoo are ye the nicht, Mr Dow?" said Robert, who treated him with oily
respect, because he was not only acquainted with all Annie's affairs,
but was a kind of natural, if not legal, guardian of her and her
property. "And whaur did ye fa' in wi' this stray lammie o' oors?"
"She's been wi' me this lang time," answered Dow, declining, with
Scotch instinct, to give an answer, before he understood all the drift
of the question. A Scotchman would always like the last question first.
"She's some ill for rinnin' oot," said Bruce, with soft words addressed
to Dow, and a cutting look flung at Annie, "withoot speirin' leave, and
we dinna ken whaur she gangs; and that's no richt for lass-bairns."
"Never ye min' her, Mr Bruce," replied Dow. "I ken her better nor you,
no meanin' ony offence, seein' she was i' my airms afore she was a week
auld. Lat her gang whaur she likes, and gin she does what she sudna do,
I'll tak a' the wyte o' 't."
Now there was no great anxiety about Annie's welfare in the mind of Mr
or Mrs Bruce. The shop and their own children, chiefly the former
occupied their thoughts, and the less trouble they had from the
presence of Annie, the better pleased they were--always provided they
could escape the censure of neglect. Hence it came that Annie's
absences were but little inquired into. All the attention they did show
her, seemed to them to be of free grace and to the credit of their
charity.
But Bruce did not like the influence that James Dow had with her; and
before they retired for the night, he had another lecture ready for
Annie.
"Annie," he said, "it's no becomin' for ane i' your station to be sae
familiar. Ye'll be a young leddy some day, and it's no richt to tak up
wi' servan's. There's Jeames Doo, jist a labourin' man, and aneath your
station a'thegether, and he taks ye up in's airms, as gin ye war a
bairn o' 's ain. It's no proaper."
"I like Jamie Doo better nor onybody i' the haill warl," said Annie,
"excep'--"
Here she stopped short. She would not expose her heart to the gaze of
that man.
"Excep' wha?" urged Bruce.
"I'm no gaein to say," returned Annie firmly.
"Ye're a camstairie (perverse) lassie," said Bruce, pushing her away
with a forceful acidity in the combination of tone and push.
She walked off to bed, caring nothing for his rebuke. For since Alec's
kindness had opened to her a well of the water of life, she had almost
ceased to suffer from the ungeniality of her guardians. She forgot them
as soon as she was out of their sight. And certainly they were nicer to
forget than to remember.
CHAPTER XVIII. [sic, should be XXII.]
As soon as she was alone in her room she drew from her pocket a parcel
containing something which Dowie had bought for her on their way home.
When undone it revealed two or three tallow candles, a precious present
in view of her hopes. But how should she get a light--for this was long
before lucifer matches had risen even upon the horizon of Glamerton?
There was but one way.
She waited, sitting on the edge of her bed, in the cold and darkness,
until every sound in the house had ceased. Then she stepped cautiously
down the old stair, which would crack now and then, use what care and
gentleness she might.
It was the custom in all the houses of Glamerton to _rest_ the fire;
that is, to keep it gently alive all night by the help of a _truff_, or
sod cut from the top of a peat-moss--a coarse peat in fact, more loose
and porous than the peat proper--which they laid close down upon the
fire, destroying almost all remaining draught by means of coal-dust. To
this sealed fountain of light the little maiden was creeping through
the dark house, with one of her _dips_ in her hand--the pitcher with
which she was about to draw from the fountain.
And a pretty study she would have made for any child-loving artist,
when, with her face close to the grate, her mouth puckered up to do
duty as the nozzle of a pair of bellows, one hand holding a twisted
piece of paper between the bars, and the other buttressing the whole
position from the floor, she blew at the live but reluctant fire, a
glow spreading at each breath over her face, and then fading as the
breath ceased, till at last the paper caught, and lighting it up from
without with flame, and from within with the shine of success, made the
lovely child-countenance like the face of one that has found the truth
after the search of weary days.
Thus she lighted her candle, and again with careful steps she made her
way to her own room. Setting the candle in a hole in the floor, left by
the departure of a resinous knot, she opened her box, in which lay the
few books her aunt had thrown into it when she left her old home. She
had not yet learned to care much about books; but one of these had now
become precious in her eyes, because she knew it contained poems that
her father had been fond of reading. She soon found it--a volume by
some Scotch poet of little fame, whose inward commotions had generated
their own alleviation in the harmonies of ordered words in which they
embodied themselves. In it Annie searched for something to learn before
the following night, and found a ballad the look of which she liked,
and which she very soon remembered as one she had heard her father
read. It was very cold work to learn it at midnight, in winter, and in
a garret too; but so intent was she, that before she went to bed, she
had learned four or five verses so thoroughly that she could repeat
them without thinking of what came next, and these she kept saying over
and over again even in her dreams.
As soon as she woke in the dark morning she put her hand under her
pillow to feel the precious volume, which she hoped would be the bond
to bind her yet more closely to the boat and its builders. She took it
to school in her pocket, learning the whole way as she went, and taking
a roundabout road that her cousins might not interrupt her. She kept
repeating and peeping every possible moment during school hours, and
then all the way home again. So that by the time she had had her
dinner, and the gauzy twilight had thickened to the "blanket of the
dark," she felt quite ready to carry her offering of "the song that
lightens toil," to George Macwha's workshop.
How clever they must be, she thought, as she went along, to make such a
beautiful thing as the boat was now growing to! And she felt in her
heart a kind of love for the look of living grace that the little craft
already wore. Indeed before it was finished she had learned to regard
it with a feeling of mingled awe, affection, and admiration, and the
little boat had made for itself a place in her brain.
When she entered, she found the two boys already in busy talk; and
without interrupting them by a word, she took her place on the heap of
shavings which had remained undisturbed since last night. After the
immediate consultation was over, and the young carpenters had settled
to their work--not knowing what introduction to give to her offering,
she produced it without any at all. The boys did not know what to make
of it at first, hearing something come all at once from Annie's lips
which was neither question nor remark, and broke upon the silence like
an alien sound. But they said nothing--only gave a glance at each other
and at her, and settled down to listen and to work. Nor did they speak
one word until she had finished the ballad.
"THE LAST WOOING,"
said Annie, all at once, and went on:
"O lat me in, my bonny lass!
It's a lang road ower the hill;
And the flauchterin' snaw began to fa',
As I cam by the mill."
"This is nae change-hoose, John Munro,
And ye needna come nae mair:
Ye crookit yer mou', and lichtlied me,
Last Wednesday, at the fair."
"I lichtlied ye!" "Aboon the glass."
"Foul-fa' the ill-faured mouth
That made the leein' word to pass,
By rowin' 't (wrapping) in the truth.
The fac' was this: I dochtna bide
To hear yer bonnie name,
Whaur muckle mous war opened wide
Wi' lawless mirth and shame.
And a' I said was: 'Hoot! lat sit;
She's but a bairn, the lass.'
It turned the spait (flood) o' words a bit,
And loot yer fair name pass."
"Thank ye for naething, John Munro!
My name can gang or bide;
It's no a sough o' drucken words
Wad turn my heid aside."
"O Elsie, lassie o' my ain!
The drift is cauld and strang;
O tak me in ae hour, and syne
I'll gather me and gang."
"Ye're guid at fleechin' (wheedling), Jock Munro.
For ye heedna fause and true:
Gang in to Katie at the Mill,
She lo'es sic like as you."
He turned his fit; he spak nae mair.
The lift was like to fa';
And Elsie's heart grew grit and sair (big and sore),
At sicht o' the drivin' snaw.
She laid her doun, but no to sleep,
For her verra heart was cauld;
And the sheets war like a frozen heap
O' snaw aboot her faul'd.
She rase fu' ear'. And a' theroot
Was ae braid windin' sheet;
At the door-sill, or winnock-lug (window-corner),
Was never a mark o' feet.
She crap a' day aboot the hoose,
Slow-fittit and hert-sair,
Aye keekin' oot like a frichtit moose,--
But Johnnie cam nae mair!
When saft the thow begud to melt
Awa' the ghaistly snaw,
Her hert was safter nor the thow,
Her pride had ta'en a fa.'
And she oot ower the hill wad gang,
Whaur the sun was blinkin' bonnie,
To see his auld minnie (mother) in her cot,
And speir aboot her Johnnie.
But as alang the hill she gaed,
Through snaw und slush and weet,
She stoppit wi' a chokin' cry--
'Twas Johnnie at her feet.
His heid was smoored aneath the snaw,
But his breist was maistly bare;
And 'twixt his breist and his richt han',
He claisp't a lock o' hair.
'Twas gowden hair: she kent it weel.
Alack, the sobs and sighs!
The warm win' blew, the laverock flew,
But Johnnie wadna rise.
The spring cam ower the wastlin (westward) hill,
And the frost it fled awa';
And the green grass luikit smilin' up,
Nane the waur for a' the snaw.
And saft it grew on Johnnie's grave,
Whaur deep the sunshine lay;
But, lang or that, on Elsie's heid
The gowden hair was gray.
George Macwha, who was at work in the other end of the shop when she
began, had drawn near, chisel in hand, and joined the listeners.
"Weel dune, Annie!" exclaimed he, as soon as she had finished�-feeling
very shy and awkward, now that her experiment had been made. But she
had not long to wait for the result.
"Say't ower again, Annie," said Alec, after a moment's pause.
Could she have wished for more?
She did say it over again.
"Eh, Annie! that's rale bonnie. Whaur did ye get it?" he asked.
"In an auld buikie o' my father's," answered she.
"Is there ony mair in't like it?"
"Ay, lots."
"Jist learn anither, will ye, afore the morn's nicht?"
"I'll do that, Alec."
"Dinna ye like it, Curly?" asked Alec, for Curly had said nothing.
"Ay, fegs! (faith)" was Curly's emphatic and uncritical reply.
Annie therefore learned and repeated a few more, which, if not received
with equal satisfaction, yet gave sufficient pleasure to the listeners.
They often, however, returned to the first, demanding it over and over
again, till at length they knew it as well as she.
Hut a check was given for a while to these forenight meetings.
CHAPTER XXIII.
A rapid thaw set in, and up through the vanishing whiteness dawned the
dark colours of the wintry landscape. For a day or two the soft wet
snow lay mixed with water over all the road. After that came mire and
dirt. But it was still so far off spring, that nobody cared to be
reminded of it yet. So when, after the snow had vanished, a hard black
frost set in, it was welcomed by the schoolboys at least, whatever the
old people and the poor people, and especially those who were both old
and poor, may have thought of the change. Under the binding power of
this frost, the surface of the slow-flowing Glamour and of the swifter
Wan-Water, were once more chilled and stiffened to ice, which every day
grew thicker and stronger. And now, there being no coverlet of snow
upon it, the boys came out in troops, in their iron-shod shoes and
their clumsy skates, to skim along those floors of delight that the
winter had laid for them. To the fishes the ice was a warm blanket cast
over them to keep them from the frost. But they must have been dismayed
at the dim rush of so many huge forms above them, as if another river
with other and awful fishes had buried theirs. Alec and Willie left
their boat--almost for a time forgot it--repaired their skates, joined
their school-fellows, and shot along the solid water with the banks
flying past them. It was strange to see the banks thus from the middle
surface of the water. All was strange about them; and the delight of
the strangeness increased the delight of the motion, and sent the blood
through their veins swift as their flight along the frozen rivers.
For many afternoons and into the early nights, Alec and Curly held on
the joyful sport, and Annie was for the time left lonely. But she was
neither disconsolate nor idle. The boat was a sure pledge for them. To
the boat and her they must return. She went to the shop still, now and
then, to see George Macwha, who, of an age beyond the seduction of ice
and skates, kept on steadily at his work. To him she would repeat a
ballad or two, at his request, and then go home to increase her stock.
This was now a work of some difficulty, for her provision of candles
was exhausted, and she had no money with which to buy more. The last
candle had come to a tragical end. For, hearing steps approaching her
room one morning, before she had put it away in its usual safety in her
box, she hastily poked it into one of the holes in the floor and forgot
it. When she sought it at night, it was gone. Her first dread was that
she had been found out; but hearing nothing of it, she concluded at
last that her enemies the _rottans_ had carried it off and devoured it.
"Deil choke them upo' the wick o' 't!" exclaimed Curly, when she told
him the next day, seeking a partner in her grief.
But a greater difficulty had to be encountered. It was not long before
she had exhausted her book, from which she had chosen the right poems
by insight, wonderfully avoiding by instinct the unsuitable, without
knowing why, and repelled by the mere tone.
She thought day and night where additional _pabulum_ might be procured,
and at last came to the resolution of applying to Mr Cowie the
clergyman. Without consulting any one, she knocked on an afternoon at
Mr Cowie's door.
"Cud I see the minister?" she said to the maid.
"I dinna ken. What do you want?" was the maid's reply.
But Annie was Scotch too, and perhaps perceived that she would have but
a small chance of being admitted into the minister's presence if she
communicated the object of her request to the servant. So she only
replied,
"I want to see himsel', gin ye please."
"Weel, come in, and I'll tell him. What's yer name?"
"Annie Anderson"
"Whaur do ye bide?"
"At Mr Bruce's, i' the Wast Wynd."
The maid went, and presently returning with the message that she was to
"gang up the stair," conducted her to the study where the minister
sat--a room, to Annie's amazement, filled with books from the top to
the bottom of every wall. Mr Cowie held out his hand to her, and said,
"Well, my little maiden, what do you want?"
"Please, sir, wad ye len' me a sang-buik?"
"A psalm-book?" said the minister, hesitatingly, supposing he had not
heard aright, and yet doubting if this could be the correction of his
auricular blunder.
"Na, sir; I hae a psalm-buik at hame. It's a sang-buik that I want the
len' o'."
Now the minister was one of an old school--a very worthy kind-hearted
man, with nothing of what has been called _religious experience_. But
he knew what some of his Lord's words meant, and amongst them certain
words about little children. He had a feeling likewise, of more
instinctive origin, that to be kind to little children was an important
branch of his office. So he drew Annie close to him, as he sat in his
easy-chair, laid his plump cheek against her thin white one, and said
in the gentlest way:
"And what do you want a song-book for, dawtie?"
"To learn bonnie sangs oot o', sir. Dinna ye think they're the bonniest
things in a' the warl',--sangs, sir?"
For Annie had by this time learned to love ballad-verse above
everything but Alec and Dowie.
"And what kind o' sangs do ye like?" the clergyman asked, instead of
replying.
"I like them best that gar ye greit, sir."
At every answer, she looked up in his face with her open clear blue
eyes. And the minister began to love her not merely because she was a
child, but because she was this child.
"Do ye sing them?" he asked, after a little pause of pleased gazing
into the face of the child.
"Na, na; I only say them. I dinna ken the tunes o' them."
"And do you say them to Mr Bruce?"
"Mr Bruce, sir! Mr Bruce wad say I was daft. I wadna say a sang to him,
sir, for--for--for a' the sweeties i' the shop."
"Well, who do you say them to?"
"To Alec Forbes and Willie Macwha. They're biggin a boat, sir; and they
like to hae me by them, as they big, to say sangs to them. And I like
it richt weel."
"It'll be a lucky boat, surely," said the minister, "to rise to the
sound of rhyme, like some old Norse war-ship."
"I dinna ken, sir," said Annie, who certainly did not know what he
meant.
Now the minister's acquaintance with any but the classic poets was very
small indeed; so that, when he got up and stood before his
book-shelves, with the design of trying what he could do for her, he
could think of nobody but Milton.
So he brought the _Paradise Lost_ from its place, where it had not been
disturbed for years, and placing it before her on the table, for it was
a quarto copy, asked her if that would do. She opened it slowly and
gently, with a reverential circumspection, and for the space of about
five minutes, remained silent over it, turning leaves, and tasting, and
turning, and tasting again. At length, with one hand resting on the
book, she turned to Mr Cowie, who was watching with much interest and a
little anxiety the result of the experiment, and said gently and
sorrowfully:
"I dinna think this is the richt buik for me, sir. There's nae sang
in't that I can fin' out. It gangs a' straucht on, and never turns or
halts a bit. Noo ye see, sir, a sang aye turns roun', and begins again,
and afore lang it comes fairly to an en', jist like a day, sir, whan we
gang to oor beds an' fa' asleep. But this hauds on and on, and there's
no end till't ava (at all). It's jist like the sun that 'never tires
nor stops to rest.'"
"'But round the world he shines,'" said the clergyman, completing the
quotation, right good-humouredly, though he was somewhat bewildered;
for he had begun to fall a-marvelling at the little dingy maiden, with
the untidy hair and dirty frock, who had thoughts of her own, and would
not concede the faculty of song to the greatest of epic poets.
Doubtless if he had tried her with some of the short poems at the end
of the _Paradise Regained_, which I doubt if he had ever even read, she
would at least have allowed that they were not devoid of song. But it
was better perhaps that she should be left free to follow her own
instincts. The true teacher is the one who is able to guide those
instincts, strengthen them with authority, and illuminate them with
revelation of their own fundamental truth. The best this good minister
could do was not to interfere with them. He was so anxious to help her,
however, that, partly to gain some minutes for reflection, partly to
get the assistance of his daughters, he took her by the hand, and led
her to the dining-room, where tea was laid for himself and his two
grown-up girls. She went without a thought of question or a feeling of
doubt; for however capable she was of ordering her own way, nothing
delighted her more than blind submission, wherever she felt justified
in yielding it. It was a profound pleasure to her not to know what was
coming next, provided some one whom she loved did. So she sat down to
tea with the perfect composure of submission to a superior will. It
never occurred to her that she had no right to be there; for had not
the minister himself led her there? And his daughters were very kind
and friendly. In the course of the meal, Mr Cowie having told them the
difficulty he was in, they said that perhaps they might be able to find
what she wanted, or something that might take the place of it; and
after tea, one of them brought two volumes of ballads of all sorts,
some old, some new, some Scotch, some English, and put them into
Annie's hands, asking her if that book would do. The child eagerly
opened one of the volumes, and glanced at a page: It sparkled with the
right ore of ballad-words. The Red, the colour always of delight, grew
in her face. She closed the book as if she could not trust herself to
look at it while others were looking at her, and said with a sigh:
"Eh, mem! Ye wonna lippen them _baith_ to me?"
"Yes, I will," said Miss Cowie. "I am sure you will take care of them."
"_That--I--will_," returned Annie, with an honesty and determination of
purpose that made a great impression upon Mr Cowie especially. And she
ran home with a feeling of richness of possession such as she had never
before experienced.
Her first business was to scamper up to her room, and hide the precious
treasures in her _kist_, there to wait all night, like the buried dead,
for the coming morning.
When she confessed to Mr Bruce that she had had tea with the minister,
he held up his hands in the manner which commonly expresses amazement;
but what the peculiar character or ground of the amazement might be
remained entirely unrevealed, for he said not a word to elucidate the
gesture.
The next time Annie went to see the minister it was on a very different
quest from the loan of a song-book.
CHAPTER XXIV.
One afternoon, as Alec went home to dinner, he was considerably
surprised to find Mr Malison leaning on one of the rails of the
foot-bridge over the Glamour, looking down upon its frozen surface.
There was nothing supernatural or alarming in this, seeing that, after
school was over, Alec had run up the town to the saddler's, to get a
new strap for one of his skates. What made the fact surprising was,
that the scholars so seldom encountered the master anywhere except in
school. Alec thought to pass, but the moment his foot was on the bridge
the master lifted himself up, and faced round.
"Well, Alec," he said, "where have _you_ been?"
"To get a new strap for my skatcher," answered Alec.
"You're fond of skating--are you, Alec?"
"Yes, sir."
"I used to be when I was a boy. Have you had your dinner?"
"No, sir."
"Then I suppose your mother has not dined, either?"
"She never does till I go home, sir."
"Then I won't intrude upon her. I did mean to call this afternoon."
"She will be very glad to see you, sir. Come and take a share of what
there is."
"I think I had better not, Alec."
"Do, sir. I am sure she will make you welcome."
Mr Malison hesitated. Alec pressed him. He yielded; and they went along
the road together.
I shall not have to show much more than half of Mr Malison's life--the
school half, which, both inwardly and outwardly, was very different
from the other. The moment he was out of the school, the moment, that
is, that he ceased for the day to be responsible for the moral and
intellectual condition of his turbulent subjects, the whole
character--certainly the whole deportment--of the man changed. He was
now as meek and gentle in speech and behaviour as any mother could have
desired.
Nor was the change a hypocritical one. The master never interfered, or
only upon the rarest occasions when pressure from without was brought
to bear upon him, as in the case of Juno, with what the boys did out of
school. He was glad enough to accept utter irresponsibility for that
portion of his time; so that between the two parts of the day, as they
passed through the life of the master, there was almost as little
connection as between the waking and sleeping hours of a somnambulist.
But, as he leaned over the rail of the bridge, whither a rare impulse
to movement had driven him, his thoughts had turned upon Alec Forbes
and his antagonism. Out of school, he could not help feeling that the
boy had not been very far wrong, however subversive of authority his
behaviour had been; but it was not therefore the less mortifying to
think how signally he had been discomfited by him. And he was compelled
moreover to acknowledge to himself that it was a mercy that Alec was
not the boy to follow up his advantage by heading--not a party against
the master, but the whole school, which would have been ready enough to
follow such a victorious leader. So there was but one way of setting
matters right, as Mr Malison had generosity enough left in him to
perceive; and that was, to make a friend of his adversary. Indeed there
is that in the depths of every human breast which makes a
reconciliation the only victory that can give true satisfaction. Nor
was the master the only gainer by the resolve which thus arose in his
mind the very moment before he felt Alec's tread upon the bridge.
They walked together to Howglen, talking kindly the whole way; to which
talk, and most likely to which kindness between them, a little incident
had contributed as well. Alec had that day rendered a passage of Virgil
with a remarkable accuracy, greatly pleasing to the master, who,
however, had no idea to what this isolated success was attributable. I
forget the passage; but it had reference to the setting of sails, and
Alec could not rest till he had satisfied himself about its meaning;
for when we are once interested in anything, we want to see it nearer
as often as it looms in sight. So he had with some difficulty cleared
away the mists that clung about the words, till at length he beheld and
understood the fact embodied in them.
Alec had never had praise from Mr Malison before--at least none that
had made any impression on him--and he found it very sweet. And through
the pleasure dawned the notion that perhaps he might be a scholar after
all if he gave his mind to it. In this he was so far right: a fair
scholar he might be, though a learned man he never could be, without
developing an amount of will, and effecting a degree of self-conquest,
sufficient for a Jesuit,--losing at the same time not only what he was
especially made for knowing, but, in a great measure, what he was
especially made for being. Few, however, are in danger of going so
grievously against the intellectual impulses of their nature: far more
are in danger of following them without earnestness, or if earnestly,
then with the absorption of an eagerness only worldly.
Mrs Forbes, seeing the pleasure expressed on Alec's countenance,
received Mr Malison with more than the usual cordiality, forgetting
when he was present before her eyes what she had never failed to think
of with bitterness when he was only present to her mind.
As soon as dinner was over Alec rushed off to the river, leaving his
mother and the master together. Mrs Forbes brought out the
whisky-bottle, and Mr Malison, mixing a tumbler of toddy, filled a
wine-glass for his hostess.
"We'll make a man of Alec some day yet," said he, giving an
ill-considered form to his thoughts.
"'Deed!" returned Mrs Forbes, irritated at the suggestion of any
difficulty in the way of Alec's ultimate manhood, and perhaps glad of
the opportunity of speaking her mind--"'Deed! Mr Malison, ye made a
bonnie munsie (monsieur) o' him a month ago. It wad set ye weel to try
yer hand at makin' a man o' him noo."
Had Alec been within hearing, he would never have let his mother forget
this speech. For had not she, the immaculate, the reprover, fallen
herself into the slough of the vernacular? The fact is, it is easier to
speak the truth in a _patois_, for it lies nearer to the simple
realities than a more conventional speech.
I do not however allow that the Scotch is a _patois_ in the ordinary
sense of the word. For had not Scotland a living literature, and that a
high one, when England could produce none, or next to none--I mean in
the fifteenth century? But old age, and the introduction of a more
polished form of utterance, have given to the Scotch all the other
advantages of a _patois_, in addition to its own directness and
simplicity.
For a moment the dominie was taken aback, and sat reddening over his
toddy, which, not daring even to taste it, he went on stirring with his
toddy-ladle. For one of the disadvantages of a broken life is, that
what a person may do with a kind of conscience in the one part, he
feels compelled to blush for in the other. The despotism exercised in
the school, even though exercised with a certain sense of justice and
right, made the autocrat, out of school, cower before the parents of
his helpless subjects. And this quailing of heart arose not merely from
the operation of selfish feelings, but from a deliquium that fell upon
his principles, in consequence of their sudden exposure to a more open
atmosphere. But with a sudden perception that his only chance was to
throw himself on the generosity of a woman, he said:
"Well, ma'am, if you had to keep seventy boys and girls quiet, and hear
them their lessons at the same time, perhaps you would find yourself in
danger of doing in haste what you might repent at leisure."
"Weel, weel, Mr Malison, we'll say nae mair aboot it. My laddie's nane
the waur for't noo; and I hope ye will mak a man o' him some day, as ye
say."
"He translated a passage of Virgil to-day in a manner that surprised
me."
"Did he though? He's not a dunce, I know; and if it weren't for that
stupid boat he and William Macwha are building, he might be made a
scholar of, I shouldn't wonder. George should have more sense than
encourage such a waste of time and money. He's always wanting something
or other for the boat, and I confess I can't find in my heart to refuse
him, for, whatever he may be at school, he's a good boy at home, Mr
Malison."
But the schoolmaster did not reply at once, for a light had dawned upon
him: this then was the secret of Alec's translation--a secret in good
sooth worth his finding out. One can hardly believe that it should have
been to the schoolmaster the first revelation of the fact that a
practical interest is the strongest incitement to a theoretical
acquaintance. But such was the case. He answered after a moment's
pause--
"I suspect, ma'am, on the contrary, that the boat, of which I had heard
nothing till now, was Alec's private tutor in the passage of Virgil to
which I have referred."
"I don't understand you, Mr Malison."
"I mean, ma'am, that his interest in his boat made him take an interest
in those lines about ships and their rigging. So the boat taught him to
translate them."
"I see, I see."
"And that makes me doubt, ma'am, whether we shall be able to make him
learn anything to good purpose that he does not take an interest in."
"Well, what _do_ you think he is fit for, Mr Malison? I should like him
to be able to be something else than a farmer, whatever he may settle
down to at last."
Mrs Forbes thought, whether wisely or not, that as long as she was able
to manage the farm, Alec might as well be otherwise employed. And she
had ambition for her son as well. But the master was able to make no
definite suggestion. Alec seemed to have no special qualification for
any profession; for the mechanical and constructive faculties had alone
reached a notable development in him as yet. So after a long talk, his
mother and the schoolmaster had come no nearer than before to a
determination of what he was fit for. The interview, however, restored
a good understanding between them.
CHAPTER XXV.
It was upon a Friday night that the frost finally broke up. A day of
wintry rain followed, dreary and depressing. But the two boys, Alec
Forbes and Willie Macwha, had a refuge from the _ennui_ commonly
attendant on such weather, in the prosecution of their boat-building.
Hence it came to pass that in the early evening of the following
Saturday, they found themselves in close consultation in George
Macwha's shop, upon a doubtful point involved in the resumption of
their labour. But they could not settle the matter without reference to
the master of the mystery, George himself, and were, in the mean time,
busy getting their tools in order--when he entered, in conversation
with Thomas Crann the mason, who, his bodily labours being quite
interrupted by the rain, had the more leisure apparently to bring his
mental powers to bear upon the condition of his neighbours.
"It's a sod pity, George," he was saying as he entered, "that a man
like you wadna, ance for a', tak thoucht a bit, and consider the en' o'
a' thing that the sun shines upo'."
"Hoo do ye ken, Thamas, that I dinna tak thoucht?"
"Will ye say 'at ye _div_ tak thoucht, George?"
"I'm a bit o' a Protestant, though I'm nae missionar; an' I'm no
inclined to confess, Thamas--meanin' no ill-will to _you_ for a' that,
ye ken," added George, in a conciliatory tone.
"Weel, weel. I can only say that I hae seen no signs o' a savin'
seriousness aboot ye, George. Ye're sair ta'en up wi' the warl'."
"Hoo mak' ye that oot? Ye big hooses, an' I mak' doors to them. And
they'll baith stan' efter you an' me's laid i' the mouls.--It's weel
kent forbye that ye hae a bit siller i' the bank, and I hae none."
"Not a bawbee hae I, George. I can pray for my daily breid wi' an
honest hert; for gin the Lord dinna sen' 't, I hae nae bank to fa' back
upo'."
"I'm sorry to hear 't, Thamas," said George.--"But Guid guide 's!" he
exclaimed, "there's the twa laddies, hearkenin' to ilka word 'at we
say!"
He hoped thus, but hoped in vain, to turn the current of the
conversation.
"A' the better for that!" persisted Thomas. "They need to be remin't as
well as you and me, that the fashion o' this warld passeth away. Alec,
man, Willie, my lad, can ye big a boat to tak' ye ower the river o'
Deith?--Na, ye'll no can do that. Ye maun gae through that watshod, I
doobt! But there's an ark o' the Covenant that'll carry ye safe ower
that and a waur flood to boot--and that's the flood o' God's wrath
against evil-doers.--'Upon the wicked he shall rain fire and
brimstone--a furious tempest.'--We had a gran' sermon upo' the ark o'
the Covenant frae young Mr Mirky last Sabbath nicht. What for will na
ye come and hear the Gospel for ance and awa' at least, George Macwha?
Ye can sit i' my seat."
"I'm obleeged to ye," answered George; "but the muckle kirk does weel
eneuch for me. And ye ken I'm precentor, noo, forbye."
"The muckle kirk!" repeated Thomas, in a tone of contempt. "What get ye
there but the dry banes o' morality, upo' which the win' o' the word
has never blawn to pit life into the puir disjaskit skeleton. Come ye
to oor kirk, an' ye'll get a rousin', I can tell ye, man. Eh! man, gin
ye war ance convertit, ye wad ken hoo to sing. It's no great singin'
'at _ye_ guide."
Before the conversation had reached this point another listener had
arrived: the blue eyes of Annie Anderson were fixed upon the speaker
from over the half-door of the workshop. The drip from the thatch-eaves
was dropping upon her shabby little shawl as she stood, but she was
utterly heedless of it in the absorption of hearkening to Thomas Crann,
who talked with authority, and a kind of hard eloquence of persuasion.
I ought to explain here that the _muckle kirk_ meant the parish church;
and that the religious community to which Thomas Crann belonged was one
of the first results of the propagation of English Independency in
Scotland. These Independents went commonly by the name of _Missionars_
in all that district; a name arising apparently from the fact that they
were the first in the neighbourhood to advocate the sending of
missionaries to the heathen. The epithet was, however, always used with
a considerable admixture of contempt.
"Are ye no gaein to get a minister o' yer ain, Thamas?" resumed George,
after a pause, still wishing to turn the cart-wheels of the
conversation out of the deep ruts in which the stiff-necked Thomas
seemed determined to keep them moving.
"Na; we'll bide a bit, and try the speerits. We're no like you--forced
to lat ower (swallow) ony jabble o' lukewarm water that's been stan'in'
i' the sun frae year's en' to year's en', jist because the p�tron
pleases to stick a pump intil 't an' ca' 't a well o' salvation. We'll
ken whaur the water comes frae. We'll taste them a', and cheese
accordin'."
"Weel, I wadna like the trouble nor yet the responsibility."
"I daursay not."
"Na. Nor yet the shame o' pretennin' to jeedge my betters," added
George, now a little nettled, as was generally the result at last of
Thomas's sarcastic tone.
"George," said Thomas solemnly, "nane but them that has the speerit can
ken the speerit."
With these words, he turned and strode slowly and gloomily out of the
shop--no doubt from dissatisfaction with the result of his attempt.
Who does not see that Thomas had a hold of something to which George
was altogether a stranger? Surely it is something more to stand with
Moses upon Mount Sinai, and see the back of God through ever so many
folds of cloudy darkness, than be sitting down to eat and drink, or
rising up to play about the golden calf, at the foot of the mountain.
And that Thomas was possessed of some divine secret, the heart of child
Annie was perfectly convinced; the tone of his utterance having a
greater share in producing this conviction than anything he had said.
As he passed out, she looked up reverently at him, as one to whom deep
things lay open, Thomas had a kind of gruff gentleness towards children
which they found very attractive; and this meek maiden he could not
threaten with the vials of wrath. He laid his hard heavy hand kindly on
her head, saying:
"Ye'll be ane o' the Lord's lambs, will ye no? Ye'll gang into the fold
efter him, will ye no?"
"Ay will I," answered Annie, "gin He'll lat in Alec and Curly too."
"Ye maun mak nae bargains wi' him; but gin they'll gang in, he'll no
haud them oot."
And away, somewhat comforted, the honest stonemason strode, through the
darkness and the rain, to his own rather cheerless home, where he had
neither wife nor child to welcome him. An elderly woman took care of
his house, whose habitual attitude towards him was one half of awe and
half of resistance. The moment he entered, she left the room where she
had been sitting, without a word of welcome, and betook herself to the
kitchen, where she prepared his plate of porridge or bowl of brose.
With this in one hand, and a jug of milk in the other, she soon
returned, placing them like a peace-offering on the table before him.
Having completed the arrangement by the addition of a horn spoon from a
cupboard in the wall, she again retired in silence. The moment she
vanished Thomas's blue bonnet was thrown into a corner, and with folded
hands and bent head he prayed a silent prayer over his homely meal.
By this time Alec and Curly, having received sufficient instruction
from George Macwha, were in full swing with their boat-building. But
the moment Thomas went, Alec, had taken Annie to the forge to get her
well-dried, before he would allow her to occupy her old place in the
heap of spales.
"Wha's preachin' at the missionar-kirk the morn, Willie?" asked the
boy's father, For Willie knew everything that took place in Glamerton.
"Mr Broon," answered Curly.
"He's a guid man that, ony gait," returned his father. "There's nae
mony like him. I think I'll turn missionar mysel', for ance and awa',
and gang and hear him the morn's nicht."
At the same instant Annie entered the shop, her face glowing with the
heat of the forge and the pleasure of rejoining her friends. Her
appearance turned the current, and no more was said about the
missionar-kirk.--Many minutes did not pass before she had begun to
repeat to the eager listeners one of the two new poems which she had
got ready for them from the book Miss Cowie had lent her.
CHAPTER XXVI.
Whatever effect the remonstrances of Thomas might or might not have
upon the rest, Annie had heard enough to make her want to go to the
missionar-kirk. For was it not plain that Thomas Crann knew something
that she did not know? and where could he have learned it but at the
said kirk? There must be something going on there worth looking into.
Perhaps there she might learn just what she needed to know; for, happy
as she was, she would have been much happier had it not been for a
something--she could neither describe nor understand it--which always
rose between her and the happiness. She did not lay the blame on
circumstances, though they might well, in her case, have borne a part
of it. Whatever was, to her was right; and she never dreamed of
rebelling against her position. For she was one of those simple
creatures who perceive at once that if they are to set anything right
for themselves or other people, they must begin with their own selves,
their inward being and life. So without knowing that George Macwha
intended to be there, with no expectation of seeing Alec or Curly, and
without having consulted any of the Bruce family, she found herself, a
few minutes after the service had commenced, timidly peering through
the inner door of the chapel, and starting back, with mingled shyness
and awe, from the wide solemnity of the place. Every eye seemed to have
darted upon her the moment she made a chink of light between the door
and its post. How spiritually does every child-nature feel the
solemnity of the place where people, of whatever belief or whatever
intellectual rank, meet to worship God! The air of the temple belongs
to the poorest meeting-room as much as to the grandest cathedral. And
what added to the effect on Annie was, that the reputation of Mr Brown
having drawn a great congregation to hear him preach that evening, she,
peeping through the door, saw nothing but live faces; whereas Mr
Cowie's church, to which she was in the habit of going, though much
larger, was only so much the more empty. She withdrew in dismay to go
up into the gallery, where, entering from behind, she would see fewer
faces, and might creep unperceived into the shelter of a pew; for she
felt "little better than one of the wicked" in having arrived late. So
she stole up the awful stair and into the wide gallery, as a chidden
dog might steal across the room to creep under the master's table. Not
daring to look up, she went with noiseless difficulty down a steep step
or two, and perched herself timidly on the edge of a seat, beside an
old lady, who had kindly made room for her. When she ventured to lift
her eyes, she found herself in the middle of a sea of heads. But she
saw in the same glance that no one was taking any notice of her, which
discovery acted wonderfully as a restorative. The minister was reading,
in a solemn voice, a terrible chapter of denunciation out of the
prophet Isaiah, and Annie was soon seized with a deep listening awe.
The severity of the chapter was, however, considerably mollified by the
gentleness of the old lady, who put into her hand a Bible, smelling
sweetly of dried starry leaves and southernwood, in which Annie
followed the reading word for word, feeling sadly condemned if she
happened to allow her eyes to wander for a single moment from the book.
After the long prayer, during which they all stood--a posture certainly
more reverential than the sitting which so commonly passes for
kneeling--and the long psalm, during which they all sat, the sermon
began; and again for a moment Annie ventured to look up, feeling
protected from behind by the back of the pew, which reached high above
her head. Before her she saw no face but that of the minister, between
which and her, beyond the front of the gallery, lay a gulfy space,
where, down in the bottom, sat other listening souls, with upturned
faces and eyes, unseen of Annie, all their regards converging upon the
countenance of the minister. He was a thin-faced cadaverous man, with a
self-severe saintly look, one to whom religion was clearly a reality,
though not so clearly a gladness, one whose opinions�vague
half-monstrous embodiments of truth--helped to give him a consciousness
of the life which sprung from a source far deeper than his
consciousness could reach. I wonder if one will ever be able to
understand the worship of his childhood--that revering upward look
which must have been founded on a reality, however much after
experience may have shown the supposed grounds of reverence to be
untenable. The moment Annie looked in the face of Mr Brown, she
submitted absolutely; she enshrined him and worshipped him with an
awful reverence. Nor to the end of her days did she lose this feeling
towards him. True, she came to see that he was a man of ordinary
stature, and that some of the religious views which he held in common
with his brethren were dishonouring of God, and therefore could not be
elevating to the creature. But when she saw these and other like facts,
they gave her no shock--they left the reflex of the man in her mind
still unspotted, unimpaired. How could this be? Simply because they
left unaltered the conviction that this man believed in God, and that
the desire of his own heart brought him into some real, however
undefinable, relation to him who was yet nearer to him than that desire
itself, and whose presence had caused its birth.
He chose for his text these words of the Psalmist: "The wicked shall be
turned into hell, and all the nations that forget God." His sermon was
less ponderous in construction and multitudinous in division than
usual; for it consisted simply of answers to the two questions: "Who
are the wicked?" and "What is their fate?" The answer to the former
question was, "The wicked are those that forget God;" the answer to the
latter, "The torments of everlasting fire." Upon Annie the sermon
produced the immediate conviction that she was one of the wicked, and
that she was in danger of hell-fire. The distress generated by the
earlier part of the sermon, however, like that occasioned by the
chapter of prophecy, was considerably mitigated by the kindness of an
unknown hand, which, appearing occasionally over her shoulder from
behind, kept up a counteractive ministration of peppermint lozenges.
But the representations grew so much in horror as the sermon approached
its end, that, when at last it was over, and Annie drew one long breath
of exhaustion, hardly of relief, she became aware that the peppermint
lozenge which had been given her a quarter of an hour before, was lying
still undissolved in her mouth.
What had added considerably to the effect of the preacher's words, was
that, in the middle of the sermon, she had, all at once, caught sight
of the face of George Macwha diagonally opposite to her, his eyes
looking like ears with the intensity of his listening. Nor did the
rather comical episode of the snuffing of the candles in the least
interfere with the solemnity of the tragic whole. The gallery was
lighted by three _coron�_ of tallow candles, which, persisting in
growing long-nosed and dim-sighted, had, at varying periods, according
as the necessity revealed itself to a certain half-witted individual of
the congregation, to be _snodded_ laboriously. Without losing a word
that the preacher uttered, Annie watched the process intently. What
made it ludicrous was, that the man, having taken up his weapon with
the air of a pious executioner, and having tipped the chandelier
towards him, began, from the operation of some occult sympathy, to open
the snuffers and his own mouth simultaneously; and by the time the
black devouring jaws of the snuffers had reached their full stretch,
his own jaws had become something dragonlike and hideous to
behold--when both shut with a convulsive snap. Add to this that he was
long-sighted and often missed a candle several times before he
succeeded in snuffing it, whereupon the whole of the opening and
shutting process had to be repeated, sometimes with no other result
than that of snuffing the candle out, which had then to be pulled from
its socket and applied to the next for re-illumination. But nothing
could be farther from Annie's mood than a laugh or even a smile, though
she gazed as if she were fascinated by the snuffers, which were
dreadfully like one of the demons in a wood-cut of the Valley of the
Shadow of Death in the _Pilgrim's Progress_ without boards, which had
belonged to her father.
When all had ceased--when the prayer, the singing, and the final
benediction were over, Annie crept out into the dark street as if into
the Outer Darkness. She felt the rain falling upon something hot, but
she hardly knew that it was her own cheeks that were being wetted by
the heavy drops. Her first impulse was to run to Alec and Curly, put
her arms about their necks, and entreat them to flee from the wrath to
come. But she could not find them to-night. She must go home. For
herself she was not much afraid; for there was a place where prayer was
heard as certainly as at the mercy-seat of old--a little garret room
namely, with holes in the floor, out of which came rats; but with a
door as well, in at which came the prayed-for cat.
But alas for poor Annie and her chapel-going! As she was creeping
slowly up from step to step in the dark, the feeling came over her that
it was no longer against rats, nor yet against evil things dwelling in
the holes and corners of a neglected human world, that she had to pray.
A spiritual terror was seated on the throne of the universe, and was
called God--and to whom should she pray against it? Amidst the
darkness, a deeper darkness fell.
She knelt by her bedside, but she could not lift up her heart; for was
she not one of them that forget God? and was she not therefore wicked?
and was not God angry with her every day? Was not the fact that she
could not pray a certain proof that she was out of God's favour, and
counted unworthy of his notice?
But there was Jesus Christ: she would cry to him. But did she believe
in him? She tried hard to convince herself that she did; but at last
she laid her weary head on the bed, and groaned in her young despair.
At the moment a rustling in the darkness broke the sad silence with a
throb of terror. She started to her feet. She was exposed to all the
rats in the universe now, for God was angry with her, and she could not
pray. With a stifled scream she darted to the door, and half tumbled
down the stair in an agony of fear.
"What gars ye mak sic a din i' the hoose o' the Sawbath nicht?"
screamed Mrs Bruce.
But little did Annie feel the reproof. And as little did she know that
the dreaded rats had this time been the messengers of God to drive her
from a path in which lies madness.
She was forced at length to go to bed, where God made her sleep and
forget him, and the rats did not come near her again that night.
Curly and Alec had been in the chapel too, but they were not of a
temperament to be disturbed by Mr Brown's discourse.
CHAPTER XXVII.
Little as Murdoch Malison knew of the worlds of thought and
feeling--Annie's among the rest--which lay within those young faces and
forms assembled the next day as usual, he knew almost as little of the
mysteries that lay within himself.
Annie was haunted all day with the thought of the wrath of God. When
she forgot it for a moment, it would return again with a sting of
actual physical pain, which seemed to pierce her heart. Before school
was over she had made up her mind what to do.
And before school was over Malison's own deed had opened his own eyes,
had broken through the crust that lay between him and the vision of his
own character.
There is not to be found a more thorough impersonation of his own
theology than a Scotch schoolmaster of the rough old-fashioned type.
His pleasure was law, irrespective of right or wrong, and the reward of
submission to law was immunity from punishment. He had his favourites
in various degrees, whom he chose according to inexplicable directions
of feeling ratified by "the freedom of his own will." These found it
easy to please him, while those with whom he was not primarily pleased,
found it impossible to please him.
Now there had come to the school, about a fortnight before, two
unhappy-looking little twin orphans, with white thin faces, and bones
in their clothes instead of legs and arms, committed to the mercies of
Mr Malison by their grandfather. Bent into all the angles of a
grasshopper, and lean with ancient poverty, the old man tottered away
with his stick in one hand, stretched far out to support his stooping
frame, and carried in the other the caps of the two forsaken urchins,
saying, as he went, in a quavering, croaking voice,
"I'll jist tak them wi' me, or they'll no be fit for the Sawbath aboon
a fortnicht. They're terrible laddies to blaud (spoil) their claes!"
Turning with difficulty when he had reached the door, he added:
"Noo ye jist gie them their whups weel, Master Mailison, for ye ken
that he that spareth the rod blaudeth the bairn."
Thus authorized, Malison certainly did "gie them their whups weel."
Before the day was over they had both lain shrieking on the floor under
the torture of the lash. And such poor half-clothed, half-fed creatures
they were, and looked so pitiful and cowed, that one cannot help
thinking it must have been for his own glory rather than their good
that he treated them thus.
But, in justice to Malison, another fact must be mentioned, which,
although inconsistent with the one just recorded, was in perfect
consistency with the theological subsoil whence both sprang. After
about a week, during which they had been whipt almost every day, the
orphans came to school with a cold and a terrible cough. Then his
observant pupils saw the man who was both cruel judge and cruel
executioner, feeding his victims with liquorice till their faces were
stained with its exuberance.
The old habits of severity, which had been in some measure intermitted,
had returned upon him with gathered strength, and this day Anne was to
be one of the victims. For although he would not dare to whip her, he
was about to incur the shame of making this day, pervaded as it was,
through all its spaces of time and light, with the fumes of the sermon
she had heard the night before, the most wretched day that Anne's sad
life had yet seen. Indeed, although she afterwards passed many more
sorrowful days, she never had to pass one so utterly miserable. The
spirits of the pit seemed to have broken loose and filled Murdoch
Malison's school-room with the stench of their fire and brimstone.
As she sat longing for school to be over, that she might follow a plan
which had a glimmer of hope in it, stupified with her labouring
thoughts, and overcome with wretchedness, she fell fast asleep. She was
roused by a smart blow from the taws, flung with unerring aim at the
back of her bare bended neck. She sprang up with a cry, and, tottering
between sleep and terror, proceeded at once to take the leather snake
back to the master. But she would have fallen in getting over the form
had not Alec caught her in his arms. He re-seated her, and taking the
taws from her trembling hand, carried it himself to the tyrant. Upon
him Malison's fury, breaking loose, expended itself in a dozen blows on
the right hand, which Alec held up without flinching. As he walked to
his seat, burning with pain, the voice of the master sounded behind
him; but with the decree it uttered, Alec did not feel himself at
liberty to interfere.
"Ann Anderson," he bawled, "stand up on the seat."
With trembling limbs, Annie obeyed. She could scarcely stand at first,
and the form shook beneath her. For some time her colour kept
alternating between crimson and white, but at last settled into a
deadly pallor. Indeed, it was to her a terrible punishment to be
exposed to the looks of all the boys and girls in the school. The elder
Bruce tried hard to make her see one of his vile grimaces, but, feeling
as if every nerve in her body were being stung with eyes, she never
dared to look away from the book which she held upside down before her
own sightless eyes.--This pillory was the punishment due to falling
asleep, as hell was the punishment for forgetting God; and there she
had to stand for a whole hour.
"_What a shame! Damn that Malison!_" and various other subdued
exclamations were murmured about the room; for Annie was a favourite
with most of the boys, and yet more because she was the General's
sweetheart, as they said; but these ebullitions of popular feeling were
too faint to reach her ears and comfort her isolation and exposure.
Worst of all, she had soon to behold, with every advantage of position,
an outbreak of the master's temper, far more painful than she had yet
seen, both from its cruelty and its consequences.
A small class of mere children, amongst whom were the orphan Truffeys,
had been committed to the care of one of the bigger boys, while the
master was engaged with another class. Every boy in the latter had
already had his share of _pandies_, when a noise in the children's
class attracting the master's attention, he saw one of the Truffeys hit
another boy in the face. He strode upon him at once, and putting no
question as to provocation, took him by the neck, fixed it between his
knees, and began to lash him with hissing blows. In his agony, the
little fellow contrived to twist his head about and get a mouthful of
the master's leg, inserting his teeth in a most canine and praiseworthy
manner. The master caught him up, and dashed him on the floor. There
the child lay motionless. Alarmed, and consequently cooled, Malison
proceeded to lift him. He was apparently lifeless; but he had only
fainted with pain. When he came to himself a little, it was found that
his leg was hurt. It appeared afterwards that the knee-cap was greatly
injured. Moaning with pain, he was sent home on the back of a big
parish scholar.
At all this Anne stared from her pillory with horror. The feeling that
God was angry with her grew upon her; and Murdoch Malison became for a
time inseparably associated with her idea of God, frightfully
bewildering all her aspirations.
The master still looked uneasy, threw the _tag_ into his desk, and beat
no one more that day. Indeed, only half an hour of school-time was
left. As soon as that was over, he set off at a swinging pace for the
old grandfather's cottage.
What passed there was never known. The other Truffey came to school the
next day as usual, and told the boys that his brother was in bed. In
that bed he lay for many weeks, and many were the visits the master
paid him. This did much with the townsfolk to wipe away his reproach.
They spoke of the affair as an unfortunate accident, and pitied the
schoolmaster even more than the sufferer.
When at length the poor boy was able to leave his bed, it became
apparent that, either through unskilful treatment, or as the
unavoidable result of the injury, he would be a cripple for life.
The master's general behaviour was certainly modified by this
consequence of his fury; but it was some time before the full reaction
arrived.
CHAPTER XXVII.
When Annie descended from her hateful eminence, just before the final
prayer, it was with a deeper sense of degradation than any violence of
the tawse on her poor little hands could have produced. Nor could the
attentions of Alec, anxiously offered as soon as they were out of
school, reach half so far to console her as they might once have
reached; for such was her sense of condemnation, that she dared not
take pleasure in anything. Nothing else was worth minding till
something was done about that. The thought of having God against her
took the heart out of everything.--As soon as Alec left her, she walked
with hanging head, pale face, and mournful eyes, straight to Mr Cowie's
door.
She was admitted at once, and shown into the library, where the
clergyman sat in the red dusky glow of the firelight, sipping a glass
of wine, and looking very much like an ox-animal chewing the cud; for
the meditation in which the good man indulged over his wine was seldom
worthy of being characterized otherwise than as mental rumination.
"Well, Annie, my dear, come away," said he, "I am glad to see you. How
does the boat get on?"
Deeply touched by a kindness which fell like dew upon the parching
misery of the day, Annie burst into tears. Mr Cowie was greatly
distressed. He drew her between his knees, laid his cheek against hers,
as was his way with children, and said with soothing tenderness:
"Walawa! what's the matter with my dawtie?"
After some vain attempts at speech, Annie succeeded in giving the
following account of the matter, much interrupted with sobs and fresh
outbursts of weeping.
"Ye see, sir, I gaed last nicht to the missionar kirk to hear Mr Broon.
And he preached a gran' sermon, sir. But I haena been able to bide
mysel' sin' syne. For I doobt I'm ane o' the wicked 'at God hates, and
I'll never win' to haven at a', for I canna help forgettin' him whiles.
An' the wicked'll be turned into hell, and a' the nations that forget
God. That was his text, sir. And I canna bide it."
In the bosom of the good man rose a gentle indignation against the
schismatics who had thus terrified and bewildered that sacred being, a
maid-child. But what could he say? He thought for a moment, and betook
himself, in his perplexity, to his common sense.
"You haven't forgotten your father, have you, Annie?" said he.
"I think aboot him maist ilka day," answered Annie.
"But there comes a day now and then when you don't think much about
him, does there not?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you think he would be angry with his child because she was so much
taken up with her books or her play---"
"I never play at onything, sir."
"Well--with learning songs to say to Alec Forbes and Willie Macwha--do
you think he would be angry that you didn't think about him that day,
especially when you can't see him?"
"'Deed no, sir. He wadna be sae sair upo' me as that."
"What would he say, do you think?"
"Gin Mr Bruce war to cast it up till me, he wad say: 'Lat alane the
lassie. She'll think aboot me the morn--time eneuch.'"
"Well, don't you think your Father in heaven would say the same?"
"Maybe he micht, sir. But ye see my father was my ain father, and wad
mak' the best o' me."
"And is not God kinder than your father?"
"He canna weel be that, sir. And there's the Scripter!"
"But he sent his only Son to die for us."
"Ay--for the eleck, sir," returned the little theologian.
Now this was more than Mr Cowie was well prepared to meet, for
certainly this terrible doctrine was perfectly developed in the creed
of the Scotch Church; the assembly of divines having sat upon the
Scripture egg till they had hatched it in their own likeness. Poor Mr
Cowie! There were the girl-eyes, blue, and hazy with tearful questions,
looking up at him hungrily.--O starving little brothers and sisters!
God does love you, and all shall be, and therefore is, well.--But the
minister could not say this, gladly as he would have said it if he
could; and the only result of his efforts to find a suitable reply was
that he lost his temper--not with Annie, but with the doctrine of
election.
"Gang ye hame, Annie, my bairn," said he, talking Scotch now, "and
dinna trouble yer heid about election, and a' that. It's no' a canny
doctrine. No mortal man could ever win at the boddom o' 't. I'm
thinkin' we haena muckle to do w' 't. Gang hame, dawtie, and say yer
prayers to be preserved frae the wiles o' Sawtan. There 's a sixpence
to ye."
His kind heart was sorely grieved that all it could give was money. She
had asked for bread, and he had but a stone, as he thought, to give
her. So he gave it her with shame. He might however have reversed the
words of St Peter, saying, "Spiritual aid I have none, but such as I
have give I thee;" and so offered her the sixpence. But, for my part, I
think the sixpence had more of bread in it than any theology he might
have been expected to have at hand; for, so given, it was the symbol
and the sign of love, which is the heart of the divine theology.
Annie, however, had a certain Scotchness in her which made her draw
back from the offer.
"Na, thank ye, sir," she said; "I dinna want it."
"Will ye no tak' it to please an auld man, bairn?"
"Deed will I, sir, I wad do a hantle mair nor that to please you."
And again the tears filled her blue eyes as she held out her
hand--receiving in it a shilling which Mr Cowie, for more relief to his
own burdened heart, had substituted for the sixpence.
"It's a shillin', sir!" she said, looking up at him with the coin lying
on her open palm.
"Weel, what for no? Is a shillin' no a saxpence?"
"Ay, sir. It's twa."
"Weel, Annie," said the old man, suddenly elevated into prophecy for
the child's need--for he had premeditated nothing of the sort--"maybe
whan God offers us a saxpence, it may turn oot to be twa. Good nicht,
my bairn."
But Mr Cowie was sorely dissatisfied with himself. For not only did he
perceive that the heart of the child could not be thus satisfied, but
he began to feel something new stirring in his own bosom. The fact was
that Annie was further on than Mr Cowie. She was a child looking about
to find the face of her Father in heaven: he was but one of God's
babies, who had been lying on his knees, receiving contentedly and
happily the good things he gave him, but never looking up to find the
eyes of him from whom the good gifts came. And now the heart of the old
man, touched by the motion of the child's heart--yearning after her
Father in heaven, and yet scarcely believing that he could be so good
as her father on earth--began to stir uneasily within him. And he went
down on his knees and hid his face in his hands.
But Annie, though not satisfied, went away comforted. After such a day
of agony and humiliation, Mr Cowie's kiss came gracious with
restoration and blessing. It had something in it which was not in Mr
Brown's sermon. And yet if she had gone to Mr Brown, she would have
found him kind too--very kind; but solemnly kind--severely kind; his
long saintly face beaming with religious tenderness--not human
cordiality; and his heart full of interest in her spiritual condition,
not sympathy with the unhappiness which his own teaching had produced;
nay, rather inclined to gloat over this unhappiness as the sign of
grace bestowed and an awakening conscience.
But notwithstanding the comfort Mr Cowie had given her--the best he
had, poor man!--Annie's distress soon awoke again. To know that she
could not be near God in peace and love without fulfilling certain
mental conditions--that he would not have her just as she was now,
filled her with an undefined but terribly real misery, only the more
distressing that it was vague with the vagueness of the dismal negation
from which it sprung.
It was not however the strength of her love to God that made her
unhappy in being thus barred out from him. It was rather the check thus
given to the whole upward tendency of her being, with its multitude of
undefined hopes and longings now drawing nigh to the birth. It was in
her ideal self rather than her conscious self that her misery arose.
And now, dearly as she loved Mr Cowie, she began to doubt whether he
knew much about the matter. He had put her off without answering her
questions, either because he thought she had no business with such
things, or because he had no answer to give. This latter possibly added
not a little to her unhappiness, for it gave birth to a fearful doubt
as to the final safety of kind Mr Cowie himself.
But there was one man who knew more about such secret things, she fully
believed, than any man alive; and that man was Thomas Crann. Thomas was
a rather dreadful man, with his cold eyes, high shoulders, and wheezing
breath; and Annie was afraid of him. But she would have encountered the
terrors of the Valley of the Shadow of Death, as surely as the Pilgrim,
to get rid of the demon nightmare that lay upon her bosom, crushing the
life out of her heart. So she plucked up courage, like Christian of
old, and resolved to set out for the house of the Interpreter. Judging,
however, that he could not yet be home from his work, she thought it
better to go home herself first.
After eating a bit of oat cake, with a mug of blue milk for _kitchie_
(Latin "obsonium"), she retired to her garret and waited drearily, but
did not try to pray.
CHAPTER XXIX.
It was very dark by the time she left the house, for the night was
drizzly; but she knew the windings of Glamerton almost as well as the
way up her garret-stair. Thomas's door was half open, and a light was
shining from the kitchen. She knocked timidly. At the same moment she
heard the voice of Thomas from the other end of this house, which
consisted only of a _but and a ben_. In the ben-end (the inner
originally, hence better room) there was no light: Thomas often sat in
the dark.
"Jean, come ben to worship," he cried roughly.
"Comin', Thamas," answered Jean.
Again Annie knocked, but again without result. Her knock was too
gentle. After a moment's pause, dreading that the intended prayers
might interfere with her project, she knocked yet again; but a second
time her knock was overwhelmed in the gruff call of Thomas, sounding
yet more peremptory than before.
"Jean, come ben to worship."
"Hoot, Thamas, hae patience, man. I canna come."
"Jean, come ben to worship direckly."
"I'm i' the mids' o' cleanin' the shune. I hae dooble wark o' Mononday,
ye ken."
"The shune can bide."
"Worship can bide."
"Haud yer tongue. The shune can bide."
"Na, na; they canna bide."
"Gin ye dinna come ben this minute, I'll hae worship my lane."
Vanquished by the awful threat, Jean dropped the shoe she held, and
turned her apron; but having to pass the door on her way to the
ben-end, she saw Annie standing on the threshold, and stopped with a
start, ejaculating:
"The Lord preserve's, lassie!"
"Jean, what are ye sweerin' at?" cried Thomas, angrily.
"At Annie Anderson," answered Jean simply.
"What for are ye sweerin' at _her_? I'm sure she's a douce lassie. What
does the bairn want?"
"What do ye want, Annie?"
"I want to see Thomas, gin ye please," answered Annie.
"She wants to see you, Thomas," screamed Jean; remarking in a lower
voice, "He's as deef's a door-nail, Annie Anderson."
"Lat her come in, than," bawled Thomas.
"He's tellin' ye to come in, Annie," said Jean, as if she had been
interpreting his words. But she detained her nevertheless to ask
several unimportant questions. At length the voice of Thomas rousing
her once more, she hastened to introduce her.
"Gang in there, Annie," she said, throwing open the door of the dark
room. The child entered and stood just within it, not knowing even
where Thomas sat. But a voice came to her out of the gloom:
"Ye're no feared at the dark, are ye, Annie? Come in."
"I dinna ken whaur I'm gaein."
"Never min' that. Come straucht foret. I'm watchin' ye."
For Thomas had been sitting in the dark till he could see in it (which,
however, is not an invariable result), while out of the little light
Annie had come into none at all But she obeyed the voice, and went
straight forward into the dark, evidently much to the satisfaction of
Thomas, who seizing her arm with one hand, laid the other, horny and
heavy, on her head, saying:
"Noo, my lass, ye'll ken what faith means. Whan God tells ye to gang
into the mirk, gang!"
"But I dinna like the mirk," said Annie.
"No human sowl _can_," responded Thomas. "Jean, fess a can'le
direckly."
Now Thomas was an enemy to everything that could be, justly or
unjustly, called _superstition_; and this therefore was not the answer
that might have been expected of him. But he had begun with the
symbolic and mystical in his reception of Annie, and perhaps there was
something in the lovely childishness of her unconscious faith (while
she all the time thought herself a dreadful unbeliever) that kept
Thomas to the simplicities of the mystical part of his nature. Besides,
Thomas's mind was a rendezvous for all extremes. In him they met, and
showed that they met by fighting all day long. If you knocked at his
inner door, you never could tell what would open it to you--all
depending on what happened to be _uppermost_ in the wrestle.
The candle was brought and set on the table, showing two or three
geranium plants in the window. Why her eyes should have fixed upon
these, Annie tried to discover afterwards, when she was more used to
thinking. But she could not tell, except it were that they were so
scraggy and wretched, half drowned in the darkness, and half blanched
by the miserable light, and therefore must have been very like her own
feelings, as she stood before the ungentle but not unkind stone-mason.
"Weel, lassie," said he, when Jean had retired, "what do ye want wi'
me?"
Annie burst into tears again.
"Jean, gae butt the hoose direckly," cried Thomas, on the mere chance
of his attendant having lingered at the door. And the sound of her
retreating footsteps, though managed with all possible care,
immediately justified his suspicion. This interruption turned Annie's
tears aside, and when Thomas spoke next, she was able to reply.
"Noo, my bairn," he said, "what's the maitter?"
"I was at the missionar kirk last nicht," faltered Annie.
"Ay! And the sermon took a grip o' ye?--Nae doot, nae doot. Ay. Ay."
"I canna help forgettin' _him_, Thomas."
"But ye maun try and no forget him, lassie."
"Sae I do. But it's dour wark, and 'maist impossible."
"Sae it maun aye be; to the auld Aidam impossible; to the young
Christian a weary watch."
Hope began to dawn upon Annie.
"A body micht hae a chance," she asked with meditative suggestion,
"allooin' 'at she did forget him whiles?"
"Nae doot, lassie. The nations that forget God are them that dinna
care, that never fash their heids, or their herts aither, aboot
him--them that were never called, never chosen."
Annie's trouble returned like a sea-wave that had only retired to
gather strength.
"But hoo's a body to ken whether she _be_ ane o' the elec'?" she said,
quaking.
"That's a hard maitter. It's no needfu' to ken't aforehan'. Jist lat
that alane i' the mean time."
"But I canna lat it alane. It's no for mysel' aither a'thegither. Could
_ye_ lat it alane, Thomas?"
This home-thrust prevented any questioning about the second clause of
her answer. And Thomas dearly loved plain dealing.
"Ye hae me there, lassie. Na, I cudna lat it alane. An' I never did lat
it alane. I plaguit the Lord nicht an' day till he loot me ken."
"I tried hard last nicht," said Annie, "but the rottans war ower mony
for me."
"Sawtan has mony wiles," said the mason reflectively.
"Do ye think they warna rottans?' asked Annie.
"Ow! nae doot. I daursay."
"'Cause, gin I thocht they war only deils, I wadna care a buckie
(periwinkle) for them."
"It's muckle the same what ye ca' them, gin they ca you frae the throne
o' grace, lassie."
"What am I to do than, Thomas?"
"Ye maun haud at it, lassie, jist as the poor widow did wi' the unjust
judge. An' gin the Lord hears ye, ye'll ken ye're ane o' the elec', for
it's only his own elec' that the Lord dis hear. Eh! lassie, little ye
ken aboot prayin' an' no faintin'."
Alas for the parable if Thomas's theories were to be carried out in its
exposition! For they would lead to the conclusion that the Lord and the
unjust judge were one and the same person. But it is our divine
aspirations and not our intellectual theories that need to be carried
out. The latter may, nay must in some measure, perish; the former will
be found in perfect harmony with the divine Will; yea, true though
faint echoes of that Will--echoes from the unknown caves of our deepest
humanity, where lies, yet swathed in darkness, the divine image.
To Thomas's words Annie's only reply was a fixed gaze, which he
answered thus, resuming his last words:
"Ay, lassie, little ye ken aboot watchin' and prayin'. Whan it pleased
the Lord to call me, I was stan'in' my lane i' the mids' o' a
peat-moss, luikin' wast, whaur the sun had left a reid licht ahin him,
as gin he had jist brunt oot o' the lift, an' hadna gane doon ava. An'
it min'd me o' the day o' jeedgment. An' there I steid and luikit, till
the licht itsel' deid oot, an' naething was left but a gray sky an' a
feow starns intil't. An' the cloods gethered, an' the lift grew black
an' mirk; an' the haill countryside vainished, till I kent no more
aboot it than what my twa feet could answer for. An' I daurna muv for
the fear o' the pits o' water an' the walleen (well-eyes--quagmire-springs)
on ilka han'. The lee-lang nicht I stood, or lay, or kneeled upo' my
k-nees, cryin' to the Lord for grace. I forgot a' aboot election, an'
cried jist as gin I could gar him hear me by haudin' at him. An' i' the
mornin', whan the licht cam', I faund that my face was to the risin'
sun. And I crap oot o' the bog, an' hame to my ain hoose. An' ilka body
'at I met o' the road took the tither side o' 't, and glowert at me as
gin I had been a ghaist or a warlock. An' the bairns playin' aboot the
doors ran in like rabbits whan they got sicht o' me. An' I begud to
think 'at something fearsome had signed me for a reprobate; an' I jist
closed my door, and gaed to my bed, and loot my wark stan', for wha cud
wark wi' damnation hingin' ower his heid? An' three days gaed ower me,
that nothing passed my lips but a drap o' milk an' water. An' o' the
fourth day, i' the efternoon, I gaed to my wark wi' my heid swimmin'
and my hert like to brak for verra glaidness. I _was_ ane o' the
chosen.["]
"But hoo did ye fin' that oot, Thomas?" asked Annie, trembling.
"Weel, lassie," answered Thomas, with solemn conviction in every tone,
"it's my firm belief that, say what they like, there is, and there can
be, but _one_ way o' comin' to the knowledge o' that secret."
"And what's that?" entreated Annie, whose life seemed to hang upon his
lips.
"Jist this. Get a sicht o' the face o' God.--It's my belief, an' a' the
minnisters in creation'll no gar me alter my min', that no man can get
a glimp' o' the face o' God but ane o' the chosen. I'm no sayin' 'at a
man's no ane o' the elec' that hasna had that favour vouchsaufed to
_him_; but this I _do_ say, that he canna ken his election wi'oot that.
Try ye to get a sicht o' the face o' God, lassie: syne ye'll ken and be
at peace. Even Moses himsel' cudna be saitisfeed wi'oot that."
"What is't like, Thomas?" said Annie, with an eagerness which awe made
very still.
"No words can tell that. It's all in the speerit. Whan ye see't ye'll
ken't. There's no fear o' mistakin' _that_."
Teacher and scholar were silent. Annie was the first to speak. She had
gained her quest.
"Am I to gang hame noo, Thomas?"
"Ay, gang hame, lassie, to yer prayers. But I doobt it's dark. I'll
gang wi' ye.--Jean, my shune!"
"Na, na; I could gang hame blinlins," remonstrated Annie.
"Haud yer tongue. I'm gaein hame wi' ye, bairn.--Jean, my shune!"
"Hoot, Thamas! I've jist cleaned them," screeched Jean from the kitchen
at the second call.
"Fess them here direckly. It's a jeedgment on ye for sayin' worship cud
bide better nor the shune."
Janet brought them and put them down sulkily. In another minute the
great shoes, full of nails half an inch broad, were replaced on the
tired feet, and with her soft little hand clasped in the great horny
hand of the stonemason, Annie trotted home by his side. With Scotch
caution, Thomas, as soon as they entered the shop, instead of taking
leave of Annie, went up to the counter, and asked for an "unce o'
tobawco," as if his appearance along with Annie were merely accidental;
while Annie, with perfect appreciation of the reticence, ran through
the gap in the counter.
She was so far comforted and so much tired, that she fell asleep at her
prayers by the bedside. Presently she awoke in terror. It was Pussy
however that had waked her, as she knew by the green eyes lamping in a
corner. But she closed her prayers rather abruptly, clambered into bed,
and was soon fast asleep.
And in her sleep she dreamed that she stood in the darkness of the same
peat-moss which had held Thomas and his prayers all the night long. She
thought she was _kept in_ there, till she should pray enough to get
herself out of it. And she tried hard to pray, but she could not. And
she fell down in despair, beset with the terrors of those frightful
holes full of black water which she had seen on her way to Glamerton.
But a hand came out of the darkness, laid hold of hers, and lifting her
up, led her through the bog. And she dimly saw the form that led her,
and it was that of a man who walked looking upon the earth. And she
tried to see his face, but she could not, for he walked ever a little
before her. And he led her home to the old farm. And her father came to
the door to meet them. And he looked just the same as in the old happy
days, only that his face was strangely bright. And with the joy of
seeing her father she awoke to a gentle sorrow that she had not seen
also the face of her deliverer.
The next evening she wandered down to George Macwha's, and found the
two boys at work. She had no poetry to give them, no stories to tell
them, no answer to their questions as to where she had been the night
before. She could only stand in silence and watch them. The skeleton of
the boat grew beneath their hands, but it was on the workers and not on
their work that her gaze was fixed. For her heart was burning within
her, and she could hardly restrain herself from throwing her arms about
their necks and imploring them to seek the face of God. Oh! if she only
knew that Alec and Curly were of the elect! But they only could find
that out. There was no way for her to peer into that mystery. All she
could do was to watch their wants, to have the tool they needed next
ready to their hand, to clear away the spales from before the busy
plane, and to lie in wait for any chance of putting to her little
strength to help. Perhaps they were not of the elect! She would
minister to them therefore--oh, how much the more tenderly!
"What's come ower Annie?" said the one to the other when she had gone.
But there was no answer to be found to the question. Could they have
understood her if she had told them what had come over her?
CHAPTER XXX.
And so the time went on, slow-paced, with its silent destinies Annie
said her prayers, read her Bible, and tried not to forget God. Ah!
could she only have known that God never forgot her, whether she forgot
him or not, giving her sleep in her dreary garret, gladness even in
Murdoch Malison's school-room, and the light of life everywhere! He was
now leading on the blessed season of spring, when the earth would be
almost heaven enough to those who had passed through the fierceness of
the winter. Even now, the winter, old and weary, was halting away
before the sweet approaches of the spring--a symbol of that eternal
spring before whose slow footsteps Death itself, "the winter of our
discontent," shall vanish. Death alone can die everlastingly.
I have been diffuse in my account of Annie's first winter at school,
because what impressed her should impress those who read her history.
It is her reflex of circumstance, in a great measure, which makes that
history. In regard to this portion of her life, I have little more to
say than that by degrees the school became less irksome to her; that
she grew more interested in her work; that some of the reading-books
contained extracts which she could enjoy; and that a taste for reading
began to wake in her. If ever she came to school with her lesson
unprepared, it was because some book of travel or history had had
attractions too strong for her. And all that day she would go about
like a guilty thing, oppressed by a sense of downfall and neglected
duty.
With Alec it was very different. He would often find himself in a
similar case; but the neglect would make no impression on his
conscience; or if it did, he would struggle hard to keep down the sense
of dissatisfaction which strove to rise within him, and enjoy himself
in spite of it.
Annie, again, accepted such as her doom, and went about gently unhappy,
till neglect was forgotten in performance. There is nothing that can
wipe out wrong but right.
And still she haunted George Macwha's workshop, where the boat soon
began to reveal the full grace of its lovely outlines. Of all the works
of man's hands, except those that belong to Art, a boat is the
loveliest, and, in the old sense of the word, the _liveliest_. Why is
this? Is it that it is born between Wind and Water?--Wind the father,
ever casting himself into multitudinous shapes of invisible tides,
taking beauteous form in the sweep of a "lazy-paced cloud," or
embodying a transient informing freak in the waterspout, which he draws
into his life from the bosom of his mate;--Water, the mother, visible
she, sweeping and swaying, ever making and ever unmade, the very
essence of her being--beauty, yet having no form of her own, and yet
again manifesting herself in the ceaseless generation of passing forms?
If the boat be the daughter of these, the stable child of visible and
invisible subtlety, made to live in both, and shape its steady course
between their varying and conflicting forces--if her Ideal was modelled
between the flap of airy pinions and the long ranging flow of the
serpent water, how could the lines of her form fail of grace?
Nor in this case were the magic influences of verse wanting to mould
and model a boat which from prow to stern should be lovely and
fortunate. As Pandemonium
"Rose like an exhalation, with the sound
Of dulcet symphonies and voices sweet,"
so the little boat grew to the sound of Annie's voice uttering not
Runic Rhymes, but old Scotch ballads, or such few sweet English poems,
of the new revelation, as floated across her way, and folded their
butterfly wings in her memory.
I have already said that reading became a great delight to her. Mr
Cowie threw his library, with very little restriction, open to her; and
books old and new were all new to her. She carried every fresh one home
with a sense of riches and a feeling of _upliftedness_ which I can ill
describe. She gloated over the thought of it, as she held it tight in
her hand, with feelings resembling, and yet how unlike, those of Johnny
Bruce when he crept into his rabbits' barrel to devour the pennyworth
of _plunky_ (a preparation of treacle and flour) which his brother
would else have compelled him to share. Now that the days were longer,
she had plenty of time to read; for although her so-called guardians
made cutting remarks upon her idleness, they had not yet compelled her
to nursing or needlework. If she had shown the least inclination to
either, her liberty would have been gone from that moment; but, with
the fear of James Dow before their eyes, they let her alone. As to her
doing anything in the shop, she was far too much of an alien to be
allowed to minister in the lowliest office of that sacred temple of
Mammon. So she read everything she could lay her hands upon; and as
often as she found anything peculiarly interesting, she would take the
book to the boat, where the boys were always ready to listen to
whatever she brought them. And this habit made her more dircerning
[sic] and choice.
Before I leave the school, however, I must give one more scene out of
its history.
One mid-day in spring, just as the last of a hail-shower was passing
away, and a sickly sunbeam was struggling out, the schoolroom-door
opened, and in came Andrew Truffey, with a smile on his worn face,
which shone in touching harmony with the watery gleam of the sun
between the two hail-storms--for another was close at hand. He swung
himself in on the new pivot of his humanity, namely his crutch, which
every one who saw him believed at once he was never more to go without,
till he sank wearied on the road to the grave, and had to be carried
the rest of the way. He looked very long and deathly, for he had grown
much while lying in bed.
The master rose hurriedly from his desk, and advanced to meet him. A
deep stillness fell upon the scholars. They dropped all their work, and
gazed at the meeting. The master held out his hand. With awkwardness
and difficulty Andrew presented the hand which had been holding the
crutch; and, not yet thoroughly used to the management of it, staggered
in consequence and would have fallen. But the master caught him in his
arms and carried him to his old seat beside his brother.
"Thank ye, sir," said the boy with another gleamy smile, through which
his thin features and pale, prominent eyes told yet more plainly of sad
suffering--all the master's fault, as the master knew.
"Leuk at the dominie," said Curly to Alec. "He's greitin'."
For Mr Malison had returned to his seat and had laid his head down on
the desk, evidently to hide his emotion.
"Haud yer tongue, Curly. Dinna leuk at him," returned Alec. "He's sorry
for poor Truffey."
Every one behaved to the master that day with marked respect. And from
that day forward Truffey was in universal favour.
Let me once more assert that Mr Malison was not a bad man. The
misfortune was, that his notion of right fell in with his natural
fierceness; and that, in aggravation of the too common feeling with
which he had commenced his relations with his pupils, namely, that they
were not only the natural enemies of the master, but therefore of all
law, theology had come in and taught him that they were in their own
nature bad--with a badness for which the only set-off he knew or could
introduce was blows. Independently of any remedial quality that might
be in them, these blows were an embodiment of justice; for "every sin,"
as the catechism teaches, "deserveth God's wrath and curse both in this
life and that which is to come." The master therefore was only a
co-worker with God in every pandy he inflicted on his pupils.
I do not mean that he reasoned thus, but that such-like were the
principles he had to act upon. And I must add that, with all his
brutality, he was never guilty of such cruelty as one reads of
occasionally as perpetrated by English schoolmasters of the present
day. Nor were the boys ever guilty of such cruelty to their fellows as
is not only permitted but excused in the public schools of England. The
taws, likewise, is a far less cruel instrument of torture than the
cane, which was then unknown in that region.
And now the moderation which had at once followed upon the accident was
confirmed. Punishment became less frequent still, and where it was yet
inflicted for certain kinds and degrees of offence, its administration
was considerably less severe than formerly; till at length the boys
said that the master never put on black stockings now, except when he
was "oot o' white anes." Nor did the discipline of the school suffer in
consequence. If one wants to make a hard-mouthed horse more responsive
to the rein, he must relax the pressure and friction of the bit, and
make the horse feel that he has got to hold up his own head. If the
rider supports himself by the reins, the horse will pull.
But the marvel was to see how Andrew Truffey haunted and dogged the
master. He was as it were a conscious shadow to him. There was no hour
of a holiday in which Truffey could not tell precisely where the master
was. If one caught sight of Andrew, _hirpling_ down a passage, or
leaning against a corner, he might be sure the master would pass within
a few minutes. And the haunting of little Truffey worked so on his
conscience, that, if the better nature of him had not asserted itself
in love to the child, he would have been compelled to leave the place.
For think of having a visible sin of your own, in the shape of a
lame-legged boy, peeping at you round every other corner!
But he did learn to love the boy; and therein appeared the divine
vengeance--ah! how different from human vengeance!--that the outbreak
of unrighteous wrath reacted on the wrong-doer in shame, repentance,
and love.
CHAPTER XXXI.
At length the boat was calked, tarred, and painted.
One evening as Annie entered the workshop, she heard Curly cry,
"Here she is, Alec!"
and Alec answer,
"Let her come. I'm just done."
Alec stood at the stern of the boat, with a pot in one hand, and a
paint-brush in the other; and, when Annie came near, she discovered to
her surprise, and not a little to her delight, that he was just
finishing off the last E of "THE BONNIE ANNIE."
"There," said he, "that's her name. Hoo de ye like it, Annie?"
Annie was too much pleased to reply. She looked at it for a while with
a flush on her face: and then turning away, sought her usual seat on
the heap of spales.
How much that one winter, with its dragons and its heroes, its
boat-building and its rhymes, its discomforts at home and its
consolations abroad, its threats of future loss, and comforts of
present hope, had done to make the wild country child into a thoughtful
little woman!
Now who should come into the shop at the moment but Thomas Crann!--the
very man of all men not to be desired on the occasion; for the boys had
contemplated a certain ceremony of christening, which they dared not
carry out in the presence of the stone-mason; without which, however,
George Macwha was very doubtful whether the little craft would prove a
lucky one.--By common understanding they made no allusion to the
matter, thus postponing it for the present.
"Ay! ay! Alec," said Thomas; "sae yer boat's bigget at last!"
He stood contemplating it for a moment, not without some hardly
perceptible signs of admiration, and then said:
"Gin ye had her out upon a muckle water, do ye think ye wad jump oot
ower the side o' her, gin the Saviour tauld ye, Alec Forbes?"
"Ay wad I, gin I war richt sure he wantit me."
"Ye wad stan' an' parley wi' him, nae doot?"
"I bude (behoved) to be richt sure it was his ain sel', ye ken, an'
that he did call me."
"Ow ay, laddie! That's a' richt. Weel, I houp ye wad. I aye had guid
houps o' ye, Alec, my man. But there may be sic a thing as loupin' into
the sea o' life oot o' the ark o' salvation; an' gin ye loup in whan he
doesna call ye, or gin ye getna a grip o' his han', whan he does, ye're
sure to droon, as sure's ane o' the swine that ran heedlong in and
perished i' the water."
Alec had only a dim sense of his meaning, but he had faith that it was
good, and so listened in respectful silence. Surely enough of sacred as
well as lovely sound had been uttered over the boat to make her
faithful and fortunate!
The hour arrived at length when _The Bonnie Annie_ was to be launched.
It was one of a bright Saturday afternoon, in the month of May, full of
a kind of tearful light, which seemed to say: "Here I am, but I go
to-morrow!" Yet though there might be plenty of cold weather to come,
though the hail might; fall in cart-loads, and the snow might lie thick
for a day or two, there would be no more frozen waters, and the boughs
would be bare and desolate no more. A few late primroses were peeping
from the hollows damp with moss and shadow along the banks, and the
trees by the stream were in small young leaf. There was a light wind
full of memories of past summers and promises for the new one at hand,
one of those gentle winds that blow the eyes of the flowers open, that
the earth may look at the heaven. In the midst of this baby-waking of
the world, the boat must glide into her new life.
Alec got one of the men on the farm to _yoke a horse_ to bring the boat
to the river. With the help of George she was soon placed in the cart,
and Alec and Curly got in beside her. The little creature looked very
much like a dead fish, as she lay jolting in the hot sun, with a motion
irksome to her delicate sides, her prow sticking awkwardly over the
horse's back, and her stern projecting as far beyond the cart behind.
Thus often is the human boat borne painfully to the stream on which
thereafter it shall glide contentedly through and out of the world.
When they had got about half-way, Alec said to Curly:
"I wonner what's come o' Annie, Curly? It wad be a shame to lainch the
boat wantin' her."
"Deed it wad. I s' jist rin and luik after her, an' ye can luik efter
the boat."
So saying, Curly was out of the cart with a bound. Away he ran over a
field of potatoes, straight as the crow flies, while the cart went
slowly on towards the Glamour.
"Whaur's Annie Anderson?" he cried, as he burst into Robert Bruce's
shop.
"What's _your_ business?" asked the Bruce--a question which evidently
looked for no answer.
"Alec wants her."
"Weel, he will want her," retorted Robert, shutting his jaws with a
snap, and grinning a smileless grin from ear to ear, like the steel
clasp of a purse. By such petty behaviour he had long ago put himself
on an equality with the young rascals generally, and he was no match
for them on their own level.
Curly left the shop at once, and went round by the close into the
garden, where he found Annie loitering up and down with the baby in her
arms, and looking very weary. This was in fact the first time she had
had to carry the baby, and it fatigued her dreadfully. Till now Mrs
Bruce had had the assistance of a ragged child, whose father owed them
money for groceries: he could not pay it, and they had taken his
daughter instead. Long ago, however, she had slaved it out, and had at
length gone back to school. The sun was hot, the baby was heavy, and
Annie felt all arms and back--they were aching so with the unaccustomed
drudgery. She was all but crying when Curly darted to the gate, his
face glowing with his run, and his eyes sparkling with excitement.
"Come, Annie," cried he; "we're gaein' to lainch the boat."
"I canna, Curly; I hae the bairn to min'."
"Tak the bairn in til 'ts mither."
"I daurna."
"Lay't doon o' the table, an' rin."
"Na, na, Curly; I cudna do that. Puir little crater!"
"Is the beastie heavy?" asked Curly, with deceitful interest.
"Dreadfu'."
"Lat's try."
"Ye'll lat her fa'."
"Deed no. I'm no sae fusionless (pithless). Gie's a haud o' her."
Annie yielded her charge; but no sooner had Curly possession of the
baby, than he bounded away with her out of the garden into the back
yard adjoining the house. Now in this yard, just opposite the
kitchen-window, there was a huge sugar-cask, which, having been
converted into a reservoir, stood under a spout, and was at this moment
half full of rain-water. Curly, having first satisfied himself that Mrs
Bruce was at work in the kitchen, and therefore sure to see him,
mounted a big stone that lay beside the barrel, and pretended to lower
the baby into the water, as if trying how much she would endure with
equanimity. In a moment, he received such a box on the ear that, had he
not been prepared for it, he would in reality have dropped the child
into the barrel. The same moment the baby was in its mother's arms, and
Curly sitting at the foot of the barrel, nursing his head, and
pretending to suppress a violent attack of weeping. The angry mother
sped into the house with her rescued child.
No sooner had she disappeared than Curly was on his feet scudding back
to Annie, who had been staring over the garden-gate in utter
bewilderment at his behaviour. She could no longer resist his
entreaties: off she ran with him to the banks of the Glamour, where
they soon came upon Alec and the man in the act of putting the boat on
the slip, which, in the present instance, was a groove hollowed out of
a low part of the bank, so that she might glide in more gradually.
"Hurrah! There's Annie!" cried Alec.--"Come awa', Annie. Here's a glass
o' whisky I got frae my mither to kirsten the boat. Fling't at the name
o' her."
Annie did as she was desired, to the perfect satisfaction of all
present, particularly of the long, spare, sinewy farm-servant, who had
contrived, when Alec's back was turned, to swallow the whisky and
substitute Glamour water, which no doubt did equally well for the
purposes of the ceremony. Then with a gentle push from all, the _Bonnie
Annie_, slid into the Glamour, where she lay afloat in contented grace,
as unlike herself in the cart as a swan waddling wearily to the water
is unlike the true swan-self when her legs have no longer to support
her weight, but to oar her along through the friendly upholding
element.
"Isna she bonnie?" cried Annie in delight.
And indeed she was bonnie, in her green and white paint, lying like a
great water-beetle ready to scamper over the smooth surface. Alec
sprang on board, nearly upsetting the tiny craft. Then he held it by a
bush on the bank while Curly handed in Annie, who sat down in the
stern. Curly then got in himself, and Alec and him seized each an oar.
But what with their inexperience and the nature of the channel, they
found it hard to get along. The river was full of great stones, making
narrow passages, so that, in some parts, it was not possible to row.
They knew nothing about the management of a boat, and were no more at
ease than if they had been afloat in a tub. Alec being stronger in the
arms than Curly, they went round and round for some time, as if in a
whirlpool, with a timeless and grotesque spluttering and sprawling. At
last they gave it up in weariness, and allowed the _Bonnie Annie_ to
float along the stream, taking care only to keep her off the rocks.
Past them went the banks--here steep and stony, but green with moss
where little trickling streams found their way into the channel; there
spreading into low alluvial shores, covered with lovely grass, starred
with daisies and buttercups, from which here and there rose a willow,
whose low boughs swept the water. A little while ago, they had skated
down its frozen surface, and had seen a snowy land shooting past them;
now with an unfelt gliding, they floated down, and the green meadows
dreamed away as if they would dream past them for ever.--Suddenly, as
they rounded the corner of a rock, a great roar of falling water burst
on their ears, and they started in dismay,
"The sluice is up!" cried Alec. "Tak' to yer oar, Curly."
Along this part of the bank, some twenty feet above them, ran a
mill-race, which a few yards lower down communicated by means of a
sluice with the river. This sluice was now open, for, from the late
rains, there was too much water; and the surplus rushed from the race
into the Glamour in a foaming cataract. Annie seeing that the boys were
uneasy, got very frightened, and, closing her eyes, sat motionless.
Louder and louder grew the tumult of the waters, till their sound
seemed to fall in a solid thunder on her brain. The boys tried hard to
row against the stream, but without avail. Slowly and surely it carried
them down into the very heart of the boiling fall; for on this side
alone was the channel deep enough for the boat, and the banks were too
steep and bare to afford any hold. At last, the boat drifting stern
foremost, a torrent of water struck Annie, and tumbled into the boat as
if it would beat out the bottom of it. Annie was tossed about in fierce
waters, and ceased to know anything. When she came to herself, she was
in an unknown bed, with the face of Mrs Forbes bending anxiously over
her. She would have risen, but Mrs Forbes told her to lie still, which
indeed Annie found much more pleasant.
As soon as they got under the fall the boat had filled and foundered.
Alec and Curly could swim like otters, and were out of the pool at
once. As they went down, Alec had made a plunge to lay hold of Annie,
but had missed her. The moment he got his breath, he swam again into
the boiling pool, dived, and got hold of her; but he was so stupefied
by the force of the water falling upon him and beating him down, that
he could not get out of the raging depth--for here the water was many
feet deep--and as he would not leave his hold of Annie, was in danger
of being drowned. Meantime Curly had scrambled on shore and climbed up
to the mill-race, where he shut down the sluice hard. In a moment the
tumult had ceased, and Alec and Annie were in still water. In a moment
more he had her on the bank, apparently lifeless, whence he carried her
home to his mother in terror. She immediately resorted to one or two of
the usual restoratives, and was presently successful.
As soon as she had opened her eyes, Alec and Curly hurried off to get
out their boat. They met the miller in an awful rage; for the sudden
onset of twice the quantity of water on his overshot wheel, had set his
machinery off as if it had been bewitched, and one old stone, which had
lost its iron girdle, had flown in pieces, to the frightful danger of
the miller and his men.
"Ye ill-designed villains!" cried he at a venture, "what gart ye close
the sluice? I s' learn ye to min' what ye're aboot. Deil tak' ye for
rascals!"
And he seized one in each brawny hand.
"Annie Anderson was droonin' aneath the waste-water," answered Curly
promptly.
"The Lord preserve 's!" said the miller, relaxing his hold "Hoo was
that? Did she fa' in?"
The boys told him the whole story. In a few minutes more the back-fall
was again turned off, and the miller was helping them to get their boat
out. The _Bonnie Annie_ was found uninjured. Only the oars and
stretchers had floated down the stream, and were never heard of again.
Alec had a terrible scolding from his mother for getting Annie into
such mischief. Indeed Mrs Forbes did not like the girl's being so much
with her son; but she comforted herself with the probability that by
and by Alec would go to college, and forget her. Meantime, she was very
kind to Annie, and took her home herself, in order to excuse her
absence, the blame of which she laid entirely on Alec, not knowing that
thereby she greatly aggravated any offence of which Annie might have
been guilty. Mrs Bruce solemnly declared her conviction that a judgment
had fallen upon her for Willie Macwha's treatment of her baby.
"Gin I hadna jist gotten a glimp o' him in time, he wad hae drooned the
bonny infant afore my verra een. It's weel waured on them!"
It did not occur to her that a wet skin was so very moderate a
punishment for child-murder, that possibly there had been no connection
between them.
This first voyage of the _Bonnie Annie_ may seem a bad beginning; but I
am not sure that most good ends have not had such a bad beginning.
Perhaps the world itself may be received as a case in point. Alec and
Curly went about for a few days with a rather subdued expression. But
as soon as the boat was refitted, they got George Macwha to go with
them for cockswain; and under his instructions, they made rapid
progress in rowing and sculling. Then Annie was again their companion,
and, the boat being by this time fitted with a rudder, had several
lessons in steering, in which she soon became proficient. Many a
moonlight row they had on the Glamour; and many a night after Curly and
Annie had gone home, would Alec again unmoor the boat, and drop down
the water alone, letting the banks go dreaming past him--not always
sure that he was not dreaming himself, and would not suddenly awake and
find himself in his bed, and not afloat between heaven and earth, with
the moon above and the moon below him. I think it was in these seasons
that he began first to become aware of a certain stillness pervading
the universe like a law; a stillness ever being broken by the cries of
eager men, yet ever closing and returning with gentleness not to be
repelled, seeking to infold and penetrate with its own healing the
minds of the noisy children of the earth. But he paid little heed to
the discovery then, for he was made for activity, and in activity he
found his repose.
CHAPTER XXXII.
My story must have shown already that, although several years younger
than Alec, Annie had much more character and personality than he. Alec
had not yet begun to look realities in the face. The very nobility and
fearlessness of his nature had preserved him from many such actions as
give occasion for looking within and asking oneself whereto things are
tending. Full of life and restless impulses to activity, all that could
properly be required of him as yet was that the action into which he
rushed should be innocent, and if conventionally mischievous, yet
actually harmless. Annie, comfortless at home, gazing all about her to
see if there was a rest anywhere for her, had been driven by the
outward desolation away from the window of the world to that other
window that opens on the regions of silent being where God is, and into
which when his creatures enter, or even look, the fountain of their
life springs aloft with tenfold vigour and beauty. Alec, whose home was
happy, knew nothing of that sense of discomfort which is sometimes the
herald of a greater need. But he was soon to take a new start in his
intellectual relations; nor in those alone, seeing the change was the
result of a dim sense of duty. The fact of his not being a scholar to
the mind of Murdoch Malison, arose from no deficiency of intellectual
_power_, but only of intellectual _capacity_--for the indefinite
enlargement of which a fitting excitement from without is alone
requisite.
The season went on, and the world, like a great flower afloat in space,
kept opening its thousandfold blossom. Hail and sleet were things lost
in the distance of the year--storming away in some far-off region of
the north, unknown to the summer generation. The butterflies, with
wings looking as if all the flower-painters of fairyland had wiped
their brushes upon them in freakful yet artistic sport, came forth in
the freedom of their wills and the faithful ignorance of their minds.
The birds, the poets of the animal creation--what though they never get
beyond the lyrical!--awoke to utter their own joy, and awake like joy
in others of God's children. The birds grew silent, because their
history laid hold upon them, compelling them to turn their words into
deeds, and keep eggs warm, and hunt for worms. The butterflies died of
old age and delight. The green life of the earth rushed up in corn to
be ready for the time of need. The corn grew ripe, and therefore weary,
hung its head, died, and was laid aside for a life beyond its own. The
keen sharp old mornings and nights of autumn came back as they had come
so many thousand times before, and made human limbs strong and human
hearts sad and longing. Winter would soon be near enough to stretch out
a long forefinger once more, and touch with the first frosty shiver
some little child that loved summer, and shrunk from the cold.
One evening in early autumn, when the sun, almost on the edge of the
horizon, was shining right in at the end of one of the principal
streets, filling its whole width with its glory of molten roses, all
the shopkeepers were standing in their doors. Little groups of country
people, bearing a curious relation to their own legs, were going in
various directions across the square. Loud laughter, very much like
animal noises, now and then invaded the ear; but the sound only rippled
the wide lake of the silence. The air was perfumed with the scent of
peat fires and the burning of weeds and potato-tops. There was no
fountain to complete the harmony, but the intermittent gushes from the
spout of the great pump in the centre of the square were no bad
substitute. At all events, they supplied the sound of water, without
which Nature's orchestra is not full.
Wattie Sim, the watchmaker, long and lank, with grey bushy eyebrows
meeting over his nose, wandered, with the gait of a heedless pair of
compasses, across from his own shop to Redford the bookseller's, at
whose door a small group was already gathered.
"Well, Wattie," said Captain Clashmach, "how goes the world with you?"
"Muckle the same's wi' yersel', Captain, and the doctor there,"
answered Wattie with a grin. "Whan the time's guid for ither fowk, it's
but sae sae for you and me. I haena had a watch come in for a haill ook
(week)."
"Hoo de ye accoont for that, Mr Sim?" asked a shoemaker who stood near
without belonging to the group.
"It's the ile, man, the ile. Half the mischeef o' watches is the ile."
"But I don't see," said the doctor, "how that can be, Sim."
"Weel, ye see, sir," answered Wattie--and the words seemed somehow to
have come tumbling silently down over the ridge of his nose, before he
caught them in his mouth and articulated them--"ye see, sir, watches is
delicat things. They're not to be traitet like fowk's insides wi'
onything 'at comes first. Gin I cud jist get the middle half-pint oot
o' the hert o' a hogsheid o' sperm ile, I wad I sud keep a' yer watches
gaein like the verra universe. But it wad be an ill thing for me, ye
ken. Sae maybe a' thing's for the best efter a'.--Noo, ye see, i' this
het weather, the ile keeps fine an' saft, and disna clog the
warks.--But losh preserves a'! What's that?"
Staring up the street towards the sunset, which coloured all their
faces a red bronze, stood a group of townsfolk, momently increasing,
from which, before Wattie's party could reach it, burst a general
explosion of laughter. It was some moments, however, before they
understood what was the matter, for the great mild sun shone full in
their eyes. At length they saw, as if issuing from the huge heavy orb,
a long dark line, like a sea-serpent of a hundred joints, coming down
the street towards them, and soon discovered that it was a slow
procession of animals. First came Mistress Stephen, Stumpin Steenie the
policeman's cow, with her tail at full stretch behind her. To the end
of her tail was tied the nose of Jeames Joss the cadger's horse--a
gaunt sepulchral animal, which age and ill-treatment had taught to move
as if knees and hocks were useless refinements in locomotion. He had
just enough of a tail left to tie the nose of another cow to; and so,
by the accretion of living joints, the strange monster lengthened out
into the dim fiery distance.
When Mrs Stephen reached the square, she turned to lead her train
diagonally across it, for in that direction lay her home. Moved by the
same desire, the cadger's horse wanted to go in exactly the opposite
direction. The cow pulled the one way, and the horse pulled the other;
but the cow, having her head free, had this advantage over the horse,
which was fast at both ends. So he gave in, and followed his less noble
leader. Cow after horse, and horse after cow, with a majority of cows,
followed, to the number of twenty or so; after which the joints began
to diminish in size. Two calves were at the tail of the last cow, a
little Highland one, with a sheep between them. Then came a goat
belonging to Charles Chapman the wool-carder, the only goat in the
place, which as often as the strain on his own tail slackened, made a
butt at that of the calf in front of him. Next came a diminishing
string of disreputable dogs, to the tail of the last of which was
fastened the only cat the inventors of this novel pastime had been able
to catch. At her tail followed--alas!--Andrew Truffey's white rabbit,
whose pink eyes, now fixed and glazed, would no more delight the
imagination of the poor cripple; and whose long furry hind legs would
never more bang the ground in sovereign contempt, as he dared pursuit;
for the dull little beast, having, with the stiffneckedness of fear,
persisted in pulling against the string that tied him to the tail of
Widow Wattles's great tom-cat, was now trailed ignominiously upon his
side, with soiled fur and outstretched neck--the last joint, and only
dead one, of this bodiless tail.
Before Mistress Stephen had reached her home, and just as the last link
of the chain had appeared on the square, the mirth was raised to a yet
higher pitch by the sudden rush of several women to the rescue, who had
already heard the news of the ignominious abduction of their honoured
_kye_, and their shameful exposure to public ridicule. Each made for
her own four-footed property.
"Guid preserve's, Hawkie! are ye come to this?" cried Lucky Lapp, as
she limped, still and ever lame with rheumatism, towards the third
member of the procession. "Gin I had the loon that did it," she went
on, fumbling, with a haste that defeated itself, at the knot that bound
Hawkie's nose to the tail of the cadger's horse--"gin I had the loon
'at did it, I wad ding the sowl oot o' his wame, the villain!"
"Losh! it's my ain cat, as weel's my ain coo." screamed Lucky Wattles
in twofold indignation. "Gin I cud but redd (comb) the scoonrel's heid
wi' your cleuks, Baudrons!" she added, as she fondled the cat
passionately, "he wadna be in sic a doom's hurry to han'le ye again,
Is' wad (wager)."
By this time Stumpin' Steenie, having undone his cow's tail, was
leading her home amid shouts of laughter.
"Pit her i' the lock-up, Steenie. She's been takin' up wi' ill loons,"
screeched an urchin.
"Haud yer ill tongue, or I s' tak' you up, ye rascal," bawled Steenie.
"Ye'll hae to saiddle Mistress Stephen afore ye can catch me, Stumpin'
Steenie!"
Steenie, inflamed with sudden wrath, forsook the cow, and made an
elephantine rush at the offender, who vanished in the crowd, and thus
betrayed the constable to another shout of laughter.
While the laugh was yet ringing, the burly figure of the stonemason
appeared, making his way by the momentum of great bulk and slow motion
to the front of the crowd. Without a word to any one, he drew a knife
from his pocket, and proceeded to cut every cord that bound the
helpless animals, the people staring silent all the while.
It was a sight to see how the dogs scampered off in the delight of
their recovered freedom. But the rabbit lay where the cat had left him.
Thomas took it with some sign of tenderness, and holding it up in his
huge hand, put the question to the crowd in general.
"Wha's aucht this?"
"It's cripple Truffey's?" piped a shrill little voice.
"Tell him 'at I'll account for't," rejoined Thomas, and putting the
animal in his pocket, departed.
He took the nearest way to George Macwha's workshop, where he found
Alec and Curly, as he had expected, busy or appearing to be busy about
something belonging to their boat. They looked considerably hotter,
however, than could be accounted for by their work. This confirmed
Thomas's suspicions.
"A fine ploy yon for a young gentleman, Alec!" said he.
"What ploy, Thomas?" asked Alec, with attempted innocence.
"Ye ken weel eneuch what ploy I mean, man."
"Weel, supposin' I do--there's nae that muckle hairm dune, to mak' a
wark aboot, surely, Thomas."
"Ca' ye that no hairm?" rejoined Thomas, pulling the dead rabbit out of
his pocket, and holding it up by the ears. "Ca' ye that no hairm?" he
repeated.
Alec stared in dismay. Thomas well knew his regard for animals, and had
calculated upon it.
"Luik at the puir thing wi' its bonny reid een closed for ever! It's a
mercy to think 'at there's no lemin' and lowin' (blazing and flaming)
future in store for hit, puir mappy (bunny)!"
"Hoot, hoot, Thamas, man! Isna that bein' richteous overmuch, as oor
minister wad say?"
The question came in the husky voice of Peter Whaup, the blacksmith,
who was now discovered leaning in over the half-door of the shop.
"And wha's _your_ minister, Peter, my man?" retorted Thomas, with some
acrimony.
"Mr Cooie, as ye weel ken, Thamas."
"I thoucht as muckle. The doctrine savours o' the man, Peter. There's
no fear o' him or ony o' his followers bein' richteous over-much."
"Weel, ye ken, that's naething but a rabbit i' yer han'. It wad hae
been worried some day. Hoo cam' 't by 'ts deith?"
"I didna mean to kill't. 'Twas a' for fun, ye ken," said Alec,
addressing Thomas.
"There's a heap o' fun," answered Thomas with solemnity, "that carries
deith i' the tail o' 't. Here's the puir cripple laddie's rabbit as
deid's a herrin', and him at hame greetin' his een oot, I daursay."
Alec caught up his cap and made for the door.
"I'll gang and see him. Curly, wha has ony rabbits to sell?"
"Doddles's cleckit aboot a month ago."
"Whaur does Doddles bide?"
"I'll lat ye see."
The boys were hurrying together from the shop, when Thomas caught Alec
by the arm.
"Ye canna restore the rabbit, Alec."
"Hoot! Thamas, ae rabbit's as guid's anither," interposed the smith, in
a tone indicating disapprobation, mingled with a desire to mollify.
"Ay--to them 'at cares for neither. But there's sic a thing as a human
election, as weel's a divine ane; an' ane's no the same's anither, ance
it's a chosen ane."
"Weel, I pity them 'at the Lord has no pity upo'," sighed the smith,
with a passing thought of his own fits of drinking.
"Gang ye and try him. He may hae pity upo' you--wha kens?" said Thomas,
as he followed Alec, whom he had already released, out of the shop.
"Ye see, Alec," he resumed in a low voice, when they were in the open
air--Curly going on before them, "it's time 'at ye was growin' a man,
and pittin' awa' childish things. Yer mither 'll be depen'in' upo' you,
or lang, to haud things gaein'; and ye ken gin ye negleck yer chance at
the school, yer time'll no come ower again. Man, ye sud try to do
something for conscience-sake. Hae ye learnt yer lessons for the morn,
noo?"
"No, Thomas. But I will. I'm jist gaein' to buy a pair o' rabbits to
Truffey; and syne I'll gang hame."
"There's a guid lad. Ye'll be a comfort till yer mither some day yet."
With these words, Thomas turned and left them.
There had been a growing, though it was still a vague sense, in Alec's
mind, that he was not doing well; and this rebuke of Thomas Crann
brought it full into the light of his own consciousness. From that day
he worked better. Mr Malison saw the change, and acknowledged it. This
reacted on Alec's feeling for the master; and during the following
winter he made three times the progress he had made in any winter
preceding.
For the sea of summer ebbed away, and the rocky channels of the winter
appeared, with its cold winds, its ghost-like mists, and the damps and
shiverings that cling about the sepulchre in which Nature lies
sleeping. The boat was carefully laid up, across the rafters of the
barn, well wrapped in a shroud of tarpaulin. It was buried up in the
air; and the Glamour on which it had floated so gaily, would soon be
buried under the ice. Summer alone could bring them together again--the
one from the dry gloom of the barn, the other from the cold seclusion
of its wintry hebetude.
Meantime Mrs Forbes was somewhat troubled in her mind as to what should
be done with Alec; and she often talked with the schoolmaster about
him. Herself of higher birth, socially considered, than her husband,
she had the ambition that her son should be educated for some
profession. Now in Scotland education is more easily got than almost
anything else; and whether there might be room for the exercise of the
profession afterwards, was a matter of less moment to Mrs Forbes,
seeing she was not at all willing that the farm which had been in her
husband's family for hundreds of years, should pass into the hands of
strangers, and Alec himself had the strongest attachment to the
ancestral soil; for to be loved it is not necessary that land should be
freehold. At length his increased diligence, which had not escaped her
observation, and was testified to by Mr Malison, confirmed her
determination that he should at least go to college. He would be no
worse a farmer for having an _A.M_. after his name; while the
curriculum was common to all the professions. So it was resolved that,
in the following winter, he should _compete for a bursary_.
The communication that his fate lay in that direction roused Alec still
more. Now that an ulterior object rendered them attractive, he turned
his attention to the classics with genuine earnestness; and, on a
cloudy day in the end of October, found himself on the box-seat of the
Royal Mail, with his trunk on the roof behind him, bound for a certain
city whose advantages are not confined to the possession of a
university.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
After driving through long streets, brilliant with shops of endless
marvel, the coachman pulled up for the last time. It was a dull drizzly
evening, with sudden windy gusts, and, in itself, dark as pitch. But
Alec descended, cold and wet, in a brilliant light which flowed from
the door of the hotel as if it had been the very essence of its
structure. A porter took charge of his box, hoisted it on his back, and
led the way to the address he gave him.
Notwithstanding the drizzle, and the angry rushes of the wind round the
street-corners, the foot-pavements were filled with men and women,
moving in different directions, like a double row of busy ants. Through
queer short cuts that terribly bewildered the way, the porter led him
to the house, and pushing the door open, went up two flights of stone
stairs and knocked at a door on the landing. Alec was shown into a room
where a good fire was blazing away with a continuous welcome; and when
seated by it drinking his tea, he saw the whole world golden through
the stained windows of his imagination.
But his satisfaction gradually passed into a vague longing after
something else. Would human nature be more perfect were it capable of
being satisfied with cakes and ale? Alec felt as if he had got to the
borders of fairy-land, and _something_ was going to happen. A door
would open and admit him into the secret of the world. But the door was
so long in opening, that he took to unpacking his box; when, as he
jumped up to thank his mother for some peculiar remembrance of his
likings, the whole affair suddenly changed to a rehearsal of death; and
his longings for the remainder of the night were towards the past.
He rose in the morning with the feeling revived, that something intense
was going on all arouud. But the door into life generally opens behind
us, and a hand is put forth which draws us in backwards. The sole
wisdom for man or boy who is haunted with the hovering of unseen wings,
with the scent of unseen roses, and the subtle enticements of "melodies
unheard," is _work_. If he follow any of those, they will vanish. But
if he work, they will come unsought, and, while they come, he will
believe that there is a fairy-land, where poets find their dreams, and
prophets are laid hold of by their visions. The idle beat their heads
against its walls, or mistake the entrance, and go down into the dark
places of the earth.
Alec stood at the window, and peered down into the narrow street,
through which, as in a channel between rocks burrowed into dwellings,
ran the ceaseless torrent of traffic. He felt at first as if life at
least had opened its gates, and he had been transported into the midst
of its drama. But in a moment the show changed, turning first into a
meaningless procession; then into a chaos of conflicting atoms;
re-forming itself at last into an endlessly unfolding coil, no break in
the continuity of which would ever reveal the hidden mechanism. For to
no mere onlooker will Life any more than Fairy-land open its secret. A
man must become an actor before he can be a true spectator.
Weary of standing at the window, he went and wandered about the
streets. To his country-bred eyes they were full of marvels--which
would soon be as common to those eyes as one of the furrowed fields on
his father's farm. The youth who thinks the world his oyster, and opens
it forthwith, finds no pearl therein.
What is this _nimbus_ about the new? Is the marvel a mockery? Is the
shine that of demon-gold? No. It is a winged glory that alights beside
the youth; and, having gathered his eyes to itself, flits away to a
further perch; there alights, there shines, thither entices. With
outstretched hands the child of earth follows, to fall weeping at the
foot of the gray disenchanted thing. But beyond, and again beyond,
shines the lapwing of heaven--not, as a faithless generation thinks, to
delude like them, but to lead the seeker home to the nest of the glory.
Last of all, Alec was forced to take refuge in his books.
_The competition_ fell on the next day, and he gained a small bursary.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
As it happened, no one but Alec had come up from Glamerton that year.
He did not know one of his fellow-students. There were very few in the
first class indeed who had had any previous acquaintance with each
other. But before three days were over like had begun to draw to like,
and opposites to their natural opposites. These mutual attractions,
however, were considerably influenced by the social sphere, as
indicated by style of dress, speech, and manners, in which each had
been accustomed to move. Some of the youths were of the lowliest
origin-�the sons of ploughmen and small country shopkeepers;
shock-headed lads, with much of the looks and manners of year-old
bullocks, mostly with freckled faces and a certain general
irresponsiveness of feature, soon to vanish as the mental and nervous
motions became more frequent and rapid, working the stiff clay of their
faces into a readier obedience to the indwelling plasticity. Some, on
the other hand, showed themselves at once the aristocracy of the class,
by their carriage and social qualifications or assumptions. These were
not generally the best scholars; but they set the fashion in the cut of
their coats, and especially in the style of their neckerchiefs. Most of
them were of Highland families; some of them jolly, hearty fellows;
others affected and presumptuous, evidently considering it beneath them
to associate with the multitude.
Alec belonged to a middle class. Well-dressed, he yet knew that his
clothes had a country air, and that beside some of the men he cut a
poor figure in more than in this particular. For a certain superiority
of manner distinguished them, indicating that they had been accustomed
to more of the outward refinements of life than he. Now let Alec once
feel that a man was wiser and better than himself, and he was
straightway incapable of envying him any additional superiority
possible--would, in a word, be perfectly willing that he should both
wear a better coat and be a better scholar than himself. But to any one
who did not possess the higher kind of superiority, he foolishly and
enviously grudged the lower kinds of pre-eminence. To understand this
it must be remembered, that as yet he had deduced for himself no
principles of action or feeling: he was only a boy well-made, with
little goodness that he had in any way verified for himself.
On the second day after the commencement of lectures, it was made known
to the first class that the Magistrand (fourth-class) Debating Society
would meet that evening. The meetings of this society, although under
the control of the magistrands, were open, upon equal terms in most
other respects, to the members of the inferior classes. They were held
in the Natural Philosophy class-room, at seven o'clock in the evening;
and to the first meeting of the session Alec went with no little
curiosity and expectation.
It was already dark when he set out from his lodgings in the new town,
for the gateway beneath the tower with that crown of stone which is the
glory of the ancient borough gathered beneath it. Through narrow
crooked streets, with many dark courts on each side, he came to the
open road which connected the two towns. It was a starry night, dusky
rather than dark, and full of the long sound of the distant sea-waves
falling on the shore beyond the _links_. He was striding along
whistling, and thinking about as nearly nothing as might be, when the
figure of a man, whose footsteps he had heard coming through the gloom,
suddenly darkened before him and stopped. It was a little spare,
slouching figure, but what the face was like, he could not see.
"Whustlin'?" said the man, interrogatively.
"Ay; what for no?" answered Alec cheerily.
"Haud yer een aff o' rainbows, or ye'll brak' yer shins upo'
gravestanes," said the man, and went on, with a shuffling gait, his
eyes flashing on Alec, from under projecting brows, as he passed.
Alec concluded him drunk, although drink would not altogether account
for the strangeness of the address, and soon forgot him. The arch
echoed to his feet as he entered the dark quadrangle, across which a
glimmer in the opposite tower guided him to the stairs leading up to
the place of meeting. He found the large room lighted by a chandelier,
and one of the students seated as president in the professor's chair,
while the benches were occupied by about two hundred students, most of
the freshmen or _bejans_ in their red gowns.
Various preliminary matters were discussed with an energy of utterance,
and a fitness of speech, which would have put to shame the general
elocution of both the pulpit and the bar. At length, however, a certain
_semi_ (second-classman, or more popularly _sheep_) stood up to give
his opinion on some subject in dispute, and attempting to speak too
soon after his dinner, for he was one of the more fashionable order,
hemmed and stammered till the weariness of the assembly burst upon him
in a perfect torrent of hisses and other animal exclamations. Among the
loudest in this inarticulate protestation, were some of the red-gowned
bejans, and the speaker kindled with wrath at the presumption of the
yellow-beaks (becs jaunes: bejans), till, indignation bursting open the
barriers of utterance, he poured forth a torrent of sarcastic contempt
on the young clod-hoppers, who, having just come from herding their
fathers' cows, could express their feelings in no more suitable
language than that of the bovine animals which had been their principal
and fit associates. As he sat down, his eyes rested with withering
scorn upon Alec Forbes, who instantly started to his feet amidst a
confusion of plaudits and hisses, but, finding it absolutely impossible
to speak so as to be heard, contented himself with uttering a sonorous
_ba-a-a-a_, and instant dropped into his seat, all the other outcries
dissolving in shouts of laughter. In a moment he received a candle full
in the face; its companions went flying in all directions, and the room
was in utter darkness. A scramble for the door followed; and amidst
struggling, shouting, and swearing, the whole company rolled down the
stair into the quadrangle, most of them without their caps, and some
with their new gowns torn from bottom to top. The night was hideous
with the uproar. In the descent, Alec received a blow on the head which
half stunned him; but he did not imagine that its severity was other
than an accident of the crush. He made the best of his way home, and
went to bed.
After this he was popular; and after this, as often as Patrick
Beauchamp and he passed each other in walking up and down the arcade,
Beauchamp's high curved upper lip would curve yet higher, and Alec
would feel with annoyance that he could not sustain the glance of his
gray eyes.
Beauchamp was no great favourite even in his own set; for there is one
kind of religion in which the more devoted a man is, the fewer
proselytes he makes: the worship of himself.
CHAPTER XXXV.
One morning, about two months from the beginning of the session, after
the students had been reading for some time in the Greek class, the
professor was seen, not unexpectedly to part of the assembly, to look
up at the ceiling with sudden discomposure. There had been a heavy fall
of snow in the night, and one of the students, whose organ of humour
had gained at the expense of that of veneration, had, before the
arrival of the professor, gathered a ball of the snow, and thrown it
against the ceiling with such forceful precision, that it stuck right
over the centre of the chair. This was perhaps the first time that such
a trick had been dared in the first class, belonging more properly to
the advanced depravity of the second or third. When the air began to
get warm, the snow began to drop upon the head of the old professor;
and this was the cause of his troubled glance at the ceiling. But the
moment he looked up, Alec, seeing what was the matter, and feeling all
his natural loyalty roused, sprang from his seat, and rushing out of
the class-room, returned with a long broom which the sacrist had been
using to clear foot-paths across the quadrangle. The professor left his
chair, and Alec springing on the desk, swept the snow from the ceiling.
He then wiped the seat with his handkerchief and returned to his place.
The gratitude of the old man shone in his eyes. True, he would only
have had to send for the sacrist to rescue him; but here was an
atonement for the insult, offered by one of the students themselves.
"Thank you, Mr Forbes," he stammered; "I am ek�ek�ek--exceedingly
obliged to you."
The professor was a curious, kindly little man--lame, with a brown wig,
a wrinkled face, and a long mouth, of which he only made use of the
half on the right side to stammer out humorous and often witty
sayings--at least so they appeared to those who had grace enough to
respect his position and his age. As often as reference is made in my
hearing to Charles Lamb and his stutter, up comes the face of dear old
Professor Fraser, and I hear him once more stammering out some joke,
the very fun of which had its source in kindliness. Somehow the stutter
never interfered with the point of the joke: that always came with a
rush. He seemed, while hesitating on some unimportant syllable, to be
arranging what was to follow and strike the blow.
"Gentlemen," he continued upon this occasion, "the Scripture says
you're to heap c-c-c-coals of fire on your enemy's head. When you are
to heap drops of water on your friend's w-w-wig, the Scripture doesn't
say."
The same evening Alec received a note from him asking him to breakfast
with him the following morning, which was Saturday, and consequently a
holiday. It was usual with the professors to invite a dozen or so of
the students to breakfast on Saturdays, but on this occasion Alec was
the sole guest.
As soon as he entered the room, Mr Fraser hobbled to meet him, with
outstretched hand of welcome, and a kindly grin on his face.
"Mr Forbes," he said, "I h-h-hope well of you; for you can respect an
old man. I'm very glad to see you. I hope you've brought an appetite
with you. Sit down. Always respect old age, Mr Forbes. You'll be old
yourself some day--and you won't like it any more than I do. I've had
my young days, though, and I mustn't grumble."
And here he smiled; but it was a sad smile, and a tear gathered in the
corner of one of his old eyes. He caught up a globular silver tea-pot,
and began to fill the tea-cups. Apparently the reflection of his own
face in the tea-pot was too comical to resist, for the old man
presently broke into what was half a laugh and half a grin, and,
without in any way accounting for it, went on talking quite merrily for
the rest of the meal.
"My mother told me," said Alec at length, "in a letter I had from her
yesterday, that your brother, sir, had married a cousin of hers."
"What! what! Are you a son of Mr Forbes of Howglen?"
"Yes, sir."
"You young rascal! Why didn't your mother send you to me?"
"She didn't like to trouble you, I suppose, sir."
"People like me, that haven't any relations, must make the most of the
relations they have. I am in no danger of being troubled that way.
You've heard of my poor brother's death?"
"No, sir."
"He died last year. He was a clergyman, you know. When you come up next
session, I hope to show you his daughter--your cousin, you know. She is
coming to live with me. People that don't marry don't deserve to have
children. But I'm going to have one after all. She's at school now.
What do you think of turning to, Mr Forbes?"
"I haven't thought much about it yet, sir."
"Ah! I daresay not. If I were you, I would be a doctor. If you're
honest, you're sure to do some good. I think you're just the man for a
doctor now--you respect your fellow-men. You don't laugh at old age, Mr
Forbes."
And so the kind garrulous old man went on, talking about everything
except Greek. For that he had no enthusiasm. Indeed, he did not know
enough to have, by possibility, any feeling about it. What he did know,
however, he taught well, and very conscientiously.
This was the first time that Alec's thoughts had been turned towards a
profession. The more he thought about it the better he liked the idea
of being a doctor; till at length, after one or two talks about it with
Mr Fraser, he resolved, notwithstanding that the session was
considerably advanced, to attend the anatomical course for the rest of
it. The Greek and Latin were tolerably easy to him, and it would be so
much time gained if he entered the first medical class at once. He need
not stand the examination except he liked, and the fee was not by any
means large. His mother was more than satisfied with the proposal, and,
although what seemed a trifle to Alec was of some consequence to her,
she sent him at once the necessary supplies. Mr Fraser smoothed the way
for him with the professor, and he was soon busy making up his distance
by a close study of the class-books.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
The first day of his attendance in the dissecting-room was a memorable
one, and had memorable consequences. He had considerable misgivings
about the new experience he had to meet, and sought, by the
concentration of his will, to prepare himself to encounter the
inevitable with calmness, and, if possible, with seeming indifference.
But he was not prepared after all for the disadvantage of entering a
company already hardened to those peculiarities of the position for
which a certain induration is as desirable as unavoidable.
When he entered the room, he found a group already gathered. He drew
timidly towards the table on the other side, not daring to glance at
something which lay upon it--"white with the whiteness of what is
dead;" and, feeling as if all the men were looking at him, as indeed
most of them were, kept staring, or trying to stare, at other things in
the room. But all at once, from an irresistible impulse, he faced
round, and looked at the table.
There lay the body of a woman, with a young sad face, beautiful in
spite of a terrible scar on the forehead, which indicated too plainly
with what brutal companions she had consorted. Alec's lip quivered, and
his throat swelled with a painful sensation of choking. He turned away,
and bit his lip hard to keep down his emotion.
The best quality he possessed was an entire and profound reverence for
women. Indignation even was almost quelled in the shock he received,
when one of the students, for the pleasure of sneering at his
discomposure, and making a boast of his own superiority to such
weakness, uttered a brutal jest. In vain the upturned face made its
white appeal to the universe: a laugh billowed the silence about its
head.
But no rudeness could hurt that motionless heart--no insult bring a
blush on that pale face. The closed eyes, the abandoned hands seemed
only to pray:
"Let me into the dark--out of the eyes of those men!"
Alec gave one sob in the vain effort to master the conflicting emotions
of indignation and pity. It reverberated in the laugh which burst from
the students of the healing art. Almost quenched in the laugh he heard
one word however, in the same voice which had made the jest--a voice he
knew well enough--that of Patrick Beauchamp. His face blazed up; his
eyes flashed; and he had made one step forward, when he was arrested by
the still face of the dead woman, which, ghostly as the morning moon,
returned no glow in the red sunlight of his wrath; and in reverence he
restrained his anger. In another moment, the professor arrived.
During the lecture and accompanying demonstrations. Alec was deaf and
blind from burning rage; in the midst of which, however, he almost
forgot his own wrong in regarding that done to the dead. He became, in
his own eyes, the champion of one whom nature and death had united to
render defenceless. From the verge of a gulf more terrible than the
grave, her cry had reached him, and he would rise to avenge her.
As soon as they came out, he walked up to Beauchamp.
"You called me a spoony," he said through his set teeth.
"I did," answered Beauchamp, with an admirable drawl of indifference.
Alec replied with a blow; whereupon Beauchamp knocked him down. But he
was up in a moment; and, although his antagonist was both older and
bigger, the elasticity of his perfect health soon began to tell. There
was little science between them, and what there was lay on Beauchamp's
side; yet he defended himself more and more feebly, for his wind had
soon given way. At length, after receiving a terrible blow on the
mouth, Beauchamp dropped his arms and turned his back; and Alec, after
some hesitation, let him go without the parting kick which he was
tempted to give him, and which he had so well deserved.
The men dispersed without remark, ashamed of themselves, and admiring
the bumpkin--most of them were gentlemen enough for that; while each of
the combatants retired unaccompanied to his own lodging--Alec with a
black eye, which soon passed through yellow back to its own natural
hue, and Beauchamp with a cut, the scar of which deepened the sneer on
his upper lip, and was long his evil counsellor from the confessional
of the mirror.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
The encounter fortunately took place upon a Friday, so that the
combatants had both Saturday and Sunday, with the deodand of a slight
fine for being absent from chapel, to recover appearances. Alec kept to
the house both days, and read hard at his medical and anatomical books.
His landlady took charge of his eye, and ministered to it with
assiduity and discretion, asking no questions, and courting no
confidences, only looking at him comically now and then out of gray
motherly eyes, that might have been trusted with the universe. She knew
the ways of students. In the course of one of the dressings, she said:
"Ye'll be thinkin' lang (ennuy�), Mr Forbes, at haein' to bide i' the
hoose wi' that blackamoor ee o' yours. Hoo dinna ye gang up the stair
to Mr Cupples, and hae a lauch wi' him?"
"I didna ken ye had onybody up the stair. Wha's Mr Cupples?"
"Weel, he kens that best himsel! But he's a gey queer ane. He's a
terrible scholar though, fowk says--gran' at the Greek, and rael bonny
on the mathewmawtics. Only ye maunna be fleyt (frightened) at him."
"I'm easy fleyt," said Alec, with a laugh. "But I wad like to see him."
"Gang up, than, and chap at the garret door upo' yer left han'."
"But what reason am I to gie him for disturbin' him?" asked Alec.
"Ow nane ava. Jist tak' a moufu' o' Greek wi' ye to speir the richt
meanin' o', gin ye maun hae a rizzon."
"That will do just first-rate," said Alec; "for here I have been
puzzling over a sentence for the last half hour with nobody but this
dim-sighted ghost of a Schrevelius to help me out with it. I'll go
directly. But I look such a blackguard with this game eye!"
The landlady laughed.
"You'll sune forget that whan ye see Mr Cupples."
To the dismay of his nurse, Alec pulled the bandage off his eye, and
amidst her expostulations caught up his book, and rushing away, bounded
up the garret stairs, which ascended outside the door of the _flat_. At
the top, he found himself under the bare roof, with only boards and
slates between him and the clouds. The landing was lighted by a
skylight, across which diligent and undisturbed spiders had woven their
webs for years. He stood for a moment or two, puzzled as to which door
he ought to assail, for all the doors about looked like closet-doors,
leading into dingy recesses. At last, with the aid of his nose, he made
up his mind, and knocked.
"Come in," cried a voice of peculiar tone. It reminded Alec of
something he could not at all identify, which was not wonderful, seeing
it was of itself, heard once before, that it reminded him. It was the
same voice which, as he walked to the debate, the first night, had
warned him not to look at rainbows.
He opened the door and entered.
"What do you want?" said the voice, its source almost invisible in the
thick fumes of genuine pigtail, through which it sent cross odours of
as genuine Glenlivat.
"I want you to help me with a bit of Homer, if you please, Mr
Cupples-�I'm not up to Homer yet."
"Do ye think I hae naething ither to do than to grin' the grandur o' an
auld haythen into spunemate for a young sinner like you?"
"Ye dinna ken what I'm like, Mr Cupples," returned Alec, remembering
his landlady's injunction not to be afraid of him.
"Come athort the reek, and lat's luik at ye."
Alec obeyed, and found the speaker seated by the side of a little fire,
in an old easy-chair covered with horsehair; and while undergoing his
scrutiny, took his revenge in kind. Mr Cupples was a man who might have
been of almost any age from five-and-twenty to fifty--at least, Alec's
experience was insufficient for the task of determining to what decade
of human years he belonged. He was a little man, in a long black
tail-coat much too large, and dirty gray trousers. He had no
shirt-collar visible, although a loose rusty stock revealed the whole
of his brown neck. His hair, long, thin, fair, and yet a good deal
mingled with grey, straggled about over an uncommonly high forehead,
which had somehow the neglected and ruinous look of an old bare tower
no ivy had beautified. His ears stood far out from his great head. His
nose refuses to be described. His lips were plentiful and loose; his
chin was not worth mentioning; his eyes were rather large, beautifully
formed, bright, and blue. His hand, small, delicately shaped, and
dirty, grasped, all the time he was examining Alec, a tumbler of
steaming toddy; while his feet, in list slippers of different colours,
balanced themselves upon the fender[.]
"You've been fighting, you young rascal!" said Mr Cupples, in a tone of
authority, the moment he had satisfied himself about Alec's
countenance. "That won't do. It's not respectable."
And he gave the queerest unintelligible grin.
Alec found himself strangely attracted to him, and impelled--a feeling
not unfrequent with him--to tell the truth, the whole truth, and
nothing but the truth.
"The world itself isn't the most respectable planet in the system, Mr
Cupples," said he; "and no honest inhabitant of it can be always
respectable either."
Mr Cupples chuckled and laughed groggily, muttering somewhere in his
chest--
"You young dog! there's stuff in you!" Then composing himself a little,
he said aloud: "Tell me all about it directly."
Alec obeyed, and, not without emotion, gave Mr Cupples the whole
history of the affair.
"Damn you!" remarked Mr Cupples in a husky voice, as he held out a
trembling hand to Alec, "you're one of the right sort. I'll do anything
for you I can. Where's your Homer?"
So saying, he rose with care and went towards a cupboard in the corner.
His pipe had been so far interrupted during their conversation, that
Alec was now able, by the light of the tallow candle, to see the little
garret room, with its ceiling on one side sloping nearly to the floor,
its walls begrimed with smoke, and the bare plaster covered with
grotesque pencil-drawings--caricatures of Homeric heroes in the guise
of schoolboys, polemic clergymen of the city in the garb of fish-wives
militant, and such like. A bed and a small chest of drawers stood under
the slope of the roof, and the rest of the room was occupied by a
painted table covered with papers, and a chair or two. An old
broadsword leaned against the wall in a corner. A half-open cupboard
revealed bottles, glasses, and a dry-looking cheese. To the
corresponding cupboard, on the other side of the fire, which had lost a
corner by the descent of the roof, Mr Cupples now dragged his slippers,
feeling in his waistcoat pocket, as he went, for the key.--There was
another door still, partly sunk in the slope of the ceiling.
When he opened the cupboard, a dusky glimmer of splendid bindings
filling the whole recess, shone out upon the dingy room. From a shelf
he took a volume of Homer, bound in vellum, with red edges--a copy of
far greater value than Alec had knowledge of books to understand--and
closing the door again, resumed his seat in the easy-chair. Having
found the passage, he read it through aloud in a manner which made
Homer for the first time sound like poetry in Alec's ears, and almost
revealed the hidden significance. Then pouncing at once upon the
shadowy word which was the key to the whole, he laid open the
construction and meaning in one sentence of explanation.
"Thank you! thank you!" exclaimed Alec. "I see it all now as plain as
English."
"Stop, stop, my young bantam!" said Mr Cupples. "Don't think you're
going to break into my privacy and get off with the booty so cheaply.
Just you construe the whole sentence to me."
Alec did so tolerably well; for the passage was only an easy extract,
the class not having reached Homer yet. Mr Cupples put several
questions to him, which gave him more insight into Greek than a week's
work in the class would have done, and ended with a small lecture
suggested by the passage, drinking away at his toddy all the time. The
lecture and the toddy ended together. Turning his head aside, where it
lay back in the horse-hair chair, he said sleepily:
"Go away--I don't know your name.--Come and see me to-morrow night. I'm
drunk now."
Alec rose, made some attempt at thanks, received no syllable of reply,
and went out, closing the door behind him, and leaving Mr Cupples to
his dreams.
His countenance had not made much approximation to respectability
before the Monday. He therefore kept it as well as he could out of Mr
Fraser's sight, to whom he did not wish to give explanations to the
prejudice of any of his fellow-students. Mr Fraser, however, saw his
black eye well enough, but was too discreet to ask questions, and
appeared quite unaware of the transitory blemish.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
Meantime, at Glamerton the winter passed very much like former winters
to all but three--Mrs Forbes, Annie Anderson, and Willie Macwha. To
these the loss of Alec was dreary. So they were in a manner compelled
to draw closer together. At school, Curly assumed the protectorship of
Annie which had naturally devolved upon him, although there was now
comparatively little occasion for its exercise; and Mrs Forbes, finding
herself lonely in her parlour during the long _forenights_, got into
the habit of sending Mary at least three times a week to fetch her.
This was not agreeable to the Bruce, but the kingly inheritor abode his
hour; and Mrs Forbes had no notion of the amount of offence she gave by
doing so.
That parlour at Howglen was to Annie a little heaven hollowed out of
the winter. The warm curtains drawn, and the fire blazing
defiantly,--the angel with the flaming sword to protect their Paradise
from the frost, it was indeed a contrast to the sordid shop, and the
rat-haunted garret.
After tea they took it in turns to work and to read. Mrs Forbes had
never sought to satisfy the religious public as to the state of her
mind, and so had never been led astray into making frantic efforts to
rouse her own feelings; which is, in fact, to apply to them the hottest
searing iron of all, next to that of sin. Hence her emotional touch
remained delicate, and what she could understand she could feel. The
good books she liked best were stories of the Scotch Covenanters and
Worthies, whose example, however much of stiff-neckedness may have
mingled with their devotion, was yet the best that Annie could have,
inasmuch as they were simply martyrs--men who would not say _yes_ when
they ought to say _no_. Nor was Mrs Forbes too religious to enjoy the
representation given of these Covenanters in _Old Mortality_. Her
feelings found nothing repulsive in the book, although she never
discovered the reason in the fact that Sir Walter's feelings were the
same as her own, whatever his opinions might be, and had given the
chief colour and tone to the representation of his characters. There
were more books in the house than was usual even in that of a
_gentleman farmer_; and several of Sir Walter's novels, besides some
travels, and a little Scotch history, were read between them that
winter. In poetry, Annie had to forage for herself. Mrs Forbes could
lend her no guiding hand in that direction.
The bond between them grew stronger every day. Annie was to Mrs Forbes
an outlet for her maternity, which could never have outlet enough
without a girl as well as a boy to love; and Annie, in consequence, was
surrounded by numberless holy influences, which, operating in a time
when she was growing fast, had their full effect upon mind and body
both. In a condition of rapid change, the mass is more yielding and
responsive. One result in her was, that a certain sober grace, like
that of the lovely dull-feathered hen-birds, began to manifest itself
in her carriage and her ways. And this leads me to remark that her
outward and visible feathers would have been dull enough had not Mrs
Forbes come to her aid with dresses of her own, which they remade
between them; for it will easily be believed that no avoidable outlay
remained unavoided by the Bruces. Indeed, but for the feeling that she
must be decent on Sundays, they would have let her go yet shabbier than
she was when Mrs Forbes thus partially adopted her. Now that she was
warmly and neatly dressed, she began to feel and look more like the
lady-child she really was. No doubt the contrast was very painful when
she returned from Mrs Forbes's warm parlour to sleep in her own garret,
with the snow on the roof, scanty clothing on the bed, and the rats in
the floor. But there are two sides to a contrast; and it is wonderful
also how one gets through what one cannot get out of.
A certain change in the Bruce-habits, leading to important results for
Annie, must now be recorded.
Robert Bruce was making money, but not so fast as he wished. For his
returns came only in small sums, although the profits were great. His
customers were chiefly of the poorer classes of the town and the
neighbourhood, who preferred his unpretending shop to the more showy
establishments of some of his rivals. A sort of _couthy_, _pauky_,
confidentially flattering way that he had with them, pleased them, and
contributed greatly to keep them true to his counter. And as he knew
how to buy as well as how to sell, the poor people, if they had not the
worth of their money, had at least what was good of its sort. But, as I
have said, although he was making haste to be rich, he was not
succeeding fast enough. So he bethought him that the Missionar Kirk was
getting "verra throng."
A month or two before this time, the Missionars had made choice of a
very able man for their pastor--a man of genuine and strong religious
feeling, who did not allow his theology to interfere with the teaching
given him by God's Spirit more than he could help, and who, if he had
been capable of making a party at all, would have made it with the poor
against the rich. This man had gathered about him a large congregation
of the lower classes of Glamerton; and Bruce had learned with some
uneasiness that a considerable portion of his customers was to be found
in the Missionar Kirk on Sundays, especially in the evenings. For there
was a grocer amongst the Missionars, who, he feared, might draw some of
his subjects away from their allegiance, seeing he must have a certain
religious influence of which Robert was void, to bring to bear upon
them. What therefore remained but that he too should join the
congregation? For then he would not only retain the old, but have a
chance of gaining new customers as well. So he took a week to think
about it, a Sunday to hear Mr Turnbull in order that the change might
not seem too abrupt, and a pew under the gallery before the next Sunday
arrived; in which, five minutes before the hour, he and his family were
seated, adding greatly to the consequence both of the place and of
himself in the eyes of his Missionar customers.
This change was a source of much pleasure to Annie. For although she
found the service more wearisome than good Mr Cowie's, lasting as it
did about three quarters of an hour longer and the sermon was not
invariably of a kind in which she could feel much interest, yet,
occasionally, when Mr Turnbull was in his better moods, and testified
of that which he had himself seen and known, the honest heart of the
maiden recognized the truth, and listened absorbed. The young Bruces,
for their parts, would gladly have gone to sleep, which would perhaps
have been the most profitable use to which they could put the time; but
they were kept upright and in a measure awake, by the constant
application, "spikewise," of the paternal elbow, and the judicious
administration, on the part of the mother, of the unfailing peppermint
lozenges, to which in the process of ages a certain sabbatical
character has attached itself. To Annie, however, no such ministration
extended, for it would have been downright waste, seeing she could keep
awake without it.
One bright frosty morning, the sermon happening to have no relation to
the light around or within them, but only to the covenant made with
Abraham--such a legal document constituting the only reliable
protection against the character, inclinations, and duties of the
Almighty, whose uncovenanted mercies are of a very doubtful
nature--Annie, neither able to enter into the subject, nor to keep from
shivering with the cold, tried to amuse herself with gazing at one
brilliant sun-streak on the wall, which she had discovered to be
gradually shortening itself, and retreating towards the window by which
it had entered. Wondering how far it would have moved before the sermon
was over, and whether it would have shone so very bright if God had
made no covenant with Abraham, she was earnestly watching it pass from
spot to spot, and from cobweb to cobweb, as if already it fled before
the coming darkness of the long winter night, when she caught a glimpse
of a very peculiar countenance turned in the same direction--that is,
not towards the minister, but towards this travelling light. She
thought the woman was watching it as well as she, and wondered whether
she too was hoping for a plate of hot broth as soon as the sunbeam had
gone a certain distance--broth being the Sunday fare with the
Bruces--and, I presume, with most families in Scotland. The countenance
was very plain, seamed and scarred as if the woman had fallen into the
fire when a child; and Annie had not looked at her two seconds, before
she saw that she was perfectly blind. Indeed she thought at first that
she had no eyes at all; but as she kept gazing, fascinated with the
strangeness and ugliness of the face, she discovered that the eyelids,
though incapable of separating, were inconstant motion, and that a
shrunken eye-ball underneath each kept rolling and turning ever, as if
searching for something it could not find. She saw too that there was a
light on the face, a light which came neither from the sun in the sky,
nor the sunbeam on the wall, towards which it was unconsciously turned.
I think it must have been the heavenly bow itself, shining upon all
human clouds--a bow that had shone for thousands of ages before ever
there was an Abraham, or a Noah, or any other of our faithless
generation, which will not trust its God unless he swear that he will
not destroy them. It was the ugliest face. But over it, as over the
rugged channel of a sea, flowed the transparent waves of a heavenly
delight.
When the service was over, almost before the words of the benediction
had left the minister's lips, the people, according to Scotch habit,
hurried out of the chapel, as if they could not possibly endure one
word more. But Annie, who was always put up to the top of the pew,
because there, by reason of an intruding pillar, it required a painful
twist of the neck to see the minister, stood staring at the blind woman
as she felt her way out of the chapel. There was no fear of putting her
out by staring at her. When, at length, she followed her into the open
air, she found her standing by the door, turning her sightless face on
all sides, as if looking for some one and trying hard to open her eyes
that she might see better. Annie watched her, till, seeing her lips
move, she knew, half by instinct, that she was murmuring, "The bairn's
forgotten me!" Thereupon she glided up to her and said gently:
"If ye'll tell me whaur ye bide, I s' tak ye hame."
"What do they ca' _you_, bairn?" returned the blind woman, in a gruff,
almost manlike voice, hardly less unpleasant to hear than her face was
to look at.
"Annie Anderson," answered Annie.
"Ow, ay! I thoucht as muckle. I ken a' aboot ye. Gie's a haud o' yer
han'. I bide i' that wee hoosie down at the brig, atween the dam and
the Glamour, ye ken. Ye'll haud me aff o' the stanes?"
"Ay will I." answered Annie confidently.
"I could gang my lane, but I'm growin some auld noo, and I'm jist
raither feared for fa'in'."
"What garred ye think it was me--I never spak till ye afore?" asked
Annie, as they walked on together.
"Weel, it's jist half guissin', an' half a kin' o' jeedgment--pittin
things thegither, ye ken, my bairn. Ye see, I kent a' the bairns that
come to oor kirk weel eneuch already. I ken the word and amaist the fit
o' them. And I had heard tell 'at Maister Bruce was come to oor kirk.
Sae when a lassie spak till me 'at I never saw afore, I jist a kin' o'
kent 'at it bude to be yersel'."
All this was spoken in the same harsh voice, full of jars, as if ever
driving against corners, and ready to break into a hoarse whisper. But
the woman held Annie's hand kindly, and yielded like a child to her
guidance which was as careful as that of the angel that led Peter.
It was a new delight to Annie to have some one to whom she a child
could be a kind of mother, towards whom she could fulfil a woman's
highest calling--that of _ministering unto_; and it was with something
of a sacred pride that she led her safe home, through the snowy
streets, and down the steep path that led from the level of the bridge,
with its three high stone arches, to the little meadow where her
cottage stood. Before they reached it, the blind woman, whose name was
Tibbie (Isobel) Dyster, had put many questions to her, and without
asking one indiscreet, had yet, by her gift for fitting and fusing
things in the retort of her own brain, come to a tolerably correct
knowledge of her character, circumstances, and history.
As soon as they entered the cottage, Tibbie was entirely at her ease.
The first thing she did was to lift the kettle from the fire, and feel
the fire with her hands in order to find out in what condition it was.
She would not allow Annie to touch it: she could not trust the creature
that had nothing but eyes to guide her, with such a delicate affair.
Her very hands looked blind and trying to see, as, with fine up-curved
tips, they went wandering over the tops of the live peats. She
re-arranged them, put on some fresh pieces, blew a little at them all
astray and to no purpose, was satisfied, coughed, and sank upon a
chair, to put her bonnet off. Most women of her station wore only a
_mutch_ or close cap, but Tibbie wore a bonnet with a brilliantly gay
ribbon, so fond was she of bright colours, although she had nothing but
the testimony of others, vague enough ere it succeeded in crossing the
dark distances of her brain, as to the effect of those even with which
she adorned her own person. Her room was very bare, but as clean as it
was possible for room to be. Her bed was in the wall which divided it
from the rest of the house, and this one room was her whole habitation.
The other half of the cottage was occupied by an old cripple, nearly
bedridden, to whose many necessities Tibbie used to minister. The eyes
of the one and the legs of the other worked in tolerable harmony; and
if they had a quarrel now and then, it was no greater than gave a zest
to their intercourse. These particulars, however, Annie did not learn
till afterwards.
She looked all about the room, and seeing no sign of any dinner for
Tibbie, was reminded thereby that her own chance had considerably
diminished.
"I maun awa hame," she said with a sigh.
"Ay, lassie; they'll be bidin' their denner for ye."
"Na, nae fear o' that," answered Annie, adding with another little
sigh, "I doot there winna be muckle o' the broth to the fore or I win
hame."
"Weel jist bide, bairn, an' tak' a cup o' tay wi' me. It's a' 'at I hae
to offer ye. Will ye bide?"
"Maybe I wad be i' yer gait," objected Annie feebly.
"Na, na; nae fear o' that. Ye'll read a bit to me efterhin."
"Ay will I."
And Annie stayed all the afternoon with Tibbie, and went home with the
Bruces after the evening service. This was the beginning of her
acquaintance with Tibbie Dyster.
It soon grew into a custom for Annie to take Tibbie home from the
chapel--a custom which the Bruces could hardly have objected to, had
they been so inclined. But they were not so inclined, for it saved the
broth--that is, each of them got a little more in consequence, and
Annie's absence was therefore a Sabbath blessing.
Much as she was neglected at home, however, Annie was steadily gaining
a good reputation in the town. Old men said she was a gude bairn, and
old women said she was a douce lassie; while those who enjoyed finding
fault more than giving praise, turned their silent approbation of Annie
into expressions of disapproval of the Bruces--"lattin' her gang like a
beggar, as gin she was no kith or kin o' theirs, whan it's weel kent
whase heifer Rob Bruce is plooin' wi'."
But Robert nevertheless grew and prospered all day, and dreamed at
night that he was the king, digging the pits for the English cavalry,
and covering them again with the treacherous turf. Somehow the dream
never went further. The field and the kingship would vanish and he only
remain, the same Robert Bruce, the general dealer, plotting still, but
in his own shop.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
Responsive to Mr Cupples's last words uttered from the brink of the pit
into which his spirit was sinking, and probably forgotten straightway,
Alec knocked at his door upon the Sunday evening, and entered. The
strange creature was sitting in the same position as before, looking as
if he had not risen since he spoke those words. But there was an
alteration in the place, a certain Sunday look about the room, which
Alec could not account for. The same caricatures jested from the walls;
the same tumbler of toddy was steaming on the table amidst the same
litter of books and papers covered with the same dust and marked with
the same circles from the bottoms of wet tumblers and glasses. The same
cutty-clay, of enviable blackness, reposed between the teeth of Mr
Cupples.
After he had been seated for a few moments, however, Alec all at once
discovered the source of the reformation-look of the place: Mr Cupples
had on a shirt-collar--clean and of imposing proportions. To this no
doubt was attached a shirt, but as there was no further sign of its
presence, it could not have affected the aspect of things. Although,
however, this shirt-collar was no doubt the chief cause of the change
of expression in the room, Alec, in the course of the evening,
discovered further signs of improvement in the local morals; one, that
the hearth had been cleared of a great heap of ashes, and now looked
modest and moderate as if belonging to an old maid's cottage, instead
of an old bachelor's garret; and another, that, upon the untidy table,
lay an open book of divinity, a volume of Gurnall's _Christian Armour_
namely, which I fear Mr Cupples had chosen more for its wit than its
devotion. While making these discoveries, Alec chanced to observe--he
was quick-eyed--that some of the dusty papers on the table were
scrawled over with the first amorphous appearance of metrical
composition. These moved his curiosity; for what kind of poetry could
the most unpoetic-looking Mr Cupples produce from that great head of
his with the lanky colourless hair?--But meantime we must return to the
commencement of the interview.
"Ony mair Greek, laddie?" asked Mr Cupples.
"No, thank you, sir," answered Alec. "I only came to see you. You told
me to come again to-night."
"Did I? Well, it may stand. But I protest against being made
accountable for anything that fellow Cupples may choose to say when I'm
not at home."
Here he emptied his glass of toddy, and filled it again from the
tumbler.
"Shall I go away?" asked Alec, half bewildered.
"No, no; sit still. You're a good sort of innocent, I think. I won't
give you any toddy though. You needn't look so greedy at it."
"I don't want any toddy, sir. I never drank a tumbler in my life."
"For God's sake," exclaimed Mr Cupples, with sudden energy, leaning
forward in his chair, his blue eyes flashing on Alec--"for God's sake,
never drink a drop.--Rainbows. Rainbows."
These last two words were spoken after a pause, and in a tone of
sadness. Alec thought he was drunk again, and half rose to go.
"Dinna gang yet," said Mr Cupples, authoritatively. "Ye come at yer ain
will: ye maun gang at mine.--Gin I cud but get a kick at that fellow
Cupples! But I declare I canna help it. Gin I war God, I wad cure him
o' drink. It's the verra first thing I wad do."
Alec could not help being shocked at the irreverence of the words. But
the solemnity of Mr Cupples's face speedily dissipated the feeling.
Suddenly changing his tone, he went on:
"What's your name?"
"Alec Forbes."
"Alec Forbes. I'll try to remember it. I seldom remember anybody's
name, though. I sometimes forget my own. What was the fellow's name you
thrashed the other day?"
"Patrick Beauchamp. I did not mention it before."
"The deevil it was!" exclaimed Mr Cupples, half-starting from his seat.
"Did ye gie him a _richt_ thrashin'?"
"I think he had the worst of it. He gave in, any way."
"He comes of a bad lot! I know all about them. They're from Strathspey,
where my father came from--at least his father was. If the young fellow
turns out well, it'll be a wonder. I'll tell you all about them."
Mr Cupples here launched into a somewhat discursive account of Patrick
Beauchamp's antecedents, indicating by its minuteness that there must
have been personal relations of some kind between them or their
families. Perhaps he glanced at something of the sort when he said that
old Beauchamp was a hard man even for a lawyer. I will condense the
story from the more diffuse conversational narrative, interrupted by
question and remark on the part of Alec, and give it the shape of
formal history.
Beauchamp's mother was the daughter of a Highland chief, whose pedigree
went back to an Irish king of date so remote that his existence was
doubtful to every one not personally interested in the extraction. Mrs
Beauchamp had all the fierceness without much of the grace belonging to
the Celtic nature. Her pride of family, even, had not prevented her
from revenging herself upon her father, who had offended her, by
running away with a handsome W.S., who, taken with her good looks, and
flattered by the notion of overcoming her pride, had found a
conjunction of circumstances favourable to the conquest. It was not
long, however, before both repented of the step. That her father should
disown her was not of much consequence in any point of view, but that
nobody in Edinburgh would admit her claims to distinction--which arose
from the fact that they were so unpleasantly asserted that no one could
endure herself--did disgust her considerably; and her annoyance found
vent in abuse of her husband for having failed to place her in the
sphere to which she had a just claim. The consequence was, that he
neglected her; and she sat at home brooding over her wrongs, despising
and at length hating her husband, and meditating plans of revenge as
soon as her child should be born. At length, within three months after
the birth of Patrick, she found that he was unfaithful to her, and
immediately demanded a separate maintenance. To this her husband made
no further objection than policy required. But when she proceeded to
impose an oath upon him that he would never take her child from her,
the heart of the father demurred. Whereupon she swore that, if ever he
made the attempt, she would poison the child rather than that he should
succeed. He turned pale as death, and she saw that she had gained her
point. And, indeed, the woman was capable of anything to which she had
made up her mind--a power over one's self and friends not desirable
except in view of such an object as that of _Lady Macbeth_. But Mrs
Beauchamp, like her, considered it only a becoming strength of spirit,
and would have despised herself if she had broken one resolution for
another indubitably better. So her husband bade her farewell, and made
no lamentation except over the probable result of such training as the
child must receive at the hands of such a mother. She withdrew to a
country town not far from the Moray Frith, where she might live
comfortably on her small income, be a person of some consideration, and
reap all the advantages of the peculiar facilities which the place
afforded for the education of her boy, whom she would mould and model
after her own heart.
"So you see, Mr--I forget yer name--Forbes? yes, Forbes, if the rascal
takes after his mother, you have made a dangerous enemy," said Mr
Cupples, in conclusion.
Alec laughed.
"I advise you," resumed Mr Cupples, "to keep a gleg ee in yer heid,
though--seriously. A body may lauch ower aften. It winna do to gang
glowerin' at rainbows. They're bonnie things, but they're nae
brig-backs. Gin ye lippen to them, ye'll be i' the water in a
cat-loup."
Alec was beginning to enter into the humour of the man.
"I see something like poetry lying about the table, Mr Cupples," said
he, with a sly allusion to the _rainbows_. "Would you let me look at
it?"
Mr Cupples glanced at him sharply; but replied immediately:
"Broken bits o' them! And the rainbows cast (lose colour) awfu', ance
ye tak' the key-stane oot o' them. Lat them sit up there, brigs
(bridges) ower naething, wi' nae road upo' the tap o' them, like the
stane brig o' Drumdochart efter the spate (flood). Haud yer han's and
yer een aff o' them, as I tellt ye afore.--Ay, ay, ye can luik at thae
screeds gin ye like. Only dinna say a word to me aboot ony o' them. And
tak' warnin' by them yersel, never to write ae word o' poetry, to haud
ye frae rivin'."
"Sma' fear o' that!" returned Alec, laughing.
"Weel, I houp sae.--Ye can mak a kirk an' a mill o' them, gin ye like.
They hae lain there lang eneuch. Noo, haud yer tongue. I'm gaein to
fill my pipe again, afore I burn oot the dottle. I winna drink mair the
nicht, cause it's the Sabbath, and I'm gaein to read my buik."
So saving, he proceeded to get the _dottle_ out of his pipe, by
knocking it on the hob; while Alec took up the paper that lay nearest.
He found it contained a fragment of a poem in the Scotch language; and,
searching amongst the rest of the scattered sheets, he soon got the
whole of it together.
Now, although Alec had but little acquaintance with verse, he was able,
thanks to Annie Anderson, to enjoy a ballad very heartily; and there
was something in this one which, associating itself in his mind with
the strange being before him, moved him more than he could account for.
It was called
TIME AND TIDE.
As I was walkin' on the strand,
I spied an auld man sit
On ane auld rock; and aye the waves
Cam washin' to its fit.
And aye his lips gaed mutterin',
And his ee was dull and blae.
As I cam near, he luik'd at me,
But this was a' his say:
"Robbie and Jeannie war twa bonnie bairns,
And they played thegither upo' the shore:
Up cam the tide 'tween the mune and the sterns,
And pairtit the twa wi' an eerie roar."
What can the auld man mean, quo' I,
Sittin' upo' the auld rock?
The tide creeps up wi' moan and cry,
And a hiss 'maist like a mock.
The words he mutters maun be the en'
O' a weary dreary sang--
A deid thing floatin' in his brain,
That the tide will no lat gang.
"Robbie and Jeannie war twa bonnie bairns,
And they played thegither upo' the shore:
Up cam the tide 'tween the mune and the sterns,
And pairtit the twa wi' an eerie roar."
What pairtit them, auld man? I said;
Did the tide come up ower strang?
'Twas a braw deith for them that gaed,
Their troubles warna lang.
Or was ane ta'en, and the ither left--
Ane to sing, ane to greet?
It's sair, richt sair, to be bereft,
But the tide is at yer feet.
"Robbie and Jeannie war twa bonnie bairns,
And they played thegither upo' the shore:
Up cam the tide 'tween the mune and the sterns,
And pairtit the twa wi' an eerie roar."
Maybe, quo' I, 'twas Time's gray sea,
Whase droonin' 's waur to bide;
But Death's a diver, seekin' ye
Aneath its chokin' tide.
And ye'll luik in ane anither's ee
Triumphin' ower gray Time.
But never a word he answered me,
But ower wi' his dreary chime--
"Robbie and Jeannie war twa bonnie bairns,
And they played thegither upo' the shore:
Up cam the tide 'tween the mune and the sterns,
And pairtit the twa wi' an eerie roar."
Maybe, auld man, said I, 'twas Change
That crap atween the twa?
Hech! that's a droonin' awfu' strange,
Ane waur than ane and a'.
He spak nae mair. I luik't and saw
That the auld lips cudna gang.
The tide unseen took him awa--
Left me to end his sang:
"Robbie and Jeannie war twa bonnie bairns,
And they played thegither upo' the shore:
Up cam the tide 'tween the mune and the sterns,
And tuik them whaur pairtin' shall be no more."
Before he had finished reading, the refrain had become so familiar to
Alec, that he unconsciously murmured the last, changed as it was from
the preceding form, aloud. Mr Cupples looked up from Gurnall uneasily,
fidgeted in his chair, and said testily:
"A' nonsense! Moonshine and rainbows! Haud yer tongue! The last line's
a' wrang."
He then returned with a determined air to the consideration of his
_Christian Armour_, while Alec, in whom the minor tone of the poem had
greatly deepened the interest he felt in the writer, gazed at him in a
bewilderment like that one feels when his eyes refuse to take their
proper relation to the perspective before them. He could not get those
verses and Mr Cupples into harmony. Not daring to make any observation,
however, he sat with the last leaf still in his hand, and a reverential
stare upon his face, which at length produced a remarkable effect upon
the object of it. Suddenly lifting his eyes--
"What are ye glowerin' at me for?" he exclaimed, flinging his book from
him, which, missing the table, fell on the floor on the further side of
it. "I'm neither ghaist nor warlock. Damn ye! gang oot, gin ye be gaun
to stick me throu and throu wi' yer een, that gait."
"I beg your pardon, Mr Cupples. I didn't mean to be rude," said Alec
humbly.
"Weel, cut yer stick, I hae eneuch o' ye for ae nicht. I canna stan'
glowerin' een, especially i' the heids o' idiots o' innocents like
you."
I am sorry to have to record what Alec learned from the landlady
afterwards, that Mr Cupples went to bed that night, notwithstanding it
was the Sabbath, more drunk than she had ever known him. Indeed he
could not properly be said to have gone to bed at all, for he had
tumbled on the counter-pane in his clothes and clean shirt-collar;
where she had found him fast asleep the next morning, with Gurnall's
_Christian Armour_ terribly crumpled under him.
"But," said Alec, "what _is_ Mr Cupples?"
"That's a queston he cudna weel answer ye himsel'," was the reply. "He
does a heap o' things; writes for the lawyers whiles; buys and sells
queer buiks; gies lessons in Greek and Hebrew--but he disna like
that--he canna bide to be contred, and laddies is gey contresome; helps
onybody that wants help i' the way o' figures--whan their buiks gang
wrang ye ken, for figures is some ill for jummlin'. He's a kin' o'
librarian at yer ain college i' the noo, Mr Forbes. The auld man's
deid, and Mr Cupples is jist doin' the wark. They winna gie him the
place--'cause he has an ill name for drink--but they'll get as muckle
wark oot o' him as gin they did, and for half the siller. The body
hauds at onythiug weel eneuch a' day, but the minute he comes hame, oot
comes the tappit hen, and he jist sits doon and drinks till he turns
the warl upo' the tap o' 'm."
The next day, about noon, Alec went into the library, where he found Mr
Cupples busy re-arranging the books and the catalogue, both of which
had been neglected for years. This was the first of many visits to the
library, or rather to the librarian.
There was a certain mazy sobriety of demeanour about Mr Cupples all day
long, as if in the presence of such serious things as books he was
bound to be upon his good behaviour, and confine his dissipation to
taking snuff in prodigious quantities. He was full of information about
books, and had, besides, opinions concerning them, which were always
ready to assume quaint and decided expression. For instance: one
afternoon, Alec having taken up _Tristram Shandy_ and asked him what
kind of a book it was, the pro-librarian snatched it from his hands and
put it on the shelf again, answering:
"A pailace o' dirt and impidence and speeeritual stink. The clever
deevil had his entrails in his breest and his hert in his belly, and
regairdet neither God nor his ain mither. His lauchter's no like the
cracklin' o' thorns unner a pot, but like the nicherin' o' a deil ahin'
the wainscot. Lat him sit and rot there!"
Asking him another day what sort of poet Shelley was, Alec received the
answer:
"A bonny cratur, wi' mair thochts nor there was room for i' the bit
heid o' 'm. Consequently he gaed staiggerin' aboot as gin he had been
tied to the tail o' an inveesible balloon. Unco licht heidit, but no
muckle hairm in him by natur'."
He never would remain in the library after the day began to ebb. The
moment he became aware that the first filmy shadow had fallen from the
coming twilight, he caught up his hat, locked the door, gave the key to
the sacrist, and hurried away.
The friendly relation between the two struck its roots deeper and
deeper during the session, and Alec bade him good-bye with regret.
Mr Cupples was a baffled poet trying to be a humourist--baffled--not by
the booksellers or the public--for such baffling one need not have a
profound sympathy--but baffled by his own weakness, his incapacity for
assimilating sorrow, his inability to find or invent a theory of the
universe which should show it still beautiful despite of passing pain,
of checked aspiration, of the ruthless storms that lay waste the Edens
of men, and dissolve the high triumph of their rainbows. He had yet to
learn that through "the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that
flesh is heir to," man becomes capable of the blessedness to which all
the legends of a golden age point. Not finding, when he most needed it,
such a theory even in the New Testament--for he had been diligently
taught to read it awry--Mr Cupples took to jesting and toddy; but,
haunting the doors of Humour, never got further than the lobby.
With regard to Patrick Beauchamp, as far as Alec could see, his dignity
had succeeded in consoling itself for the humiliation it had undergone,
by an absolute and eternal renunciation of all knowledge of Alec
Forbes's existence.
CHAPTER XL.
Winter had begun to withdraw his ghostly troops, and Glamerton began to
grow warmer. Not half so many cold feet dangled from the cold legs of
little children in the torturing churches; not half so many coughs tore
the chests of the poor old men and women as they stooped over their
little fires, with the blasts from door and window-sill in their ankles
and the backs of their necks. Annie, who had been very happy all the
time, began to be aware of something more at hand. A flutter scarcely
recognizable, as of the wings of awaking delight, would stir her little
heart with a sensation of physical presence and motion; she would find
herself giving an involuntary skip as she walked along, and now and
then humming a bit of a psalm tune. A hidden well was throbbing in the
child's bosom. Its waters had been frozen by the winter; and the
spring, which sets all things springing, had made it flow and swell
afresh, soon to break bubbling forth. But her joy was gentle, for even
when she was merriest, it was in a sobor, _douce_, and maidenly
fashion, testifying that she had already walked with Sorrow, and was
not afraid of her.
Robert Bruce's last strategical move against the community had been
tolerably successful, even in his own eyes; and he was consequently so
far satisfied with himself, that he could afford to be in good humour
with other people. Annie came in for a share of this humour; and
although she knew him too well to have any regard for him, it was yet a
comfort to her to be on such terms with him as not to have to dread a
bitter word every time she chanced to meet him. This comfort, however,
stood on a sandy foundation; for the fact that an expected customer had
not called upon the Saturday might be enough to set the acetous
fermentation at work all the Sunday in the bosom of Robert Bruce.
At length, one bright day in the end of March, Alec came home, not the
worse to friendly eyes for having been at college. He seemed the same
cheery, active youth as before. The chief differences apparent were,
that he had grown considerably, and that he wore a coat. The hat, at
that time a necessary portion of the college costume, he had discarded,
wearing his old cap in preference. There was likewise a certain
indescribable alteration in tone and manner, a certain general
crystallization and polish, which the same friends regarded as an
indubitable improvement.
The day after his arrival, crossing the square of Glamerton, he spied,
in a group of men talking together, his old friend, Thomas Crann. He
went up and shook hands with him, and with Andrew Constable, the
clothier.
"Has na he grown a lang chield?" said Andrew to Thomas, regarding Alec
kindly.
"Humph!" returned Thomas, "he'll jist need the langer coffin."
Alec laughed; but Andrew said, "Hoot! hoot!"
Thomas and Alec walked away together. But scarcely a sentence had been
exchanged before the stonemason, with a delicacy of perception of which
his rough manner and horny hands gave no indication, felt that a film
of separation had come between the youth and himself. Anxious to break
through it, he said abruptly,
"Hoo's yer immortal pairt, Alec? Min' ye, there's a knowledge that
worketh deith."
Alec laughed--not scornfully--but he laughed.
"Ye may lauch, Alec, but it's a sair trowth," said the mason.
Alec held out his hand, for here their way diverged. Thomas shook it
kindly, but walked away gloomy. Arrived at home, he shut to his door,
and went down on his knees by his bedside. When Jean came with his
supper she found the door fast.
In order to prepare for the mathematical studies of the following year,
Alec went to the school again in the morning of most days, Mr Malison
being well able to render him all the assistance he required. The first
time he made his appearance at the door, a silence as of death was the
sign of his welcome; but a tumult presently arose, and discipline was
for a time suspended. I am afraid he had a slight feeling of
condescension, as he returned the kind greeting of his old
companions.--Raise a housemaid to be cook, and she will condescend to
the new housemaid.
Annie sat still, staring at her book, and turning red and pale
alternately. But he took no notice of her, and she tried to be glad of
it.
When school was over, however, he came up to her in the lane, and
addressed her kindly.
But the delicate little maiden felt, as the rough stonemason had felt,
that a change had passed over the old companion and friend. True, the
change was only a breath--a mere shadow. Yet it was a measureless gulf
between them. Annie went to her garret that night with a sense of sad
privation.
But her pain sprung from a source hardly so deep as that of the
stonemason. For the change she found in Alec was chiefly of an external
kind, and if she had a vague feeling of a deeper change, it had
scarcely yet come up into her consciousness. When she saw the _young
gentleman_ her heart sank within her. Her friend was lost; and a shape
was going about, as he did, looking awfully like the old Alec, who had
carried her in his arms through the invading torrent. Nor was there
wanting, to complete the bewilderment of her feeling, a certain
additional reverence for the apparition, which she must after all
regard as a further development of the same person.
Mrs Forbes never asked her to the house now, and it was well for her
that her friendship with Tibbie Dyster had begun. But as she saw Alec
day after day at school, the old colours began to revive out of the
faded picture--for to her it was a faded picture, although new
varnished. And when the spring had advanced a little, the boat was got
out, and then Alec could not go rowing in the _Bonnie Annie_ without
thinking of its godmother, and inviting her to join them. Indeed Curly
would not have let him forget her if he had been so inclined; for he
felt that she was a bond between him and Alec, and he loved Alec the
more devotedly that the rift between their social positions had begun
to show itself. The devotion of the schoolboy to his superior in
schoolboy arts had begun to change into something like the devotion of
the clansman to his chief--not the worst folly the world has known--in
fact not a folly at all, except it stop there: many enthusiasms are
follies only because they are not greater enthusiasms. And not
unfrequently would an odd laugh of consciousness between Annie and
Curly, unexpectedly meeting, reveal the fact that they were both
watching for a peep or a word of Alec.
In due time the harvest came; and Annie could no more keep from
haunting the harvest than the crane could keep from flying south when
the summer is over. She watched all the fields around Glamerton; she
knew what response each made to the sun, and which would first be ripe
for the reaping; and the very day that the sickle was put in, there was
Annie to see and share in the joy. How mysterious she thought those
long colonnades of slender pillars, each supporting its own waving
comet-head of barley! Or when the sun was high, she would lie down on
the ground, and look far into the little forest of yellow polished
oat-stems, stretching away and away into the unseen--alas, so soon to
fall, and leave a naked commonplace behind! If she were only small
enough to go wandering about in it, what wonders might she not
discover!--But I forget that I am telling a story, and not writing a
fairy-tale.--Unquestioned as uninvited, she was, as she had often been
before, one of the company of reapers, gatherers, binders, and
stookers, assembled to collect the living gold of the earth from the
early fields of the farm of Howglen. Sadly her thoughts went back to
the old days when Dowie was master of the field, and she was Dowie's
little mistress. Not that she met with anything but kindness--only it
was not the kindness she had had from Dowie. But the pleasure of being
once more near Alec almost made up for every loss. And he was quite
friendly, although, she must confess, not quite so familiar as of old.
But that did not matter, she assured herself.
The labourers all knew her, and themselves took care that she should
have the portion of their food which her assistance had well earned,
and which was all her wages. She never refused anything that was
offered her, except money. That she had taken only once in her
life--from Mr Cowie, whom she continued to love the more dearly for it,
although she no longer attended his church.
But again the harvest was safely lodged, and the sad old age of the
year sank through rains and frosts to his grave.
The winter came and Alec went.
He had not been gone a week when Mrs Forbes's invitations re-commenced;
and, as if to make up for the neglect of the summer, they were more
frequent than before. No time was so happy for Annie as the time she
spent with her. She never dreamed of accusing her of fickleness or
unevenness, but received whatever kindness she offered with gratitude.
And, this winter, she began to make some return in the way of household
assistance.
One day, while searching in the lumber-room for something for Mrs
Forbes, she came upon a little book lying behind a box. It was damp and
swollen and mouldy, and the binding was decayed and broken. The inside
was dingy and spotted with brown spots, and had too many �'s in it, as
she thought. Yet the first glance fascinated her. It had opened in the
middle of _L'Allegro_. Mrs Forbes found her standing spell-bound,
reading the rhymed poems of the man whose blank-verse, two years
before, she had declined as not what poetry ought to be. I have often
seen a child refuse his food, and, after being compelled to eat one
mouthful, gladly devour the whole. In like manner Annie, having once
tasted Milton's poetry, did not let it go till she had devoured even
the _Paradise Lost_, of which when she could not make sense, she at
least made music�the chords of old John Milton's organ sounding through
his son's poetry in the brain of a little Scotch lassie who never heard
an organ in her life.
CHAPTER XLI.
"Hillo, bantam!" exclaimed Mr Cupples, to Alec entering his garret
within an hour of his arrival in his old quarters, and finding the soul
of the librarian still hovering in the steam of his tumbler, like one
of Swedenborg's damned over the odour of his peculiar hell. As he spoke
he emptied the glass, the custom of drinking from which, instead of
from the tumbler itself--rendering it impossible to get drunk all at
once--is one of the atonements offered by the Scotch to their tutelar
god--Propriety.--"Come awa'. What are ye stan'in' there for, as gin ye
warna at hame," he added, seeing that Alec lingered on the threshold.
"Sit doon. I'm nae a'thegither sorry to see ye."
"Have you been to the country, Mr Cupples?" asked Alec, as he took a
chair.
"The country! Na, I haena been i' the country. I'm a toon-snail. The
country's for calves and geese. It's ower green for me. I like the gray
stanes--weel biggit, to haud oot the cauld. I jist reverse the opingon
o' the auld duke in Mr Shackspere;--for this my life
'Find trees in tongues, its running brooks in books,
Stones in sermons,---'
and I canna gang on ony farther wi' 't. The last's true ony gait. I
winna gie ye ony toddy though."
"I dinna want nane."
"That's richt. Keep to that negation as an anchor o' the soul, sure and
steadfast. There's no boddom to the sea ye'll gang doon in gin ye cut
the cable that hauds ye to that anchor. Here's to ye!"
And again Mr Cupples emptied his glass.
"Hoo are ye prepared for yer mathematics?" he resumed.
"Middlin' only," answered Alec.
"I was doobtin' that. Sma' preparation does weel eneuch for Professor
Fraser's Greek; but ye'll fin' it's anither story wi' the mathematics.
Ye maun jist come to me wi' them as ye did wi' the Greek."
"Thank you, Mr Cupples," said Alec heartily. "I don't know how to repay
you."
"Repay me! I want nae repayment. Only spier nae questons at me, and
gang awa whan I'm drunk."
After all his summer preparation, Alec was still behind in mathematics;
for while, with a distinct object in view, he was capable of
much--without one, reading was a weariness to him. His medical studies,
combining, as they did, in their anatomical branch, much to be learned
by the eye and the hand with what was to be learned from books,
interested him more and more.
One afternoon, intent upon a certain course of investigation, he
remained in the dissecting room after the other students had gone, and
worked away till it grew dark. He then lighted a candle, and worked on.
The truth was unfolding itself gently and willingly. At last, feeling
tired, he laid down his scalpel, dropped upon a wooden chair, and, cold
as it was, fell fast asleep. When he awoke, the candle was _bobbing_ in
its socket, alternately lighting and shadowing the dead man on the
table. Strange glooms were gathering about the bottles on the shelves,
and especially about one corner of the room, where--but I must not
particularize too much. It must be remembered that he had awaked
suddenly, in a strange place, and with a fitful light. He confessed to
Mr Cupples that he had felt a little uncomfortable--not frightened, but
_eerie_. He was just going to rise and go home, when, as he stretched
out his hand for his scalpel, the candle sunk in darkness, and he lost
the guiding glitter of the knife. At the same moment, he caught a
doubtful gleam of two eyes looking in at him from one of the windows.
That moment the place became insupportable with horror. The vague sense
of an undefined presence turned the school of science into a
charnel-house. He started up, hurried from the room, feeling as if his
feet took no hold of the floor and his back was fearfully exposed,
locked the door, threw the key upon the porter's table, and fled. He
did not recover his equanimity till he found himself in the long narrow
street that led to his lodgings, lighted from many little shop-windows
in stone gable and front.
By the time he had had his tea, and learned a new proposition of
Euclid, the fright seemed to lie far behind him. It was not so far as
he thought, however, for he started to his feet when a sudden gust of
wind shook his windows. But then it was a still frosty night, and such
a gust was not to be expected. He looked out. Far above shone the
stars.
"How they sparkle in the frost!" he said, as if the frost reached them.
But they did look like the essential life that makes snow-flakes and
icy spangles everywhere--they were so like them, only they were of
fire. Even snow itself must have fire at the heart of it.--All was
still enough up there.
Then he looked down into the street, full of the comings and goings of
people, some sauntering and staring, others hastening along. Beauchamp
was looking in at the window of a second-hand book-shop opposite.
Not being able to compose himself again to his studies, he resolved, as
he had not called on Mr Fraser for some time, and the professor had not
been at the class that day, to go and inquire after him now.
Mr Fraser lived in the quadrangle of the college; but in the mood Alec
was in, nothing would do him so much good as a walk in the frost. He
was sure of a welcome from the old man; for although Alec gave but
little attention to Greek now, Mr Fraser was not at all dissatisfied
with him, knowing that he was doing his best to make himself a good
doctor. His friendliness towards him had increased; for he thought he
saw in him noble qualities; and now that he was an old man, he
delighted to have a youth near him with whose youthfulness he could
come into harmonious contact. It is because the young cannot recognize
the youth of the aged, and the old will not acknowledge the experience
of the young, that they repel each other.
Alec was shown into the professor's drawing-room. This was unusual. The
professor was seated in an easy-chair, with one leg outstretched before
him.
"Excuse me, Mr Forbes," he said, holding out his left hand without
rising. "I am laid up with the gout--I don't know why. The port wine my
grandfather drunk, I suppose. _I_ never drink it. I'm afraid it's old
age. And yon's my nurse.--Mr Forbes, your cousin, Kate, my dear."
Alec started. There, at the other side of the fire, sat a girl, half
smiling and half blushing as she looked up from her work. The candles
between them had hid her from him. He advanced, and she rose and held
out her hand. He was confused; she was perfectly collected, although
the colour rose a little more in her cheek. She might have been a year
older than Alec.
"So you are a cousin of mine, Mr Forbes!" she said, when they were all
seated by the blazing fire--she with a piece of plain work in her
hands, he with a very awkward nothing in his, and the professor
contemplating his swathed leg on the chair before him.
"So your uncle says," he answered, "and I am very happy to believe him.
I hope we shall be good friends."
Alec was recovering himself.
"I hope we shall," she responded, with a quick, shy, asking glance from
her fine eyes.
Those eyes were worth looking into, if only as a study of colour. They
were of many hues marvellously blended. I think grey and blue and brown
and green were all to be found in them. Their glance rather discomposed
Alec. He had not learned before that ladies' eyes are sometimes very
discomposing. Yet he could not keep his from wandering towards them;
and the consequence was that he soon lost the greater part of his
senses. After sitting speechless for some moments, and feeling as if he
had been dumb for as many minutes, he was seized by a horrible
conviction that if he remained silent an instant longer, he would be
driven to do or say something absurd. So he did the latter at once by
bursting out with the stupid question,
"What are you working at?"
"A duster," she answered instantly--this time without looking up.
Now the said duster was of the finest cambric; so that Alec could not
help seeing that she was making game of him. This banished his shyness,
and put him on his mettle.
"I see," he said, "when I ask questions, you--"
"Tell lies," she interposed, without giving him time even to hesitate;
adding,
"Does your mother answer all your questions, Mr Forbes?"
"I believe she does--one way or other."
"Then it is sometimes the other way? Is she nice?"
"Who?" returned Alec, surprised into doubt.
"Your mother."
"She's the best woman in the world," he answered with vehemence, almost
shocked at having to answer such a question.
"Oh! I beg your pardon," returned Kate, laughing; and the laugh curled
her lip, revealing very pretty teeth, with a semi-transparent
pearly-blue shadow in them.
"I am glad she is nice," she went on. "I should like to know her.
Mothers are not _always_ nice. I knew a girl at school whose mother
wasn't nice at all."
She did not laugh after this childish speech, but let her face settle
into perfect stillness--sadness indeed, for a shadow came over the
stillness. Mr Fraser sat watching the two with his amused old face, one
side of it twitching in the effort to suppress the smile which sought
to break from the useful half of his mouth. His gout could not have
been very bad just then.
"I see, Katie, what that long chin of yours is thinking," he said.
"What is my chin thinking, uncle?" she asked.
"That uncles are not always nice either. They snub little girls,
sometimes, don't they?"
"I know one who _is_ nice, all except one naughty leg."
She rose, as she said this, and going round to the back of his chair,
leaned over it, and kissed his forehead. The old man looked up to her
gratefully.
"Ah, Katie!" he said, "you may make game of an old man like me. But
don't try your tricks on Mr Forbes there. He won't stand them."
Alec blushed. Kate went back to her seat, and took up her duster again.
Alec was a little short-sighted, though he had never discovered it till
now. When Kate leaned over her uncle's chair, near which he was
sitting, he saw that she was still prettier than he had thought her
before.--There are few girls who to a short-sighted person look
prettier when they come closer; the fact being that the general intent
of the face, which the generalizing effect of the shortness of the
sight reveals, has ordinarily more of beauty in it than has yet been
carried out in detail; so that, as the girl approaches, one face seems
to melt away, and another, less beautiful, to dawn up through it.
But, as I have said, this was not Alec's experience with Kate; for,
whatever it might indicate, she looked prettier when she came nearer.
He found too that her great mass of hair, instead of being, as he had
thought, dull, was in reality full of glints and golden hints, as if
she had twisted up a handful of sunbeams with it in the morning, which,
before night, had faded a little, catching something of the duskiness
and shadowiness of their prison. One thing more he saw--that her
hand--she rested it on the back of the dark chair, and so it had caught
his eye--was small and white; and those were all the qualities Alec was
as yet capable of appreciating in a hand. Before she got back to her
seat, he was very nearly in love with her. I suspect that those
generally who fall in love at first sight have been in love before. At
least such was Romeo's case. And certainly it was not Alec's. Yet I
must confess, if he had talked stupidly before, he talked worse now;
and at length went home with the conviction that he had made a great
donkey of himself.
As he walked the lonely road, and the street now fast closing its
windows and going to sleep, he was haunted by a very different vision
from that which had accompanied him a few hours ago. Then it was the
dead face of a man, into which his busy fancy had reset the living eyes
that he had seen looking in at the window of the dissecting room; now
it was the lovely face of his new-found cousin, possessing him so that
he could fear nothing. Life had cast out death. Love had cast out fear.
But love had cast out more. For he found, when he got home, that he
could neither read nor think. If Kate could have been _conscious_ of
its persistent intrusion upon Alec's thoughts, and its constant
interruption of his attempts at study, she would have been ashamed of
that pretty face of hers, and ready to disown it for its forwardness.
At last, he threw his book to the other end of the room, and went to
bed, where he found it not half so difficult to go to sleep as it had
been to study.
The next day things went better; for he was not yet so lost that a
night's rest could do him no good. But it was fortunate that there was
no Greek class, and that he was not called up to read Latin that day.
For the anatomy, he was in earnest about that; and love itself, so long
as its current is not troubled by opposing rocks, will not disturb the
studies of a real student--much.
As he left the dissecting-room, he said to himself that he would just
look in and see how Mr Fraser was. He was shown into the professor's
study.
Mr Fraser smiled as he entered with a certain grim comicality which
Alec's conscience interpreted into: "This won't do, my young man."
"I hope your gout is better to-day, sir," he said, sending his glance
wide astray of his words.
"Yes, I thank you, Mr Forbes," answered Mr Fraser, "it is better. Won't
you sit down?"
Warned by that smile, Alec was astute enough to decline, and presently
took his leave. As he shut the study door, however, he thought he would
just peep into the dining-room, the door of which stood open opposite.
There she was, sitting at the table, writing.
"Who can that letter be to?" thought Alec. But it was early days to be
jealous.
"How do you do, Mr Forbes?" said Kate, holding out her hand.
Could it be that he had seen her only yesterday? Or was his visual
memory so fickle that he had forgotten what she was like? She was so
different from what he had been fancying her!
The fact was merely this--that she had been writing to an old friend,
and her manner for the time, as well as her expression, was affected by
her mental proximity to that friend;--so plastic--so fluent even--was
her whole nature. Indeed Alec was not long in finding out that one of
her witcheries was, that she was never the same. But on this the first
occasion, the alteration in her bewildered him.
"I am glad to find your uncle better," he said.
"Yes.--You have seen him, then?"
"Yes. I was very busy in the dissecting-room, till--"
He stopped; for he saw her shudder.
"I beg your pardon," he hastened to substitute.--"We are so used to
those things, that--"
"Don't say a word more about it, please," she said hastily. Then, in a
vague kind of way--"Won't you sit down?"
"No, thank you. I must go home," answered Alec, feeling that she did
not want him. "Good night," he added, advancing a step.
"Good night, Mr Forbes," she returned in the same vague manner, and
without extending her hand.
Alec checked himself, bowed, and went with a feeling of mortification,
and the resolution not to repeat his visit too soon.
She interfered with his studies notwithstanding, and sent him wandering
in the streets, when he ought to have been reading at home. One bright
moonlight night he found himself on the quay, and spying a boat at the
foot of one of the stairs, asked the man in it if he was ready for a
row. The man agreed. Alec got in, and they rowed out of the river, and
along the coast to a fishing village where the man lived, and whence
Alec walked home. This was the beginning of many such boating
excursions made by Alec in the close of this session. They greatly
improved his boatmanship, and strengthened his growing muscles. The end
of the winter was mild, and there were not many days unfit for the
exercise.
CHAPTER XLII.
The next Saturday but one Alec received a note from Mr Fraser, hoping
that his new cousin had not driven him away, and inviting him to dine
that same afternoon.
He went. After dinner the old man fell asleep in his chair.
"Where were you born?" Alec asked Kate.
She was more like his first impression of her.
"Don't you know?" she replied. "In the north of Sutherlandshire--near
the foot of a great mountain, from the top of which, on the longest
day, you can see the sun, or a bit of him at least, all night long."
"How glorious!" said Alec.
"I don't know. _I_ never saw him. And the winters are so long and
terrible! Nothing but snowy hills about you, and great clouds always
coming down with fresh loads of snow to scatter over them."
"Then you don't want to go back?"
"No. There is nothing to make me wish to go back. There is no one there
to love me now."
She looked very sad for a few moments.
"Yes," said Alec, thoughtfully; "a winter without love must be
dreadful. But I like the winter; and we have plenty of it in our
quarter too."
"Where is your home?"
"Not many miles north of this."
"Is it a nice place?"
"Of course I think so."
"Ah! you have a mother. I wish I knew her."
"I wish you did.--True: the whole place is like her to me. But I don't
think everybody would admire it. There are plenty of bare snowy hills
there too in winter. But I think the summers and the harvests are as
delightful as anything can be, except--"
"Except what?"
"Don't make me say what will make you angry with me."
"Now you must, else I shall fancy something that will make me _more_
angry."
"Except your face, then," said Alec, frightened at his own boldness,
but glancing at her shyly.
She flushed a little, but did not look angry.
"I don't like that," she said. "It makes one feel awkward."
"At least," rejoined Alec, emboldened, "you must allow it is your own
fault."
"I can't help my face," she said, laughing.
"Oh! you know what I mean. You made me say it."
"Yes, after you had half-said it already. Don't do it again."
And there followed more of such foolish talk, uninteresting to my
readers.
"Where were you at school?" asked Alec, after a pause. "Your uncle told
me you were at school."
"Near London," she answered.
"Ah! that accounts for your beautiful speech."
"There again. I declare I will wake my uncle if you go on in that way."
"I beg your pardon," protested Alec; "I forgot."
"But," she went on, "in Sutherlandshire we don't talk so horribly as
they do here."
"I daresay not," returned Alec, humbly.
"I don't mean you. I wonder how it is that you speak so much better
than all the people here."
"I suppose because my mother speaks well. She never lets me speak broad
Scotch to her."
"Your mother again! She's everything to you."
Alec did not reply.
"I _should_ like to see her," pursued Kate.
"You must come and see her, then."
"See whom?" asked Mr Fraser, rousing himself from his nap.
"My mother, sir," answered Alec.
"Oh! I thought you had been speaking of Katie's friend," said the
professor, and fell asleep again.
"Uncle means Bessie Warner, who is coming by the steamer from London on
Monday. Isn't it kind of uncle to ask her to come and see me here?"
"He is kind always. Was Miss Warner a schoolfellow of yours?"
"Yes--no--not exactly. She was one of the governesses. I _must_ go and
meet her at the steamer. Will you go with me?"
"I shall be delighted. Do you know when she arrives?"
"They say about six. I daresay it is not very punctual."
"Oh! yes, she is--when the weather is decent. I will make inquiries,
and come and fetch you."
"Thank you.--I suppose I may, uncle?"
"What, my dear?" said the professor, rousing himself again.
"Have my cousin to take care of me when I go to meet Bessie?"
"Yes, certainly. I shall be much obliged to you, Mr Forbes. I am not
quite so agile as I was at your age, though my gouty leg _is_ better."
This conversation would not have been worth recording were it not that
it led to the walk and the waiting on Monday.--They found, when they
reached the region of steamers, that she had not yet been signalled,
but her people were expecting the signal every minute. So Alec and Kate
walked out along the pier, to pass the time. This pier runs down the
side of the river, and a long way into the sea. It had begun to grow
dark, and Alec had to take great care of Kate amongst the tramways,
coils of rope, and cables that crossed their way. At length they got
clear of these, and found themselves upon the pier, built of great
rough stones--lonely and desert, tapering away into the dark, its end
invisible, but indicated by the red light far in front.
"It is a rough season of the year for a lady to come by sea," said
Alec.
"Bessie is very fond of the sea," answered Kate. "I hope you will like
her, Mr Forbes."
"Do you want me to like her better than you?" rejoined Alec. "Because
if you do--"
"Look how beautiful that red light is on the other side of the river,"
interrupted Kate. "And there is another further out."
"When the man at the helm gets those two lights in a line," said Alec,
"he may steer straight in, in the darkest night--that is, if the tide
serves for the bar."
"Look how much more glorious the red shine is on the water below!" said
Kate.
"It looks so wet!" returned Alec,--"just like blood."
He almost cursed himself as he said so, for he felt Kate's hand stir as
if she would withdraw it from his arm. But after fluttering like a bird
for a moment, it settled again upon its perch, and there rested.
The day had been quite calm, but now a sudden gust of wind from the
north-east swept across the pier and made Kate shiver. Alec drew her
shawl closer about her, and her arm further within his. They were now
close to the sea. On the other side of the wall which rose on their
left, they could hear the first of the sea-waves. It was a dreary
place--no sound even indicating the neighbourhood of life. On one side,
the river below them went flowing out to the sea in the dark, giving a
cold sluggish gleam now and then, as if it were a huge snake heaving up
a bend of its wet back, as it hurried away to join its fellows; on the
other side rose a great wall of stone, beyond which was the sound of
long waves following in troops out of the dark, and falling upon a low
moaning coast. Clouds hung above the sea; and above the clouds two or
three disconsolate stars.
"Here is a stair," said Alec. "Let us go up on the top of the sea-wall,
and then we shall catch the first glimpse of the light at her funnel."
They climbed the steep rugged steps, and stood on the broad wall,
hearing the sea-pulses lazily fall at its foot. The wave crept away
after it fell, and returned to fall again like a weary hound. There was
hardly any life in the sea. How mournful it was to lie out there, the
wintry night, beneath an all but starless heaven, with the wind vexing
it when it wanted to sleep!
Alec feeling Kate draw a deep breath like the sigh of the sea, looked
round in her face. There was still light enough to show it frowning and
dark and sorrowful and hopeless. It was in fact a spiritual mirror,
which reflected in human forms the look of that weary waste of waters.
She gave a little start, gathered herself together, and murmured
something about the cold.
"Let us go down again," said Alec.--"The wind has risen considerably,
and the wall will shelter us down below."
"No, no," she answered; "I like it. We can walk here just as well. I
don't mind the wind."
"I thought you were afraid of falling off."
"No, not in the dark. I should be, I daresay, if I could see how far we
are from the bottom."
So they walked on. The waves no longer fell at the foot of the wall,
but leaned their breasts against it, gleaming as they rose on its
front, and darkening as they sank low towards its deep base.
The wind kept coming in gusts, tearing a white gleam now and then on
the dark surface of the sea. Behind them shone the dim lights of the
city; before them all was dark as eternity, except for the one light at
the end of the pier. At length Alec spied another out at sea.
"I believe that is the steamer," he said. "But she is a good way off.
We shall have plenty of time to walk to the end--that is, if you would
like to go."
"Certainly; let us go on. I want to stand on the very point," answered
Kate.
They soon came to the lighthouse on the wall, and there descended to
the lower part of the pier, the end of which now plunged with a steep
descent into the sea. It was constructed of great stones clamped with
iron, and built into a natural foundation of rock. Up the slope the
waves rushed, and down the slope they sank again, with that seemingly
aimless and resultless rise and fall, which makes the sea so dreary and
sad to those men and women who are not satisfied without some goal in
view, some outcome of their labours; for it goes on and on, answering
ever to the call of sun and moon, and the fierce trumpet of the winds,
yet working nothing but the hopeless wear of the bosom in which it lies
bound for ever.
They stood looking out into the great dark before them, dark air, dark
sea, dark sky, watching the one light which grew brighter as they
gazed. Neither of them saw that a dusky figure was watching them from
behind a great cylindrical stone that stood on the end of the pier,
close to the wall.
A wave rushed up almost to their feet.
"Let us go," said Kate, with a shiver. "I can't bear it longer. The
water is calling me and threatening me. There! How that wave rushed up
as if it wanted me at once!"
Alec again drew her closer to him, and turning, they walked slowly
back. He was silent with the delight of having that lovely creature all
to himself, leaning on his arm, in the infolding and protecting
darkness, and Kate was likewise silent.
By the time they reached the quay at the other end of the pier, the
steamer had crossed the bar, and they could hear the _thud_ of her
paddles treading the water beneath them, as if eagerly because she was
near her rest. After a few struggles, she lay quiet in her place, and
they went on board.
Alec saw Kate embrace a girl perhaps a little older than herself,
helped her to find her luggage, put them into a chaise, took his leave,
and went home.
He did not know that all the way back along the pier they had been
followed by Patrick Beauchamp.
CHAPTER XLIII.
Excited, and unable to settle to his work, Alec ran upstairs to Mr
Cupples, whom he had not seen for some days. He found him not more than
half-way towards his diurnal goal.
"What's come o' _you_, bantam, this mony a day?" said Mr Cupples.
"I saw ye last Saturday," said Alec.
"Last Setterday week, ye mean," rejoined the librarian. "Hoo's the
mathematics comin' on?"
"To tell the truth, I'm raither ahin' wi' them," answered Alec.
"I was thinkin' as muckle. Rainbows! Thae rainbows! And the anawtomy?"
"Nae jist stan'in' still a'thegither."
"That's weel. Ye haena been fa'in' asleep again ower the guddlet
carcass o' an auld pauper--hae ye?"
Alec stared. He had never told any one of his adventure in the
dissecting-room.
"I saw ye, my man. But I wasna the only ane that saw ye. Ye micht hae
gotten a waur fleg gin I hadna come up, for Mr Beauchamp was takin' the
bearin's o' ye throu the window, and whan I gaed up, he slippit awa'
like a wraith. There ye lay, wi' yer heid back, and yer mou' open, as
gin you and the deid man had been tryin' whilk wad sleep the soun'est.
But ye hae ta'en to ither studies sin' syne. Ye hae a freah subject--a
bonnie young ane. The Lord hae mercy upo' ye! The goddess o' the
rainbow hersel's gotten a haud o' ye, and ye'll be seein' naething but
rainbows for years to come.--Iris bigs bonnie brigs, but they hae
nowther pier, nor buttress, nor key-stane, nor parapet. And no fit can
gang ower them but her ain, and whan she steps aff, it's upo' men's
herts, and yours can ill bide her fit, licht as it may be."
"What are ye propheseein' at, Mr Cupples?" said Alec, who did not more
than half understand him.
"Verra weel. I'm no drunk yet," rejoined Mr Cupples, oracularly. "But
that chield Beauchamp's no rainbow--that lat me tell ye. He'll do you a
mischeef yet, gin ye dinna luik a' the shairper. I ken the breed o'
him. He was luikin' at ye throu the window like a hungry deevil. And
jist min' what ye're aboot wi' the lassie--she's rael bonnie--or ye may
chance to get her into trouble, withoot ony wyte (fault) o' yer ain.
Min' I'm tellin' ye. Gin ye'll tak my advice, ye'll tak a dose o'
mathematics direckly. It's a fine alterative as weel as antidote,
though maybe whusky's.....the verra broo o' the deevil's ain pot," he
concluded, altering his tone entirely, and swallowing the rest of his
glass at a gulp.
"What do ye want me to do?" asked Alec.
"To tak tent (care) o' Beauchamp. And meantime to rin doon for yer
Euclid and yer Hutton, and lat's see whaur ye are."
There was more ground for Mr Cupples's warning than Alec had the
smallest idea of. He had concluded long ago that all possible
relations, even those of enmity--practical enmity at least--were over
between them, and that Mr Beauchamp considered the bejan sufficiently
punished for thrashing him, by being deprived of his condescending
notice for the rest of the ages. But so far was this from being the
true state of the case, that, although Alec never suspected it,
Beauchamp had in fact been dogging and haunting him from the very
commencement of the session, and Mr Cupples had caught him in only one
of many acts of the kind. In the anatomical class, where they continued
to meet, he still attempted to keep up the old look of diadain, as if
the lesson he had received had in no way altered their relative
position. Had Alec known with what difficulty, and under what a load of
galling recollection, he kept it up, he would have been heartily sorry
for him. Beauchamp's whole consciousness was poisoned by the memory of
that day. Incapable of regarding any one except in comparative relation
to himself, the effort of his life had been to maintain that feeling of
superiority with which he started every new acquaintance; for
occasionally a flash of foreign individuality would break through the
husk of satisfaction in which he had inclosed himself, compelling him
to feel that another man might have claims. And hitherto he had been
very successful in patching up and keeping entire his eggshell of
conceit. But that affair with Alec was a very bad business. Had
Beauchamp been a coward, he would have suffered less from it. But he
was no coward, though not quite so courageous as Hector, who yet turned
and fled before Achilles. Without the upholding sense of duty, no man
can be sure of his own behaviour, simply because he cannot be sure of
his own nerves. Duty kept the red-cross knight "forlorne and left to
losse," "haplesse and eke hopelesse,"
"Disarmd, disgraste, and inwardly dismayde,
And eke so faint in every joynt and vayne,"
from turning his back on the giant Orgoglio, and sent him pacing
towards him with feeble steps instead. But although he was not wanting
in mere animal courage, Beauchamp's pride always prevented him from
engaging in any contest in which he was not sure of success, the
thought of failure being to him unendurable. When he found that he had
miscalculated the probabilities, he was instantly dismayed; and the
blow he received on his mouth reminding his vanity of the danger his
handsome face was in, he dropped his arms and declined further contest,
comforting himself with the fancy of postponing his vengeance to a
better opportunity.
But within an hour he knew that he had lost his chance, as certainly as
he who omits the flood-tide of his fortune. He not only saw that he was
disgraced, but felt in himself that he had been cowardly; and, more
mortifying still, felt that, with respect to the clodhopper, he was
cowardly now. He was afraid of him. Nor could he take refuge in the old
satisfaction of despising him; for that he found no longer possible. He
was on the contrary compelled to despise himself, an experience
altogether new; so that his contempt for Alec changed into a fierce,
slow-burning hate.
Now hate keeps its object present even more than the opposite passion.
Love makes everything lovely; hate concentrates itself on the one thing
hated. The very sound of Alec's voice became to the ears of Beauchamp
what a filthy potion would have been to his palate. Every line of his
countenance became to his eyes what a disgusting odour would have been
to his nostrils. And yet the fascination of his hate, and his desire of
revenge, kept Beauchamp's ears, eyes, and thoughts hovering about
Forbes.
No way of gratifying his hatred, however, although he had been brooding
over it all the previous summer, had presented itself till now. Now he
saw the possibility of working a dear revenge. But even now, to work
surely, he must delay long. Still the present consolation was great.
Nor is it wonderful that his pride should not protect him from the
deeper disgrace of walking in underground ways. For there is nothing in
the worship of self to teach a man to be noble. Honour even will one
day fail him who has learned no higher principle. And although revenge
be "a kind of wild justice," it loses the justice, and retains only the
wildness, when it corrupts into hatred. Every feeling that Beauchamp
had was swallowed up in the gulf eaten away by that worst of all
canker-worms.
Notwithstanding the humiliation he had experienced, he retained as yet
an unlimited confidence in some gifts which he supposed himself to
possess by nature, and to be capable of using with unequalled art. And
true hate, as well as true love, knows how to wait.
CHAPTER XLIV.
In the course of her study of Milton, Annie had come upon Samson's
lamentation over his blindness; and had found, soon after, the passage
in which Milton, in his own person, bewails the loss of light. The
thought that she would read them to Tibbie Dyster was a natural one.
She borrowed the volumes from Mrs Forbes; and, the next evening, made
her way to Tibbie's cottage, where she was welcomed as usual by her
gruff voice of gratefulness.
"Ye're a gude bairn to come a' this gait through the snaw to see an
auld blin' body like me. It's dingin' on (snowing or raining)--is na
't, bairn?"
"Ay is't. Hoo do ye ken, Tibbie?"
"I dinna ken hoo I ken. I was na sure. The snaw maks unco little din,
ye see. It comes doon like the speerit himsel' upo' quaiet herts."
"Did ye ever see, Tibbie?" asked Annie, after a pause.
"Na; nae that I min' upo'. I was but twa year auld, my mither used to
tell fowk, whan I had the pock, an' it jist closed up my een for
ever--i' this warl, ye ken. I s' see some day as weel's ony o' ye,
lass."
"Do ye ken what licht is, Tibbie?" said Annie, whom Milton had set
meditating on Tibbie's physical in relation to her mental condition.
"Ay, weel eneuch," answered Tibbie, with a touch of indignation at the
imputed ignorance. "What for no? What gars ye spier?"
"Ow! I jist wanted to ken."
"Hoo could I no ken? Disna the Saviour say: 'I am the licht o' the
warl?'--He that walketh in Him maun ken what licht is, lassie. Syne ye
hae the licht in yersel--in yer ain hert; an' ye maun ken what it is.
Ye canna mistak' it."
Annie was neither able nor willing to enter into an argument on the
matter, although she was not satisfied. She would rather think than
dispute about it. So she changed the subject in a measure.
"Did ye ever hear o' John Milton, Tibbie?" she asked.
"Ow! ay. He was blin' like mysel,' wasna he?"
"Ay, was he. I hae been readin' a heap o' his poetry."
"Eh! I wad richt weel like to hear a bittie o' 't."
"Weel, here's a bit 'at he made as gin Samson was sayin' o' 't, till
himsel' like, efter they had pitten oot's een--the Phillisteens, ye
ken."
"Ay, I ken weel eneuch. Read it."
Annie read the well-known passage. Tibbie listened to the end, without
word of remark or question, her face turned towards the reader, and her
sightless balls rolling under their closed lids. When Annie's voice
ceased, she said, after a little reflection:
"Ay! ay! It's bonnie, an' verra true. And, puir man! it was waur for
him nor for me and Milton; for it was a' his ain wyte; and it was no to
be expecket he cud be sae quaiet as anither. But he had no richt to
queston the ways o' the Maker. But it's bonnie, rael bonnie."
"Noo, I'll jist read to ye what Milton says aboot his ain blin'ness.
But it's some ill to unnerstan'."
"Maybe I'll unnerstan' 't better nor you, bairn. Read awa'."
So admonished, Annie read. Tibbie fidgeted about on her seat. It was
impossible either should understand it. And the proper names were a
great puzzle to them.
"Tammy Riss!" said Tibbie; "I ken naething aboot _him_."
"Na, neither do I," said Annie; and beginning the line again, she
blundered over "_blind Maeonides_."
"Ye're readin' 't wrang, bairn. It sud be '_nae ony days_,' for there's
nae days or nichts either to the blin'. They dinna ken the differ, ye
see."
"I'm readin' 't as I hae't," answered Annie. "It's a muckle M."
"I ken naething aboot yer muckle or yer little Ms," retorted Tibbie,
with indignation. "Gin that binna what it means, it's ayont me. Read
awa'. Maybe we'll come to something better."
"Ay will we?" said Annie, and resumed.
With the words, "_Thus with the year seasons return_," Tibbie's
attention grew fixed; and when the reader came to the passage,
"So much the rather thou, Celestial Light,
Shine inward,"
her attention rose into rapture.
"Ay, ay, lassie! That man kent a' aboot it! He wad never hae speired
gin a blin' crater like me kent what the licht was. He kent what it was
weel. Ay did he!"
"But, ye see, he was a gey auld man afore he tint his eesicht," Annie
ventured to interpose.
"Sae muckle the better! He kent baith kinds. And he kent that the sicht
without the een is better nor the sicht o' the een. Fowk nae doobt has
baith; but I think whiles 'at the Lord gies a grainy mair o' the inside
licht to mak' up for the loss o' the ootside; and weel I wat it doesna
want muckle to do that."
"But ye dinna ken what it is," objected Annie, with unnecessary
persistency in the truth.
"Do ye tell me that again?" returned Tibbie, harshly. "Ye'll anger me,
bairn. Gin ye kent hoo I lie awauk at nicht, no able to sleep for
thinkin' 'at the day _will_ come whan I'll see--wi' my ain open
een--the verra face o' him that bore oor griefs an' carried oor
sorrows, till I jist lie and greit, for verra wissin', ye wadna say 'at
I dinna ken what the sicht o' a body's een is. Sae nae mair o' that! I
beg o' ye, or I'll jist need to gang to my prayers to haud me ohn been
angry wi' ane o' the Lord's bairns; for that ye _are_, I do believe,
Annie Anderson. Ye canna ken what blin'ness is; but I doobt ye ken what
the licht is, lassie; and, for the lave (rest), jist ye lippen (trust)
to John Milton and me."
Annie dared not say another word. She sat silent--perhaps rebuked. But
Tibbie resumed:
"Ye maunna think, hooever, 'cause sic longin' thouchts come ower me,
that I gang aboot the hoose girnin' and compleenin' that I canna open
the door and win oot. Na, na. I could jist despise the licht, whiles,
that ye mak' sic a wark aboot, and sing and shout, as the Psalmist
says; for I'm jist that glaid, that I dinna ken hoo to haud it in. For
the Lord's my frien'. I can jist tell him a' that comes into my puir
blin' heid. Ye see there's ither ways for things to come intil a body's
heid. There's mair doors nor the een. There's back doors, whiles, that
lat ye oot to the bonnie gairden, and that's better nor the road-side.
And the smell o' the braw flooers comes in at the back winnocks, ye
ken.--Whilk o' the bonnie flooers do ye think likest _Him_, Annie
Anderson?"
"Eh! I dinna ken, Tibbie. I'm thinkin' they maun be a' like him."
"Ay, ay, nae doobt. But some o' them may be liker him nor ithers."
"Weel, whilk do _ye_ think likest him, Tibbie?"
"I think it maun be the minnonette--sae clean and sae fine and sae weel
content."
"Ay, ye're speiken by the smell, Tibbie. But gin ye saw the rose--"
"Hoots! I hae seen the rose mony a time. Nae doobt it's bonnier to luik
at--" and here her fingers went moving about as if they were feeling
the full-blown sphere of a rose--"but I think, for my pairt, that the
minnonette's likest Him."
"May be," was all Annie's reply, and Tibbie went on.
"There maun be faces liker him nor ithers. Come here, Annie, and lat me
fin (feel) whether ye be like him or no."
"Hoo can ye ken that?--ye never saw him."
"Never saw him! I hae seen him ower and ower again. I see him whan I
like. Come here, I say."
Annie went and knelt down beside her, and the blind woman passed her
questioning fingers in solemn silence over and over the features of the
child. At length, with her hands still resting upon Annie's head, she
uttered her judgment.
"Ay. Some like him, nae doot. But she'll be a heap liker him whan she
sees him as he is."
When a Christian proceeds to determine the rightness of his neighbour
by his approximation to his fluctuating ideal, it were well if the
judgment were tempered by such love as guided the hands of blind Tibbie
over the face of Annie in their attempt to discover whether or not she
was like the Christ of her visions.
"Do ye think _ye_'re like him, Tibbie?" said Annie with a smile, which
Tibbie at once detected in the tone.
"Hoots, bairn! I had the pock dreidfu', ye ken."
"Weel, maybe we a' hae had something or ither that hauds us ohn been
sae bonny as we micht hae been. For ae thing, there's the guilt o'
Adam's first sin, ye ken."
"Verra richt, bairn. Nae doot that's blaudit mony a face--'the want o'
original richteousness, and the corruption o' our whole natur'.' The
wonner is that we're like him at a'. But we maun be like him, for he
was a man born o' a wumman.' Think o' that, lass!"
At this moment the latch of the door was lifted, and in walked Robert
Bruce. He gave a stare when he saw Annie, for he had thought her out of
the way at Howglen, and said in a tone of asperity,
"Ye're a' gait at ance, Annie Anderson. A doonricht rintheroot!"
"Lat the bairn be, Maister Bruce," said Tibbie. "She's doin' the Lord's
will, whether ye may think it or no. She's visitin' them 'at's i' the
prison-hoose o' the dark. She's ministerin' to them 'at hae mony
preeviledges nae doot, but hae room for mair."
"I'm no saying naething," said Bruce.
"Ye are sayin'. Ye're offendin' ane o' his little anes. Tak ye tent o'
the millstane."
"Hoot toot! Tibbie. I was only wissin 'at she wad keep a sma' part o'
her ministrations for her ain hame and her ain fowk 'at has the
ministerin' to her. There's the mistress and me jist mairtyrs to that
chop! And there's the bit infant in want o' some _ministration_ noo and
than, gin that be what ye ca' 't."
A grim compression of the mouth was all Tibbie's reply. She did not
choose to tell Robert Bruce that although she was blind--and probably
_because_ she was blind--she heard rather more gossip than anybody else
in Glamerton, and that consequently his appeal to her sympathy had no
effect upon her. Finding she made no other answer, Bruce turned to
Annie.
"Noo, Annie," said he, "ye're nae wantit here ony langer. I hae a word
or twa to say to Tibbie. Gang hame and learn yer lessons for the morn."
"It's Setterday nicht," answered Annie.
"But ye hae yer lessons to learn for the Mononday."
"Ow ay! But I hae a buik or twa to tak' hame to Mistress Forbes. And I
daursay I'll bide, and come to the kirk wi' her i' the mornin'."
Now, although all that Bruce wanted was to get rid of her, he went on
to oppose her; for common-minded people always feel that they give the
enemy an advantage if they show themselves content.
"It's no safe to rin aboot i' the mirk (dark). It's dingin' on forbye.
Ye'll be a' wat, and maybe fa' into the dam. Ye couldna see yer han'
afore yer face--ance oot o' the toon."
"I ken the road to Mistress Forbes's as weel's the road up your
garret-stairs, Mr Bruce."
"Ow nae doobt!" he answered, with a sneering acerbity peculiar to him,
in which his voice seemed sharpened and concentrated to a point by the
contraction of his lips. "And there's tykes aboot," he added,
remembering Annie's fear of dogs.
But by this time Annie, gentle as she was, had got a little angry.
"The Lord'll tak care o' me frae the dark and the tykes, and the lave
o' ye, Mr Bruce," she said.
And bidding Tibbie good-night, she took up her books, and departed, to
wade through the dark and the snow, trembling lest some unseen _tyke_
should lay hold of her as she went.
As soon as she was gone, Bruce proceeded to make himself agreeable to
Tibbie by retailing all the bits of gossip he could think of. While
thus engaged, he kept peering earnestly about the room from door to
chimney, turning his head on every side, and surveying as he turned it.
Even Tibbie perceived, from the changes in the sound of his voice, that
he was thus occupied.
"Sae your auld landlord's deid, Tibbie!" he said at last.
"Ay, honest man! He had aye a kin' word for a poor body."
"Ay, ay, nae doobt. But what wad ye say gin I tell't ye that I had
boucht the bit hoosie, and was yer new landlord, Tibbie?"
"I wad say that the door-sill wants men'in', to haud the snaw oot; an'
the bit hoosie's sair in want o' new thack. The verra cupples'll be
rottit awa' or lang."
"Weel that's verra rizzonable, nae doobt, gin a' be as ye say."
"Be as I say, Robert Bruce?"
"Ay, ay; ye see ye're nae a'thegither like ither fowk. I dinna mean ony
offence, ye ken, Tibbie; but ye haena the sicht o' yer een."
"Maybe I haena the feelin' o' my auld banes, aither, Maister Bruce!
Maybe I'm ower blin' to hae the rheumatize; or to smell the auld weet
thack whan there's been a scatterin' o' snaw or a drappy o' rain o' the
riggin'!"
"I didna want to anger ye, Tibbie. A' that ye say deserves attention.
It would be a shame to lat an auld body like you--"
"No that auld, Maister Bruce, gin ye kent the trowth!"
"Weel, ye're no ower young to need to be ta'en guid care o'--are ye,
Tibbie?"
Tibbie grunted.
"Weel, to come to the pint. There's nae doobt the hoose wants a hantle
o' doctorin'."
"'Deed does't," interposed Tibbie. "It'll want a new door. For forbye
'at the door's maist as wide as twa ordinar doors, it was ance in twa
halves like a chop-door. And they're ill jined thegither, and the win'
comes throu like a knife, and maist cuts a body in twa. Ye see the bit
hoosie was ance the dyer's dryin' hoose, afore he gaed further doon the
watter."
"Nae doobt ye're richt, Tibbie. But seein' that I maun lay oot sae
muckle, I'll be compelled to pit anither thrippence on to the rent."
"Ither thrippence, Robert Bruce! That's three thrippences i' the ook in
place o' twa. That's an unco rise! Ye canna mean what ye say! It's a'
that I'm able to do to pay my saxpence. An auld blin' body like me
disna fa' in wi' saxpences whan she gangs luikin aboot wi' her lang
fingers for a pirn or a prin that she's looten fa'."
"But ye do a heap o' spinnin', Tibbie, wi' thae lang fingers. There's
naebody in Glamerton spins like ye."
"Maybe ay and maybe no. It's no muckle that that comes till. I wadna
spin sae weel gin it warna that the Almichty pat some sicht into the
pints o' my fingers, 'cause there was nane left i' my een. An' gin ye
mak ither thrippence a week oot o' that, ye'll be turnin' the wather
that He sent to ca my mill into your dam; an' I doot it'll play ill
water wi' your wheels."
"Hoot, hoot! Tibbie, woman! It gangs sair against me to appear to be
hard-hertit."
"I hae nae doobt. Ye dinna want to _appear_ sae. But do ye ken that I
mak sae little by the spinnin' ye mak sae muckle o', that the kirk
alloos me a shillin' i' the week to mak up wi'? And gin it warna for
kin' frien's, it's ill livin' I wad hae in dour weather like this.
Dinna ye imaigine, Mr Bruce, that I hae a pose o' my ain. I hae
naething ava, excep' sevenpence in a stockin'-fit. And it wad hae to
come aff o' my tay or something ither 'at I wad ill miss."
"Weel, that may be a' verra true," rejoined Bruce; "but a body maun hae
their ain for a' that. Wadna the kirk gie ye the ither thrippence?"
"Do ye think I wad tak frae the kirk to pit into your till?"
"Weel, say saivenpence, than, and we'll be quits."
"I tell ye what, Robert Bruce: raither nor pay ye one bawbee more nor
the saxpence, I'll turn oot i' the snaw, and lat the Lord luik efter
me."
Robert Bruce went away, and did not purchase the cottage, which was in
the market at a low price, He had intended Tibbie to believe, as she
did, that he had already bought it; and if she had agreed to pay even
the sevenpence, he would have gone from her to secure it.
On her way to Howglen, Annie pondered on the delight of Tibbie--Tibbie
Dyster who had never seen the "human face divine"--when she should see
the face of Jesus Christ, most likely the first face she would see.
Then she turned to what Tibbie had said about knowing light from
knowing the Saviour. There must be some connection between what Tibbie
said and what Thomas had said about the face of God. There was a text
that said "God is light, and in him is no darkness at all." So she was
sure that the light that was in a Christian, whatever it meant, must
come from the face of God. And so what Thomas said and what Tibbie said
might be only different ways of saying the same thing.
Thus she was in a measure saved from the perplexity which comes of any
_one_ definition of the holy secret, compelling a man to walk in a way
between walls, instead of in a path across open fields.
There was no day yet in which Annie did not think of her old champion
with the same feeling of devotion which his championship had first
aroused, although all her necessities, hopes, and fears were now beyond
any assistance he could render. She was far on in a new path: he was
loitering behind, out of hearing, He would not have dared to call her
solicitude nonsense; but he would have set down all such matters as
belonging to women, rather than youths beginning the world. The lessons
of Thomas Crann were not despised, for he never thought about them. He
began to look down upon all his past, and, in it, upon his old
companions. Since knowing Kate, who had more delicate habits and ways
than he had ever seen, he had begun to refine his own modes concerning
outside things; and in his anxiety to be like her, while he became more
polished, he became less genial and wide-hearted.
But none of his old friends forgot him. I believe not a day passed in
which Thomas did not pray for him in secret, naming him by his name,
and lingering over it mournfully--"Alexander Forbes--the young man that
I thocht wad hae been pluckit frae the burnin' afore noo. But thy
time's the best, O Lord. It's a' thy wark; an' there's no good thing in
us. And thou canst turn the hert o' man as the rivers o' water. And
maybe thou hast gi'en him grace to repent already, though I ken
naething aboot it."
CHAPTER XLV.
This had been a sore winter for Thomas, and he had had plenty of
leisure for prayer. For, having gone up on a scaffold one day to see
that the wall he was building was properly protected from the rain, he
slipped his foot on a wet pole, and fell to the ground, whence, being a
heavy man, he was lifted terribly shaken, besides having one of his
legs broken. Not a moan escaped him--a murmur was out of the question.
They carried him home, and the surgeon did his best for him. Nor,
although few people liked him much, was he left unvisited in his
sickness. The members of his own religious community recognized their
obligation to minister to him; and they would have done more, had they
guessed how poor he was. Nobody knew how much he gave away in other
directions; but they judged of his means by the amount he was in the
habit of putting into the plate at the chapel-door every Sunday. There
was never much of the silvery shine to be seen in the heap of copper,
but one of the gleaming sixpences was almost sure to have dropped from
the hand of Thomas Crann. Not that this generosity sprung altogether
from disinterested motives; for the fact was, that he had a morbid fear
of avarice; a fear I believe not altogether groundless; for he was
independent in his feelings almost to fierceness--certainly to
ungraciousness; and this strengthened a natural tendency to saving and
hoarding. The consciousness of this tendency drove him to the other
extreme. Jean, having overheard him once cry out in an agony, "Lord,
hae mercy upo' me, and deliver me frae this love o' money, which is the
root of all evil," watched him in the lobby of the chapel the next
Sunday--"and as sure's deith," said Jean--an expression which it was
weel for her that Thomas did not hear--"he pat a siller shillin' into
the plate that day, mornin' _an'_ nicht."
"Tak' care hoo ye affront him, whan ye tak' it," said Andrew Constable
to his wife, who was setting out to carry him some dish of her own
cooking--for Andrew's wife belonged to the missionars--"for weel ye ken
Thamas likes to be unner obligation to nane but the Lord himsel'."
"Lea' ye that to me, Anerew, my man. You 'at's rouch men disna ken hoo
to do a thing o' that sort. I s' manage Thamas weel eneuch. I ken the
nater o' him."
And sure enough he ate it up at once, that she might take the dish back
with her.
Annie went every day to ask after him, and every day had a kind
reception from Jean, who bore her no grudge for the ignominious
treatment of Thomas on that evening memorable to Annie. At length, one
day, after many weeks, Jean asked her if she would not like to see him.
"Ay wad I; richt weel," answered she.
Jean led her at once into Thomas's room, where he lay in a bed in the
wall. He held out his hand. Annie could hardly be said to take it, but
she put hers into it, saying timidly,
"Is yer leg verra sair, Thamas?"
"Ow na, dawtie; nae noo. The Lord's been verra mercifu'--jist like
himsel'." It was ill to bide for a while whan I cudna sleep. But I jist
sleep noo like ane o' the beloved."
"I was richt sorry for ye, Thamas."
"Ay, Ye've a kin' hert, lassie. And I canna help thinkin'--they may say
what they like--but I canna help thinkin' that the Lord was sorry for
me himsel'. It cam' into my heid as I lay here ae nicht, an' cudna
sleep a wink, and cudna rist, and yet daurna muv for my broken hough.
And as sune's that cam' into my heid I was sae upliftit, 'at I forgot
a' aboot my leg, and begud, or ever I kent, to sing the hunner and
saivent psalm. And syne whan the pain cam' back wi' a terrible stoon, I
jist amaist leuch; an I thoucht that gin he wad brack me a' to bits, I
wad never cry _haud_, nor turn my finger to gar him stent. Noo, ye're
ane o' the Lord's bairns--"
"Eh! I dinna ken," cried Annie, half-terrified at such an assurance
from Thomas, and the responsibility devolved on her thereby, and yet
delighted beyond expression.
"Ay are ye," continued Thomas confidently; "and I want to ken what ye
think aboot it. Do ye think it was a wrang thocht to come into my
heid?"
"Hoo could that be, Thomas, whan it set ye a singin'--and sic a
psalm--'O that men would praise the Lord for his goodness?'"
"The Lord be praised ance mair!" exclaimed Thomas. "'Oot o' the mooth
o' babes and sucklin's!'--no that ye're jist that, Annie, but ye're no
muckle mair. Sit ye doon aside me, and rax ower to the Bible, and jist
read that hunner and saivent psalm. Eh, lassie! but the Lord is guid.
Oh! that men wad praise him! An' to care for the praises o' sic worms
as me! What richt hae I to praise him?"
"Ye hae the best richt, Thomas, for hasna he been good to ye?["]
"Ye're richt, lassie, ye're richt. It's wonnerfu' the common sense o'
bairns. Gin ye wad jist lat the Lord instruck them! I doobt we mak ower
little o' them. Nae doobt they're born in sin, and brocht farth in
iniquity; but gin they repent ear', they win far aheid o' the auld
fowk."
Thomas's sufferings had made him more gentle--and more sure of Annie's
election. He was one on whom affliction was not thrown away.--Annie saw
him often after this, and he never let her go without reading a chapter
to him, his remarks upon which were always of some use to her,
notwithstanding the limited capacity and formal shape of the doctrinal
moulds in which they were cast; for wherever there is genuine religious
feeling and _experience_, it will now and then crack the prisoning
pitcher, and let some brilliant ray of the indwelling glory out, to
discomfit the beleaguering hosts of troublous thoughts.
Although the framework of Thomas was roughly hewn, he had always been
subject to such fluctuations of feeling as are more commonly found
amongst religious women. Sometimes, notwithstanding the visions of the
face of God "vouchsafed to him from the mercy-seat," as he would say,
he would fall into fits of doubting whether he was indeed one of the
elect; for how then could he be so hard-hearted, and so barren of good
thoughts and feelings as he found himself? At such times he was subject
to an irritation of temper, alternately the cause and effect of his
misery, upon which, with all his efforts, he was only capable yet of
putting a very partial check. Woe to the person who should then dare to
interrupt his devotions! If Jean, who had no foresight or anticipation
of consequences, should, urged by some supposed necessity of the case,
call to him through the door bolted against Time and its concerns, the
saint who had been kneeling before God in utter abasement,
self-contempt, and wretchedness, would suddenly wrench it open, a
wrathful, indignant man, boiling brimful of angry words and unkind
objurgations, through all which would be manifest, notwithstanding, a
certain unhappy restraint. Having driven the enemy away in confusion,
he would bolt his door again, and return to his prayers in two-fold
misery, conscious of guilt increased by unrighteous anger, and so of
yet another wall of separation raised between him and his God.
Now this weakness all but disappeared during the worst of his illness,
to return for a season with increased force when his recovery had
advanced so far as to admit of his getting out of bed. Children are
almost always cross when recovering from an illness, however patient
they may have been during its severest moments; and the phenomenon is
not by any means confined to children.
A deacon of the church, a worthy little weaver, had been
half-officially appointed to visit Thomas, and find out, which was not
an easy task, if he was in want of anything. When he arrived, Jean was
out. He lifted the latch, entered, and tapped gently at Thomas's
door--too gently, for he received no answer. With hasty yet hesitating
imprudence, he opened the door and peeped in. Thomas was upon his knees
by the fire-side, with his plaid over his head. Startled by the
weaver's entrance, he raised his head, and his rugged leonine face, red
with wrath, glared out of the thicket of his plaid upon the intruder.
He did not rise, for that would have been a task requiring time and
caution. But he cried aloud in a hoarse voice, with his two hands
leaning on the chair, like the paws of some fierce rampant animal:
"Jeames, ye're takin' the pairt o' Sawton upo' ye, drivin' a man frae
his prayers!"
"Hoot, Thamas! I beg yer pardon," answered the weaver, rather flurried;
"I thoucht ye micht hae been asleep."
"Ye had no business to think for yersel' in sic a maitter. What do ye
want?"
"I jist cam' to see whether _ye_ war in want o' onything, Thamas."
"I'm in want o' naething. Gude nicht to ye."
"But, railly, Thamas," expostulated the weaver, emboldened by his own
kindness--"ye'll excuse me, but ye hae nae business to gang doon on yer
knees wi' yer leg in sic a weyk condeetion."
"I winna excuse ye, Jeames. What ken ye aboot my leg? And what's the
use o' knees, but to gang doon upo'? Gang hame, and gang doon upo' yer
ain, Jeames; and dinna disturb ither fowk that ken what theirs was made
for."
Thus admonished, the weaver dared not linger. As he turned to shut the
door, he wished the mason good night, but received no answer. Thomas
had sunk forward upon the chair, and had already drawn his plaid over
his head.
But the secret place of the Most High will not be entered after this
fashion; and Thomas felt that he was shut out. It is not by driving
away our brother that we can be alone with God. Thomas's plaid could
not isolate him with his Maker, for communion with God is never
isolation. In such a mood, the chamber with the shut door shuts out God
too, and one is left alone with himself, which is the outer darkness.
The love of the brethren opens the door into God's chamber, which is
within ours. So Thomas--who was far enough from hating his brother, who
would have struggled to his feet and limped to do him a service, though
he would not have held out his hand to receive one, for he was only
good, not gracious--Thomas, I say, felt worse than ever, and more as if
God had forgotten him, than he had felt for many a day. He knelt still
and sighed sore.
At length another knock came, which although very gentle, he heard and
knew well enough.
"Who's there?" he asked, notwithstanding, with a fresh access of
indignant feeling.
"Annie Anderson," was the answer through the door, in a tone which at
once soothed the ruffled waters of Thomas's spirit.
"Come in," he said.
She entered, quiet as a ghost.
"Come awa', Annie. I'm glaid to see ye. Jist come and kneel doon aside
me, and we'll pray thegither, for I'm sair troubled wi' an ill-temper."
Without a word of reply, Annie kneeled by the side of his chair. Thomas
drew the plaid over her head, took her hand, which was swallowed up in
his, and after a solemn pause, spoke thus:
"O Lord, wha dwellest in the licht inaccessible, whom mortal eye hath
not seen nor can see, but who dwellest with him that is humble and
contrite of heart, and liftest the licht o' thy coontenance upo' them
that seek it, O Lord,"--here the solemnity of the appeal gave way
before the out-bursting agony of Thomas's heart--"O Lord, dinna lat's
cry in vain, this thy lammie, and me, thine auld sinner, but, for the
sake o' him wha did no sin, forgive my sins and my vile temper, and
help me to love my neighbour as mysel'. Lat Christ dwell in me and syne
I shall be meek and lowly of heart like him. Put thy speerit in me, and
syne I shall do richt--no frae mysel', for I hae no good thing in me,
but frae thy speerit that dwelleth in us."
After this prayer, Thomas felt refreshed and hopeful. With slow labour
he rose from his knees at last, and sinking into his chair, drew Annie
towards him, and kissed her. Then he said,
"Will ye gang a bit eeran' for me, Annie?"
"That I will, Thomas. I wad rin mysel' aff o' my legs for ye."
"Na, na. I dinna want sae muckle rinnin' the nicht. But I wad be sair
obleeged to ye gin ye wad jist rin doon to Jeames Johnstone, the
weyver, and tell him, wi' my coampliments, ye ken, that I'm verra sorry
I spak' till him as I did the nicht; and I wad tak it richt kin' o' him
gin he wad come and tak a cup o' tay wi' me the morn's nicht, and we
cud hae a crack thegither, and syne we cud hae worship thegither. And
tell him he maunna think nae mair o' the way I spak' till him, for I
was troubled i' my min', and I'm an ill-nater'd man."
"I'll tell him a' that ye say," answered Annie, "as weel's I can min'
't; and I s' warran' I s' no forget muckle o' 't. Wad ye like me to
come back the nicht and tell ye what he says?"
"Na, na, lassie. It'll be nearhan' time for ye to gang to yer bed. And
it's a cauld nicht. I ken that by my leg. And ye see Jeames Johnstone's
no an ill-nater'd man like me. He's a douce man, and he's sure to be
weel-pleased and come till's tay. Na, na; ye needna come back. Guid
nicht to ye, my dawtie. The Lord bless ye for comin' to pray wi' an
ill-nater'd man."
Annie sped upon her mission of love through the murky streets and lanes
of Glamerton, as certainly a divine messenger as any seraph crossing
the blue empyrean upon level wing. And if any one should take exception
to this, on the ground that she sought her own service and neglected
home duties, I would, although my object has not been to set her forth
as an exemplar, take the opportunity of asking whether to sleep in a
certain house and be at liberty to take one's meals there, be
sufficient to make it home, and the source of home-obligations--to
indicate the will of God as to _the_ region of one's labour, other
regions lying open at the same time. Ought Annie to have given her aid
as a child where there was no parental recognition of the
relationship--an aid whose value in the eyes of the Bruces would have
consisted in the leisure it gave to Mrs Bruce for ministering more
devotedly in the temple of Mammon? I put the question, not quite sure
what the answer ought to be.
CHAPTER XLVI.
Now that Kate had got a companion, Alec never saw her alone. But he had
so much the better opportunity of knowing her. Miss Warner was a nice,
open-eyed, fair-faced English girl, with pleasant manners, and plenty
of speech; and although more shy than Kate--English girls being
generally more shy than Scotch girls--was yet ready enough to take her
share in conversation. Between the two, Alec soon learned how ignorant
he was in the things that most interest girls. Classics and mathematics
were not _very_ interesting to himself, and anatomy was not available.
He soon perceived that they were both fond of poetry; but if it was not
the best poetry, he was incapable of telling them so, although the few
lessons he had had were from a better mistress than either of them, and
with some better examples than they had learned to rejoice in.
The two girls had got hold of some volumes of Byron, and had read them
together at school, chiefly after retiring to the chamber they shared
together. The consequences were an unbounded admiration and a facility
of reference, with the use of emotional adjectives. Alec did not know a
single poem of that writer, except the one about the Assyrian coming
down like a wolf on the fold.
Determined, however, not to remain incapable of sympathizing with them,
he got copies of the various poems from the library of the college, and
for days studied Byron and anatomy--nothing else. Like all other young
men, he was absorbed, entranced, with the poems. Childe Harold he could
not read, but the tales were one fairy region after another. Their
power over young people is remarkable, but not more remarkable than the
fact that they almost invariably lose this power over the individual,
while they have as yet retained it over the race; for of all the
multitude which does homage at the shrine of the poet few linger long,
and fewer still, after the turmoil of life has yielded room for
thought, renew their homage. Most of those who make the attempt are
surprised--some of them troubled--at the discovery that the shrine can
work miracles no more. The Byron-fever is in fact a disease belonging
to youth, as the hooping-cough to childhood,--working some occult good
no doubt in the end. It has its origin, perhaps, in the fact that the
poet makes no demand either on the intellect or the conscience, but
confines himself to friendly intercourse with those passions whose
birth long precedes that of choice in their objects--whence a wealth of
emotion is squandered. It is long before we discover that far richer
feeling is the result of a regard bent on the profound and the pure.
Hence the chief harm the poems did Alec, consisted in the rousing of
his strongest feelings towards imaginary objects of inferior
excellence, with the necessary result of a tendency to measure the
worth of the passions themselves by their strength alone, and not by
their character--by their degree, and not by their kind. That they were
the forge-bellows, supplying the blast of the imagination to the fire
of love in which his life had begun to be remodelled, is not to be
counted among their injurious influences.
He had never hitherto meddled with his own thoughts or feelings--had
lived an external life to the most of his ability. Now, through falling
in love, and reading Byron, he began to know the existence of a world
of feeling, if not of thought; while his attempts at conversation with
the girls had a condensing if not crystallizing influence upon the
merely vaporous sensations which the poetry produced. All that was
wanted to give full force to the other influences in adding its own,
was the presence of the sultry evenings of summer, with the thunder
gathering in the dusky air. The cold days and nights of winter were now
swathing that brain, through whose aerial regions the clouds of
passion, driven on many shifting and opposing winds, were hurrying
along to meet in human thunder and human rain.
I will not weary my readers with the talk of three young people
enamoured of Byron. Of course the feelings the girls had about him
differed materially from those of Alec; so that a great many of the
replies and utterances met like unskilful tilters, whose staves passed
wide. In neither was the admiration much more than an uneasy delight in
the vivid though indistinct images of pleasure raised by the magic of
that "physical force of words" in which Byron excels all other English
poets, and in virtue of which, I presume, the French persist in
regarding Byron as our greatest poet, and in supposing that we agree
with them.
Alec gained considerably with Kate from becoming able to talk about her
favourite author, while she appeared to him more beautiful than
ever--the changes in the conversation constantly bringing out new
phases on her changeful countenance. He began to discover now what I
have already ventured to call the _fluidity_ of her expression; for he
was almost startled every time he saw her, by finding her different
from what he had expected to find her. Jean Paul somewhere makes a
lamentation over the fact that girls will never meet you in the morning
with the same friendliness with which they parted from you the night
before. But this was not the kind of change Alec found. She behaved
with perfect evenness to him, but always _looked_ different, so that he
felt as if he could never know her quite--which was a just conclusion,
and might have been arrived at upon less remarkable though more
important grounds. Occasionally he would read something of Byron's; and
it was a delight to him such as he had never known before, to see
Kate's strangely beautiful eyes flash with actual visible fire as he
read, or cloud over with mist and fill slowly with the dew of feeling.
No doubt he took more of the credit than belonged to him--which was
greedy, seeing poor Byron had none of the pleasure.
Had it not been for the help Mr Cupples gave him towards the end of the
session, he would have made a poor figure both in Greek and
mathematics. But he was so filled with the phantasm of Kate Fraser,
that, although not insensible of his obligation to Mr Cupples, he
regarded it lightly; and, ready to give his life for a smile from Kate,
took all his kindness, along with his drunken wisdom, as a matter of
course.
And when he next saw Annie and Curly, he did not speak to them quite so
heartily as on his former return.
CHAPTER XLVII.
In one or two of his letters, which were never very long, Alec had just
mentioned Kate; and now Mrs Forbes had many inquiries to make about
her. Old feelings and thoughts awoke in her mind, and made her wish to
see the daughter of her old companion. The absence of Annie, banished
once more at the suggestion of worldly prudence, but for whose quiet
lunar smile not even Alec's sunny presence could quite make up,
contributed no doubt to this longing after the new maiden. She wrote to
Mr Fraser, asking him to allow his niece to pay her a visit of a few
weeks; but she said nothing about it to Alec. The arrangement happened
to be convenient to Mr Fraser, who wished to accept an invitation
himself. It was now the end of April; and he proposed that the time
should be fixed for the beginning of June.
When this favourable response arrived, Mrs Forbes gave Alec the letter
to read, and saw the flush of delight that rose to his face as he
gathered the welcome news. Nor was this observation unpleasant to her;
for that Alec should at length marry one of her own people was a
grateful idea.
Alec sped away into the fields. To think that all these old familiar
places would one day be glorified by her presence! that the daisies
would bend beneath the foot of the goddess! and the everlasting hills
put on a veil of tenderness from the reflex radiance of her regard! A
flush of summer mantled over the face of nature, the flush of a deeper
summer than that of the year--of the joy that lies at the heart of all
summers. For a whole week of hail, sleet, and "watery sunbeams"
followed, and yet in the eyes of Alec the face of nature still glowed.
When, after long expectation, the day arrived, Alec could not rest. He
wandered about all day, haunting his mother as she prepared his room
for Kate, hurrying away with a sudden sense of the propriety of
indifference, and hurrying back on some cunning pretext, while his
mother smiled to herself at his eagerness and the transparency of his
artifice. At length, as the hour drew near, he could restrain himself
no longer. He rushed to the stable, saddled his pony, which was in
nearly as high spirits as himself, and galloped off to meet the mail.
The sun was nearing the west; a slight shower had just fallen; the
thanks of the thirsty earth were ascending in odour; and the wind was
too gentle to shake the drops from the leaves. To Alec, the wind of his
own speed was the river that bore her towards him; the odours were
wafted from her approach; and the sunset sleepiness around was the
exhaustion of the region that longed for her Cyther�an presence.
At last, as he turned a corner of the road, there was the coach; and he
had just time to wheel his pony about before it was up with him. A
little gloved hand greeted him; the window was let down; and the face
he had been longing for shone out lovelier than ever. There was no
inside passenger but herself; and, leaning with one hand on the
coach-door, he rode alongside till they drew near the place where the
gig was waiting for them, when he dashed on, gave his pony to the man,
was ready to help her as soon as the coach stopped, and so drove her
home in triumph to his mother.
Where the coach stopped, on the opposite side of the way, a grassy
field, which fell like a mantle from the shoulders of a hill crowned
with firs, sloped down to the edge of the road. From the coach, the sun
was hidden behind a thick clump of trees, but his rays, now red with
rich age, flowed in a wide stream over the grass, and shone on an old
Scotch fir which stood a yard or two from the highway, making its red
bark glow like the pools which the prophet saw in the desert. At the
foot of this tree sat Tibbie Dyster; and from her red cloak the level
sun-tide was thrown back in gorgeous glory; so that the eyeless woman,
who only felt the warmth of the great orb, seemed, in her effulgence of
luminous red, to be the light-fountain whence that torrent of
rubescence burst. From her it streamed up to the stem and along the
branches of the glowing fir; from her it streamed over the radiant
grass of the up-sloping field away towards the western sun. But the
only one who saw the splendour was a shoemaker, who rubbed his rosiny
hands together, and felt happy without knowing why.
Alec would have found it difficult to say whether or not he had seen
the red cloak. But from the shadowy side of it there were eyes shining
upon him, with a deeper and truer, if with a calmer, or, say, colder
devotion, than that with which he regarded Kate. The most powerful rays
that fall from the sun are neither those of colour nor those of
heat.--Annie sat by Tibbie's side--the side away from the sun. If the
East and the West might take human shape--come forth in their Oreads
from their hill-tops, and meet half-way between--there they were seated
side by side: Tibbie, old, scarred, blind Tibbie, was of the west and
the sunset, the centre of a blood-red splendour; cold, gentle Annie,
with her dark hair, blue eyes, and the sad wisdom of her pale face, was
of the sun-deserted east, between whose gray clouds, faintly smiling
back the rosiness of the sun's triumphal death, two or three cold stars
were waiting to glimmer.
Tibbie had come out to bask a little, and, in the dark warmth of the
material sun, to worship that Sun whose light she saw in the hidden
world of her heart, and who is the Sun of all the worlds; to breathe
the air, which, through her prison-bars, spoke of freedom; to give
herself room to long for the hour when the loving Father would take her
out of the husk which infolded her, and say to her: "_See, my child_."
With the rest of the travailing creation, she was groaning in hopeful
pain--not in the pain of the mother, but in the pain of the child, soon
to be forgotten in the following rest.
If my younger readers want to follow Kate and Alec home, they will take
it for a symptom of the chill approach of "unlovely age," that I say to
them: 'We will go home with Tibbie and Annie, and hear what they say. I
like better to tell you about ugly blind old Tibbie than about
beautiful young Kate.--But you shall have your turn. Do not think that
we old people do not care for what you care for. We want more than you
want--a something without which what you like best cannot last.'
"What did the coch stop for, Annie, lass?" asked Tibbie, as soon as the
mail had driven on.
"It's a lady gaein to Mistress Forbes's at Howglen."
"Hoo ken ye that?"
"'Cause Alec Forbes rade oot to meet her, and syne took her hame i' the
gig."
"Ay! ay! I thought I heard mair nor the ordinar nummer o' horse-feet as
the coch cam' up. He's a braw lad, that Alec Forbes�isna he?"
"Ay is he," answered Annie, sadly; not from jealousy, for her
admiration of Alec was from afar; but as looking up from purgatorial
exclusion to the paradise of Howglen, where the beautiful lady would
have all Mrs Forbes, and Alec too, to herself.
The old woman caught the tone, but misinterpreted it.
"I doobt," she said, "he winna get ony guid at that college."
"What for no?" returned Annie. "I was at the school wi' him, and never
saw onything to fin' fau't wi'."
"Ow na, lassie. Ye had naething to do fin'in' fau't wi' him. His father
was a douce man, an' maybe a God-fearin' man, though he made but sma'
profession. I think we're whiles ower sair upo' some o' them that
promises little, and maybe does the mair. Ye min' what ye read to me
afore we cam' oot thegither, aboot the lad that said till's father,
_I go not_; but afterwards he repented and gaed?"
"Ay."
"Weel, I think we'll gang hame noo."
They rose, and went, hand in hand, over the bridge, and round the end
of its parapet, and down the steep descent to the cottage at its foot,
Tibbie's cloak shining all the way, but, now that the sun was down,
with a chastened radiance. When she had laid it aside, and was seated
on her low wooden chair within reach of her spinning-wheel,
"Noo," said Tibbie, "ye'll jist read a chapter till me, lassie, afore
ye gang hame, and syne I s' gang to my bed. Blin'ness is a sair savin'
o' can'les."
She forgot that it was summer, when, in those northern regions, the
night has no time to gather before the sun is flashing again in the
east.
The chapter Annie chose was the ninth of St John's Gospel, about Jesus
curing the man blind from his birth. When she had finished, Annie said,
"Michtna he cure you, Tibbie, gin ye spiered at him?"
"Ay micht he, and ay will he," answered Tibbie. "I'm only jist bidin'
his time. But I'm thinkin' he'll cure me better yet nor he cured that
blin' man. He'll jist tak' the body aff o' me a'thegither, and syne
I'll see, no wi' een like yours, but wi' my haill speeritual body. Ye
min' that verse i' the prophecees o' Ezakiel: I ken't weel by hert. It
says: 'And their whole boady, and their backs, and their han's, and
their wings, and the wheels, were full of eyes roon aboot, even the
wheels that they four had.' Isna that a gran' text? I wiss Mr Turnbull
wad tak' it into his heid to preach frae that text sometime afore it
comes, which winna be that lang, I'm thinkin'. The wheels'll be
stoppin' at my door or lang."
"What gars ye think that, Tibbie? There's no sign o' deith aboot you,
I'm sure," said Annie.
"Weel, ye see, I canna weel say. Blin' fowk somehoo kens mair nor ither
fowk aboot things that the sicht o' the een has unco little to do wi'.
But never min'. I'm willin' to bide i' the dark as lang as He likes.
It's eneuch for ony bairn to ken that its father's stan'in' i' the
licht, and seein' a' aboot him, and sae weel able to guide hit, though
it kensna whaur to set doon its fit neist. And I wat He's i' the licht.
Ye min' that bit aboot the Lord pittin' Moses intil a clift o' the
rock, and syne coverin' him wi' his han' till he was by him?"
"Ay, fine that," answered Annie.
"Weel, I canna help thinkin' whiles, that the dark aboot me's jist the
how o' the Lord's han'; and I'm like Moses, only wi' this differ, that
whan the Lord tak's his han' aff o' me, it'll be to lat me luik i' the
face o' him, and no to lat me see only his back pairts, which was a'
that he had the sicht o'; for ye see Moses was i' the body, and cudna
bide the sicht o' the face o' God. I daursay it wad hae blin' 't him. I
hae heard that ower muckle licht'll ca fowk blin' whiles. What think
ye, lassie?"
"Ay; the lichtnin' blin's fowk whiles. And gin I luik straucht at the
sun, I can see nothing efter't for a whilie."
"I tell ye sae!" exclaimed Tibbie triumphantly. "And do ye min' the
veesion that the apostle John saw in Pawtmos? I reckon he micht hae
thocht lang there, a' him lane, gin it hadna been for the bonnie
things, and the gran' things, and the terrible things 'at the Lord loot
him see. They _war_ gran' sichts! It was the veesion o' the Saviour
himsel'--Christ himsel'; and he says that his coontenance was as the
sun shineth in his strength. What think ye o' that, lass!"
This was not a question, but an exulting exclamation. The vision in
Patmos proved that although Moses must not see the face of God because
of its brightness, a more favoured prophet might have the vision. And
Tibbie, who had a share in the privileges of the new covenant, who was
not under the law like Moses, but under grace like John, would one day
see the veil of her blindness shrivel away from before her deeper eyes,
burnt up by the glory of that face of God, which is a consuming
fire.--I suppose that Tibbie was right in the main. But was it not
another kind of brightness, a brightness without effulgence, a
brightness grander and more glorious, shining in love and patience, and
tenderness and forgiveness and excuse, that Moses was unfit to see,
because he was not well able to understand it, until, ages after, he
descended from heaven upon the Mount of Transfiguration, and the humble
son of God went up from the lower earth to meet him there, and talk
with him face to face as a man with his friend?
Annie went home to her garret. It was a singular experience the child
had in the changes that came to her with the seasons. The winter with
its frost and bitter winds brought her a home at Howglen; the summer,
whose airs were molten kisses, took it away, and gave her the face of
nature instead of the face of a human mother. For the snug little
chamber in which she heard with a quiet exultation the fierce rush of
the hail-scattering tempest against the window, or the fluffy fall of
the snow-flakes, like hands of fairy babies patting the glass, and
fancied herself out in the careering storm, hovering on the wings of
the wind over the house in which she lay soft and warm--she had now the
garret room, in which the curtainless bed, with its bare poles, looked
like a vessel in distress at sea, and through the roof of which the
winds found easy way. But the winds were warm now, and through the
skylight the sunbeams illuminated the floor, showing all the rat-holes
and wretchedness of decay.
There was comfort out of doors in the daytime--in the sky and the
fields and all the "goings-on of life." And this night, after this talk
with Tibbie, Annie did not much mind going back to the garret. Nor did
she lie awake to think about the beautiful lady Alec had taken home
with him.
And she dreamed again that she saw the Son of Man. There was a veil
over his face like the veil that Moses wore, but the face was so bright
that it almost melted the veil away, and she saw what made her love
that face more than the presence of Alec, more than the kindness of Mrs
Forbes or Dowie, more than the memory of her father.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
Alec did not fall asleep so soon. The thought that Kate was in the
house--asleep in the next room, kept him awake. Yet he woke the next
morning earlier than usual. There were bands of golden light upon the
wall, though Kate would not be awake for hours yet.
He sprung out of bed, and ran to the banks of the Glamour. Upon the
cold morning stream the sun-rays fell slanting and gentle. He plunged
in, and washed the dreams from his eyes with a dive, and a swim under
water. Then he rose to the surface and swam slowly about under the
overhanging willows, and earthy banks hollowed by the river's flow into
cold damp caves, up into the brown shadows of which the water cast a
flickering shimmer. Then he dressed himself, and lay down on the meadow
grass, each blade of which shadowed its neighbour in the slant
sunlight. Cool as it still was with the coldness of the vanished
twilight, it yet felt warm to his bare feet, fresh from the waters that
had crept down through the night from the high moor-lands. He fell fast
asleep, and the sheep came and fed about him, as if he had been one of
themselves. When he woke, the sun was high; and when he reached the
house, he found his mother and Kate already seated at breakfast--Kate
in the prettiest of cotton dresses, looking as fresh and country-like
as the morning itself. The window was open, and through the encircling
ivy, as through a filter of shadows, the air came fresh and cool.
Beyond the shadow of the house lay the sunshine, a warm sea of brooding
glory, of still power; not the power of flashing into storms of
splendour beneath strange winds, but of waking up and cherishing to
beauty the shy life that lay hidden in all remotest corners of the
teeming earth.
"What are you going to do with Kate to-day, Alec?" said his mother.
"Whatever Kate likes," answered Alec.
"I have no choice," returned Kate. "I don't know yet what I have to
choose between. I am in your hands, Alec."
It was the first time she had called him by his name, and a spear of
sunshine seemed to quiver in his heart. He was restless as a hyena till
she was ready. He then led her to the banks of the river, here low and
grassy, with plenty of wild flowers, and a low babblement everywhere.
"This is delightful," said Kate. "I will come here as often as you
like, and you shall read to me."
"What shall I read? Would you like one of Sir Walter's novels?"
"Just the thing."
Alec started at full speed for the house.
"Stop," cried Kate. "You are not going to leave me alone beside
this--talking water?"
"I thought you liked the water," said Alec.
"Yes. But I don't want to be left alone beside it. I will go with you,
and get some work."
She turned away from the stream with a strange backward look, and they
walked home.
But as Kate showed some disinclination to return to the river-side,
Alec put a seat for her near the house, in the shadow of a silver
birch, and threw himself on the grass at her feet. There he began to
read the _Antiquary_, only half understanding it, in the enchantment of
knowing that he was lying at her feet, and had only to look up to see
her eyes. At noon, Mrs Forbes sent them a dish of curds, and a great
jug of cream, with oatcakes, and butter soft from the churn; and the
rippling shadow of the birch played over the white curds and the golden
butter as they ate.
Am I not now fairly afloat upon the gentle stream of an idyl? Shall I
watch the banks as they glide past, and record each fairy-headed flower
that looks at its image in the wave? Or shall I mow them down and sweep
them together in a sentence?
I will gather a few of the flowers, and leave the rest. But first I
will make a remark or two upon the young people.
Those amongst my readers who have had the happiness to lead innocent
boy-lives, will know what a marvellous delight it was to Alec to have
this girl near him in his own home and his own haunts. He never
speculated on her character or nature, any more than Hamlet did about
those of Ophelia before he was compelled to doubt womankind. His own
principles were existent only in a latent condition, undeveloped from
good impulses and kind sentiments. For instance: he would help any one
whose necessity happened to make an impression upon him, but he never
took pains to enter into the feelings of others--to understand them
from their own point of view: he never had said to himself, "That is
another me."
Correspondent to this condition were some of Kate's theories of life
and its duties.
The question came up, whether a certain lady in fiction had done right
in running away with her lover. Mrs Forbes made a rather decided remark
on the subject. Kate said nothing, but her face glowed.
"Tell us what you think about it, Katie," said Mrs Forbes.
Katie was silent for a moment. Then with the air of a martyr, from whom
the rack can only extort a fuller confession of his faith--though I
fear she had no deeper gospel at the root of it than Byron had brought
her--she answered:
"I think a woman must give up everything for love."
She was then precisely of the same opinion as Jean Paul's Linda in
_Titan_.
"That is very true, I daresay," said Mrs Forbes; "but I fear you mean
only one kind of love. Does a woman owe no love to her father or mother
because she has a lover?"
To this plain question Kate made no reply, but her look changed to one
of obstinacy.
Her mother died when she was a child, and her father had kept himself
shut up in his study, leaving her chiefly to the care of a Shetland
nurse, who told her Scandinavian stories from morning to night, with
invention ever ready to supply any blank in the tablets of her memory.
Alec thought his mother's opinion the more to be approved, and Kate's
the more to be admired; showing the lack of entireness in his nature,
by thus dissociating the good and the admirable. That which is best
cannot be less admirable than that which is not best.
CHAPTER XLIX.
The next day saw Alec walking by the side of Kate mounted on his pony,
up a steep path to the top of one of the highest hills surrounding the
valley. It was a wild hill, with hardly anything growing on it but
heather, which would make it regal with purple in the autumn: no tree
could stand the blasts that blew over that hill in winter. Having
climbed to the topmost point, they stood and gazed. The country lay
outstretched beneath in the glow of the June day, while around them
flitted the cool airs of heaven. Above them rose the soaring blue of
the June sky, with a white cloud or two floating in it, and a blue peak
or two leaning its colour against it. Through the green grass and the
green corn below crept two silvery threads, meeting far away and
flowing in one--the two rivers which watered the valley of
Strathglamour. Between the rivers lay the gray stone town, with its
roofs of thatch and slate. One of its main streets stopped suddenly at
the bridge with the three arches above Tibbie's cottage; and at the
other end of the bridge lay the green fields.
The landscape was not one of the most beautiful, but it had a beauty of
its own, which is all a country or a woman needs; and Kate sat gazing
about her in evident delight. She had taken off her hat to feel the
wind, and her hair fell in golden heaps upon her shoulders, and the
wind and the sunbeams played at hide-and-seek in it.
In a moment the pleasure vanished from her face. It clouded over, while
the country lay full in the sun. Her eyes no longer looked wide abroad,
but expressed defeat and retirement. Listlessly she began to gather her
hair together.
"Do you ever feel as if you could not get room enough, Alec?" she said,
wearily.
"No, I don't," he answered, honestly and stupidly. "I have always as
much as I want. I should have thought you would--up here."
"I did feel satisfied for a moment; but it was only a moment. It is all
gone now. I shall never have room enough."
Alec had nothing to say in reply. He never had anything to give Kate
but love; and now he gave her more love. It was all he was rich in. But
she did not care for his riches. And so, after gazing a while, she
turned towards the descent. Alec picked up her hat, and took his place
at the pony's head. He was not so happy as he thought he should be.
Somehow she was of another order, and he could not understand her--he
could only worship her.
The whole of the hot afternoon they spent on the grass, whose mottling
of white 
Alec Forbes of Howglen / MacDonald, George, 1824-1905