the first really summer weather came, Mr. Lammie one day paid Mrs. Falconer a second visit. He had not been able to get over the remembrance of the desolation in which he had left her. But he could do nothing for her, he thought, till it was warm weather. He was accompanied by his daughter, a woman approaching the further verge of youth, bulky and florid, and as full of tenderness as her large frame could hold. After much, and, for a long time, apparently useless persuasion, they at last believed they had prevailed upon her to pay them a visit for a fortnight. But she had only retreated within another of her defences.
‘I canna leave thae twa laddies alane. They wad be up to a’ mischeef.’
‘There’s Betty to luik efter them,’ suggested Miss Lammie.
‘Betty!’ returned Mrs. Falconer, with scorn. ‘Betty’s naething but a bairn hersel’—muckler and waur faured (worse favoured).’
‘But what for shouldna ye fess the lads wi’ ye?’ suggested Mr. Lammie.
‘I hae no richt to burden you wi’ them.’
‘Weel, I hae aften wonnert what gart ye burden yersel’ wi’ that Shargar, as I understan’ they ca’ him,’ said Mr. Lammie.
‘Jist naething but a bit o’ greed,’ returned the old lady, with the nearest approach to a smile that had shown itself upon her face since Mr. Lammie’s last visit.
‘I dinna understan’ that, Mistress Faukner,’ said Miss Lammie.
‘I’m sae sure o’ haein’ ‘t back again, ye ken,—wi’ interest,’ returned Mrs. Falconer.
‘Hoo’s that? His father winna con ye ony thanks for haudin’ him in life.’
‘He that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord, ye ken, Miss Lammie.’
‘Atweel, gin ye like to lippen to that bank, nae doobt ae way or anither it’ll gang to yer accoont,’ said Miss Lammie.
‘It wad ill become us, ony gait,’ said her father, ‘nae to gie him shelter for your sake, Mrs. Faukner, no to mention ither names, sin’ it’s yer wull to mak the puir lad ane o’ the family.—They say his ain mither’s run awa’ an’ left him.’
‘’Deed she’s dune that.’
‘Can ye mak onything o’ ‘im?’
‘He’s douce eneuch. An’ Robert says he does nae that ill at the schuil.’
‘Weel, jist fess him wi’ ye. We’ll hae some place or ither to put him intil, gin it suld be only a shak’-doon upo’ the flure.’
‘Na, na. There’s the schuilin’—what’s to be dune wi’ that?’
‘They can gang i’ the mornin’, and get their denner wi’ Betty here; and syne come hame to their fower-hoors (four o’clock tea) whan the schule’s ower i’ the efternune. ‘Deed, mem, ye maun jist come for the sake o’ the auld frien’ship atween the faimilies.’
‘Weel, gin it maun be sae, it maun be sae,’ yielded Mrs. Falconer, with a sigh.
She had not left her own house for a single night for ten years. Nor is it likely she would have now given in, for immovableness was one of the most marked of her characteristics, had she not been so broken by mental suffering, that she did not care much about anything, least of all about herself.
Innumerable were the instructions in propriety of behaviour which she gave the boys in prospect of this visit. The probability being that they would behave just as well as at home, these instructions were considerably unnecessary, for Mrs. Falconer was a strict enforcer of all social rules. Scarcely less unnecessary were the directions she gave as to the conduct of Betty, who received them all in erect submission, with her hands under her apron. She ought to have been a young girl instead of an elderly woman, if there was any propriety in the way her mistress spoke to her. It proved at least her own belief in the description she had given of her to Miss Lammie.
‘Noo, Betty, ye maun be dooce. An’ dinna stan’ at the door i’ the gloamin’. An’ dinna stan’ claikin’ an’ jawin’ wi’ the ither lasses whan ye gang to the wall for watter. An’ whan ye gang intil a chop, dinna hae them sayin’ ahint yer back, as sune’s yer oot again, “She’s her ain mistress by way o’,” or sic like. An’ min’ ye hae worship wi’ yersel’, whan I’m nae here to hae ‘t wi’ ye. Ye can come benn to the parlour gin ye like. An’ there’s my muckle Testament. And dinna gie the lads a’ thing they want. Gie them plenty to ait, but no ower muckle. Fowk suld aye lea’ aff wi’ an eppiteet.’
Mr. Lammie brought his gig at last, and took grannie away to Bodyfauld. When the boys returned from school at the dinner-hour, it was to exult in a freedom which Robert had never imagined before. But even he could not know what a relief it was to Shargar to eat without the awfully calm eyes of Mrs. Falconer watching, as it seemed to him, the progress of every mouthful down that capacious throat of his. The old lady would have been shocked to learn how the imagination of the ill-mothered lad interpreted her care over him, but she would not have been surprised to know that the two were merry in her absence. She knew that, in some of her own moods, it would be a relief to think that that awful eye of God was not upon her. But she little thought that even in the lawless proceedings about to follow, her Robert, who now felt such a relief in her absence, would be walking straight on, though blindly, towards a sunrise of faith, in which he would know that for the eye of his God to turn away from him for one moment would be the horror of the outer darkness.
Merriment, however, was not in Robert’s thoughts, and still less was mischief. For the latter, whatever his grandmother might think, he had no capacity. The world was already too serious, and was soon to be too beautiful for mischief. After that, it would be too sad, and then, finally, until death, too solemn glad. The moment he heard of his grandmother’s intended visit, one wild hope and desire and intent had arisen within him.
When Betty came to the parlour door to lay the cloth for their dinner, she found it locked.
‘Open the door!’ she cried, but cried in vain. From impatience she passed to passion; but it was of no avail: there came no more response than from the shrine of the deaf Baal. For to the boys it was an opportunity not at any risk to be lost. Dull Betty never suspected what they were about. They were ranging the place like two tiger-cats whose whelps had been carried off in their absence—questing, with nose to earth and tail in air, for the scent of their enemy. My simile has carried me too far: it was only a dead old gentleman’s violin that a couple of boys was after—but with what eagerness, and, on the part of Robert, what alternations of hope and fear! And Shargar was always the reflex of Robert, so far as Shargar could reflect Robert. Sometimes Robert would stop, stand still in the middle of the room, cast a mathematical glance of survey over its cubic contents, and then dart off in another inwardly suggested direction of search. Shargar, on the other hand, appeared to rummage blindly without a notion of casting the illumination of thought upon the field of search. Yet to him fell the success. When hope was growing dim, after an hour and a half of vain endeavour, a scream of utter discordance heralded the resurrection of the lady of harmony. Taught by his experience of his wild mother’s habits to guess at those of douce Mrs. Falconer, Shargar had found the instrument in her bed at the foot, between the feathers and the mattress. For one happy moment Shargar was the benefactor, and Robert the grateful recipient of favour. Nor, I do believe, was this thread of the still thickening cable that bound them ever forgotten: broken it could not be.
Robert drew the recovered treasure from its concealment, opened the case with trembling eagerness, and was stooping, with one hand on the neck of the
