Books: Robert Falconer

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'What ails the bairnie?' he asked.

'Ow, it's jist cuttin' its teeth. Gin it greits muckle, I maun jist
tak it oot to my mither. She'll sune quaiet it. Are ye haudin'
better?'

'Hoot, ay. I'm a' richt noo. Is yer mither shearin'?'

'Na. She's gatherin'. The shearin' 's some sair wark for her e'en
noo. I suld hae been shearin', but my mither wad fain hae a day o'
the hairst. She thocht it wud du her gude. But I s' warran' a day
o' 't 'll sair (satisfy) her, and I s' be at it the morn. She's
been unco dowie (ailing) a' the summer; and sae has the bairnie.'

'Ye maun hae had a sair time o' 't, than.'

'Ay, some. But I aye got some sleep. I jist tuik the towie
(string) into the bed wi' me, and whan the bairnie grat, I waukit,
an' rockit it till 't fell asleep again. But whiles naething wad du
but tak him till 's mammie.'

All the time she was hushing and fondling the child, who went on
fretting when not actually crying.

'Is he yer brither, than?' asked Robert.

'Ay, what ither? I maun tak him, I see. But ye can sit there as
lang 's ye like; and gin ye gang afore I come back, jist turn the
key 'i the door to lat onybody ken that there's naebody i' the
hoose.'

Robert thanked her, and remained in the shadow by the chimney, which
was formed of two smoke-browned planks fastened up the wall, one on
each side, and an inverted wooden funnel above to conduct the smoke
through the roof. He sat for some time gloomily gazing at a spot of
sunlight which burned on the brown clay floor. All was still as
death. And he felt the white-washed walls even more desolate than
if they had been smoke-begrimed.

Looking about him, he found over his head something which he did not
understand. It was as big as the stump of a great tree. Apparently
it belonged to the structure of the cottage, but he could not, in
the imperfect light, and the dazzling of the sun-spot at which he
had been staring, make out what it was, or how it came to be up
there--unsupported as far as he could see. He rose to examine it,
lifted a bit of tarpaulin which hung before it, and found a rickety
box, suspended by a rope from a great nail in the wall. It had two
shelves in it full of books.

Now, although there were more books in Mr. Lammie's house than in
his grandmother's, the only one he had found that in the least
enticed him to read, was a translation of George Buchanan's History
of Scotland. This he had begun to read faithfully, believing every
word of it, but had at last broken down at the fiftieth king or so.
Imagine, then, the moon that arose on the boy when, having pulled a
ragged and thumb-worn book from among those of James Hewson the
cottar, he, for the first time, found himself in the midst of The
Arabian Nights. I shrink from all attempt to set forth in words the
rainbow-coloured delight that coruscated in his brain. When Jessie
Hewson returned, she found him seated where she had left him, so
buried in his volume that he did not lift his head when she entered.

'Ye hae gotten a buik,' she said.

'Ay have I,' answered Robert, decisively.

'It's a fine buik, that. Did ye ever see 't afore?'

'Na, never.'

'There's three wolums o' 't about, here and there,' said Jessie; and
with the child on one arm, she proceeded with the other hand to
search for them in the crap o' the wa', that is, on the top of the
wall where the rafters rest.

There she found two or three books, which, after examining them, she
placed on the dresser beside Robert.

'There's nane o' them there,' she said; 'but maybe ye wad like to
luik at that anes.'

Robert thanked her, but was too busy to feel the least curiosity
about any book in the world but the one he was reading. He read on,
heart and soul and mind absorbed in the marvels of the eastern
skald; the stories told in the streets of Cairo, amidst gorgeous
costumes, and camels, and white-veiled women, vibrating here in the
heart of a Scotch boy, in the darkest corner of a mud cottage, at
the foot of a hill of cold-loving pines, with a barefooted girl and
a baby for his companions.

But the pleasure he had been having was of a sort rather to expedite
than to delay the subjective arrival of dinner-time. There was,
however, happily no occasion to go home in order to appease his
hunger; he had but to join the men and women in the barley-field:
there was sure to be enough, for Miss Lammie was at the head of the
commissariat.

When he had had as much milk-porridge as he could eat, and a good
slice of swack (elastic) cheese, with a cap (wooden bowl) of ale,
all of which he consumed as if the good of them lay in the haste of
their appropriation, he hurried back to the cottage, and sat there
reading The Arabian Nights, till the sun went down in the
orange-hued west, and the gloamin' came, and with it the reapers,
John and Elspet Hewson, and their son George, to their supper and
early bed.

John was a cheerful, rough, Roman-nosed, black-eyed man, who took
snuff largely, and was not careful to remove the traces of the
habit. He had a loud voice, and an original way of regarding
things, which, with his vivacity, made every remark sound like the
proclamation of a discovery.

'Are ye there, Robert?' said he, as he entered. Robert rose,
absorbed and silent.

'He's been here a' day, readin' like a colliginer,' said Jessie.

'What are ye readin' sae eident (diligent), man?' asked John.

'A buik o' stories, here,' answered Robert, carelessly, shy of being
supposed so much engrossed with them as he really was.

I should never expect much of a young poet who was not rather
ashamed of the distinction which yet he chiefly coveted. There is a
modesty in all young delight. It is wild and shy, and would hide
itself, like a boy's or maiden's first love, from the gaze of the
people. Something like this was Robert's feeling over The Arabian
Nights.

'Ay,' said John, taking snuff from a small bone spoon, 'it's a gran'
buik that. But my son Charley, him 'at 's deid an' gane hame, wad
hae tell't ye it was idle time readin' that, wi' sic a buik as that
ither lyin' at yer elbuck.'

He pointed to one of the books Jessie had taken from the crap o' the
wa' and laid down beside him on the well-scoured dresser. Robert
took up the volume and opened it. There was no title-page.

'The Tempest?' he said. 'What is 't? Poetry?'

'Ay is 't. It's Shackspear.'

'I hae heard o' him,' said Robert. 'What was he?'

'A player kin' o' a chiel', wi' an unco sicht o' brains,' answered
John. 'He cudna hae had muckle time to gang skelpin' and sornin'
aboot the country like maist o' thae cattle, gin he vrote a' that,
I'm thinkin'.'

'Whaur did he bide?'

'Awa' in Englan'--maistly aboot Lonnon, I'm thinkin'. That's the
place for a' by-ordinar fowk, they tell me.'

'Hoo lang is 't sin he deid?'

'I dinna ken. A hunner year or twa, I s' warran'. It's a lang
time. But I'm thinkin' fowk than was jist something like what they
are noo. But I ken unco little aboot him, for the prent 's some
sma', and I'm some ill for losin' my characters, and sae I dinna win
that far benn wi' him. Geordie there 'll tell ye mair aboot him.'

But George Hewson had not much to communicate, for he had but lately
landed in Shakspere's country, and had got but a little way inland
yet. Nor did Robert much care, for his head was full of The Arabian
Nights. This, however, was his first introduction to Shakspere.

Finding himself much at home, he stopped yet a while, shared in the
supper, and resumed his seat in the corner when the book was brought
out for worship. The iron lamp, with its wick of rush-pith, which
hung against the side of the chimney, was lighted, and John sat down
to read. But as his eyes and the print, too, had grown a little dim
with years, the lamp was not enough, and he asked for a
'fir-can'le.' A splint of fir dug from the peat-bog was handed to
him. He lighted it at the lamp, and held it in his hand over the
page. Its clear resinous flame enabled him to read a short psalm.
Then they sang a most wailful tune, and John prayed. If I were to
give the prayer as he uttered it, I might make my reader laugh,
therefore I abstain, assuring him only that, although full of long
words--amongst the rest, aspiration and ravishment--the prayer of
the cheerful, joke-loving cottar contained evidence of a degree of
religious development rare, I doubt, amongst bishops.

When Robert left the cottage, he found the sky partly clouded and
the air cold. The nearest way home was across the barley-stubble of
the day's reaping, which lay under a little hill covered with
various species of the pine. His own soul, after the restful day he
had spent, and under the reaction from the new excitement of the
stories he had been reading, was like a quiet, moonless night. The
thought of his mother came back upon him, and her written words, 'O
Lord, my heart is very sore'; and the thought of his father followed
that, and he limped slowly home, laden with mournfulness. As he
reached the middle of the field, the wind was suddenly there with a
low sough from out of the north-west. The heads of barley in the
sheaves leaned away with a soft rustling from before it; and Robert
felt for the first time the sadness of a harvest-field. Then the
wind swept away to the pine-covered hill, and raised a rushing and a
wailing amongst its thin-clad branches, and to the ear of Robert the
trees were singing over again in their night solitudes the air sung
by the cottar's family. When he looked to the north-west, whence
the wind came, he saw nothing but a pale cleft in the sky. The
meaning, the music of the night awoke in his soul; he forgot his
lame foot, and the weight of Mr. Lammie's great boots, ran home and
up the stair to his own room, seized his violin with eager haste,
nor laid it down again till he could draw from it, at will, a sound
like the moaning of the wind over the stubble-field. Then he knew
that he could play the Flowers of the Forest. The Wind that Shakes
the Barley cannot have been named from the barley after it was cut,
but while it stood in the field: the Flowers of the Forest was of
the gathered harvest.

He tried the air once over in the dark, and then carried his violin
down to the room where Mr. and Miss Lammie sat.

'I think I can play 't noo, Mr. Lammie,' he said abruptly.

'Play what, callant?' asked his host.

'The Flooers o' the Forest.'

'Play awa' than.'

And Robert played--not so well as he had hoped. I dare say it was a
humble enough performance, but he gave something at least of the
expression Mr. Lammie desired. For, the moment the tune was over,
he exclaimed,

'Weel dune, Robert man! ye'll be a fiddler some day yet!'

And Robert was well satisfied with the praise.

'I wish yer mother had been alive,' the farmer went on. 'She wad hae
been rael prood to hear ye play like that. Eh! she likit the fiddle
weel. And she culd play bonny upo' the piana hersel'. It was
something to hear the twa o' them playing thegither, him on the
fiddle--that verra fiddle o' 's father's 'at ye hae i' yer han'--and
her on the piana. Eh! but she was a bonnie wuman as ever I saw, an'
that quaiet! It's my belief she never thocht aboot her ain beowty
frae week's en' to week's en', and that's no sayin' little--is 't,
Aggy?'

'I never preten't ony richt to think aboot sic,' returned Miss
Lammie, with a mild indignation.

'That's richt, lass. Od, ye're aye i' the richt--though I say 't
'at sudna.'

Miss Lammie must indeed have been good-natured, to answer only with
a genuine laugh. Shargar looked explosive with anger. But Robert
would fain hear more of his mother.

'What was my mother like, Mr. Lammie?' he asked.

'Eh, my man! ye suld hae seen her upon a bonnie bay mere that yer
father gae her. Faith! she sat as straught as a rash, wi' jist a
hing i' the heid o' her, like the heid o' a halm o' wild aits.'

'My father wasna that ill till her than?' suggested Robert.

'Wha ever daured say sic a thing?' returned Mr. Lammie, but in a
tone so far from satisfactory to Robert, that he inquired no more in
that direction.

I need hardly say that from that night Robert was more than ever
diligent with his violin.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE DRAGON.

Next day, his foot was so much better that he sent Shargar to
Rothieden to buy the string, taking with him Robert's school-bag, in
which to carry off his Sunday shoes; for as to those left at Dooble
Sanny's, they judged it unsafe to go in quest of them: the soutar
could hardly be in a humour fit to be intruded upon.

Having procured the string, Shargar went to Mrs. Falconer's.
Anxious not to encounter her, but, if possible, to bag the boots
quietly, he opened the door, peeped in, and seeing no one, made his
way towards the kitchen. He was arrested, however, as he crossed
the passage by the voice of Mrs. Falconer calling, 'Wha's that?'
There she was at the parlour door. It paralyzed him. His first
impulse was to make a rush and escape. But the boots--he could not
go without at least an attempt upon them. So he turned and faced
her with inward trembling.

'Wha's that?' repeated the old lady, regarding him fixedly. 'Ow,
it's you! What duv ye want? Ye camna to see me, I'm thinkin'!
What hae ye i' that bag?'

'I cam to coff (buy) twine for the draigon,' answered Shargar.

'Ye had twine eneuch afore!'

'It bruik. It wasna strang eneuch.'

'Whaur got ye the siller to buy mair? Lat's see 't?'

Shargar took the string from the bag.

'Sic a sicht o' twine! What paid ye for 't?'

'A shillin'.'

'Whaur got ye the shillin'?'

'Mr. Lammie gae 't to Robert.'

'I winna hae ye tak siller frae naebody. It's ill mainners. Hae!'
said the old lady, putting her hand in her pocket, and taking out a
shilling. 'Hae,' she said. 'Gie Mr. Lammie back his shillin', an'
tell 'im 'at I wadna hae ye learn sic ill customs as tak siller.
It's eneuch to gang sornin' upon 'im (exacting free quarters) as ye
du, ohn beggit for siller. Are they a' weel?'

'Ay, brawly,' answered Shargar, putting the shilling in his pocket.

In another moment Shargar had, without a word of adieu, embezzled
the shoes, and escaped from the house without seeing Betty. He went
straight to the shop he had just left, and bought another shilling's
worth of string.

When he got home, he concealed nothing from Robert, whom he found
seated in the barn, with his fiddle, waiting his return.

Robert started to his feet. He could appropriate his grandfather's
violin, to which, possibly, he might have shown as good a right as
his grandmother--certainly his grandfather would have accorded it
him--but her money was sacred.

'Shargar, ye vratch!' he cried, 'fess that shillin' here direckly.
Tak the twine wi' ye, and gar them gie ye back the shillin'.'

'They winna brak the bargain,' cried Shargar, beginning almost to
whimper, for a savoury smell of dinner was coming across the yard.

'Tell them it's stown siller, and they'll be in het watter aboot it
gin they dinna gie ye 't back.'

'I maun hae my denner first,' remonstrated Shargar.

But the spirit of his grandmother was strong in Robert, and in a
matter of rectitude there must be no temporizing. Therein he could
be as tyrannical as the old lady herself.

'De'il a bite or a sup s' gang ower your thrapple till I see that
shillin'.'

There was no help for it. Six hungry miles must be trudged by
Shargar ere he got a morsel to eat. Two hours and a half passed
before he reappeared. But he brought the shilling. As to how he
recovered it, Robert questioned him in vain. Shargar, in his turn,
was obstinate.

'She's a some camstairy (unmanageable) wife, that grannie o' yours,'
said Mr. Lammie, when Robert returned the shilling with Mrs.
Falconer's message, 'but I reckon I maun pit it i' my pooch, for she
will hae her ain gait, an' I dinna want to strive wi' her. But gin
ony o' ye be in want o' a shillin' ony day, lads, as lang 's I'm
abune the yird--this ane 'll be grown twa, or maybe mair, 'gen that
time.'

So saying, the farmer put the shilling into his pocket, and buttoned
it up.

The dragon flew splendidly now, and its strength was mighty. It was
Robert's custom to drive a stake in the ground, slanting against the
wind, and thereby tether the animal, as if it were up there grazing
in its own natural region. Then he would lie down by the stake and
read The Arabian Nights, every now and then casting a glance upward
at the creature alone in the waste air, yet all in his power by the
string at his side. Somehow the high-flown dragon was a bond
between him and the blue; he seemed nearer to the sky while it flew,
or at least the heaven seemed less far away and inaccessible. While
he lay there gazing, all at once he would find that his soul was up
with the dragon, feeling as it felt, tossing about with it in the
torrents of the air. Out at his eyes it would go, traverse the dim
stairless space, and sport with the wind-blown monster. Sometimes,
to aid his aspiration, he would take a bit of paper, make a hole in
it, pass the end of the string through the hole, and send the
messenger scudding along the line athwart the depth of the wind. If
it stuck by the way, he would get a telescope of Mr. Lammie's, and
therewith watch its struggles till it broke loose, then follow it
careering up to the kite. Away with each successive paper his
imagination would fly, and a sense of air, and height, and freedom
settled from his play into his very soul, a germ to sprout
hereafter, and enrich the forms of his aspirations. And all his
after-memories of kite-flying were mingled with pictures of eastern
magnificence, for from the airy height of the dragon his eyes always
came down upon the enchanted pages of John Hewson's book.

Sometimes, again, he would throw down his book, and sitting up with
his back against the stake, lift his bonny leddy from his side, and
play as he had never played in Rothieden, playing to the dragon
aloft, to keep him strong in his soaring, and fierce in his battling
with the winds of heaven. Then he fancied that the monster swooped
and swept in arcs, and swayed curving to and fro, in rhythmic
response to the music floating up through the wind.

What a full globated symbolism lay then around the heart of the boy
in his book, his violin, his kite!

CHAPTER XXII.

DR. ANDERSON.

One afternoon, as they were sitting at their tea, a footstep in the
garden approached the house, and then a figure passed the window.
Mr. Lammie started to his feet.

'Bless my sowl, Aggy! that's Anderson!' he cried, and hurried to the
door.

His daughter followed. The boys kept their seats. A loud and
hearty salutation reached their ears; but the voice of the farmer
was all they heard. Presently he returned, bringing with him the
tallest and slenderest man Robert had ever seen. He was
considerably over six feet, with a small head, and delicate, if not
fine features, a gentle look in his blue eyes, and a slow clear
voice, which sounded as if it were thinking about every word it
uttered. The hot sun of India seemed to have burned out everything
self-assertive, leaving him quietly and rather sadly contemplative.

'Come in, come in,' repeated Mr. Lammie, overflowing with glad
welcome. 'What'll ye hae? There's a frien' o' yer ain,' he
continued, pointing to Robert, 'an' a fine lad.' Then lowering his
voice, he added: 'A son o' poor Anerew's, ye ken, doctor.'

The boys rose, and Dr. Anderson, stretching his long arms across the
table, shook hands kindly with Robert and Shargar. Then he sat down
and began to help himself to the cakes (oat-cake), at which Robert
wondered, seeing there was 'white breid' on the table. Miss Lammie
presently came in with the teapot and some additional dainties, and
the boys took the opportunity of beginning at the beginning again.

Dr. Anderson remained for a few days at Bodyfauld, sending Shargar
to Rothieden for some necessaries from The Boar's Head, where he had
left his servant and luggage. During this time Mr. Lammie was much
occupied with his farm affairs, anxious to get his harvest in as
quickly as possible, because a change of weather was to be dreaded;
so the doctor was left a good deal to himself. He was fond of
wandering about, but, thoughtful as he was, did not object to the
companionship which Robert implicitly offered him: before many hours
were over, the two were friends.

Various things attracted Robert to the doctor. First, he was a
relation of his own, older than himself, the first he had known
except his father, and Robert's heart was one of the most dutiful.
Second, or perhaps I ought to have put this first, he was the only
gentleman, except Eric Ericson, whose acquaintance he had yet made.
Third, he was kind to him, and gentle to him, and, above all,
respectful to him; and to be respected was a new sensation to Robert
altogether. And lastly, he could tell stories of elephants and
tiger hunts, and all The Arabian Nights of India. He did not
volunteer much talk, but Robert soon found that he could draw him
out.

But what attracted the man to the boy?

'Ah! Robert,' said the doctor one day, sadly, 'it's a sore thing to
come home after being thirty years away.'

He looked up at the sky, then all around at the hills: the face of
Nature alone remained the same. Then his glance fell on Robert, and
he saw a pair of black eyes looking up at him, brimful of tears.
And thus the man was drawn to the boy.

Robert worshipped Dr. Anderson. As long as he remained their
visitor, kite and violin and all were forgotten, and he followed him
like a dog. To have such a gentleman for a relation, was grand
indeed. What could he do for him? He ministered to him in all
manner of trifles--a little to the amusement of Dr. Anderson, but
more to his pleasure, for he saw that the boy was both large-hearted
and lowly-minded: Dr. Anderson had learned to read character, else
he would never have been the honour to his profession that he was.

But all the time Robert could not get him to speak about his father.
He steadily avoided the subject.

When he went away, the two boys walked with him to The Boar's Head,
caught a glimpse of his Hindoo attendant, much to their wonderment,
received from the doctor a sovereign apiece and a kind good-bye, and
returned to Bodyfauld.

Dr. Anderson remained a few days longer at Rothieden, and amongst
others visited Mrs. Falconer, who was his first cousin. What passed
between them Robert never heard, nor did his grandmother even allude
to the visit. He went by the mail-coach from Rothieden to Aberdeen,
and whether he should ever see him again Robert did not know.

He flew his kite no more for a while, but betook himself to the work
of the harvest-field, in which he was now able for a share. But his
violin was no longer neglected.

Day after day passed in the delights of labour, broken for Robert by
The Arabian Nights and the violin, and for Shargar by attendance
upon Miss Lammie, till the fields lay bare of their harvest, and the
night-wind of autumn moaned everywhere over the vanished glory of
the country, and it was time to go back to school.

CHAPTER XXIII.

AN AUTO DA FÉ.

The morning at length arrived when Robert and Shargar must return to
Rothieden. A keen autumnal wind was blowing far-off feathery clouds
across a sky of pale blue; the cold freshened the spirits of the
boys, and tightened their nerves and muscles, till they were like
bow-strings. No doubt the winter was coming, but the sun, although
his day's work was short and slack, was still as clear as ever. So
gladsome was the world, that the boys received the day as a fresh
holiday, and strenuously forgot to-morrow. The wind blew straight
from Rothieden, and between sun and wind a bright thought awoke in
Robert. The dragon should not be carried--he should fly home.

After they had said farewell, in which Shargar seemed to suffer more
than Robert, and had turned the corner of the stable, they heard the
good farmer shouting after them,

'There'll be anither hairst neist year, boys,' which wonderfully
restored their spirits. When they reached the open road, Robert
laid his violin carefully into a broom-bush. Then the tail was
unrolled, and the dragon ascended steady as an angel whose work is
done. Shargar took the stick at the end of the string, and Robert
resumed his violin. But the creature was hard to lead in such a
wind; so they made a loop on the string, and passed it round
Shargar's chest, and he tugged the dragon home. Robert longed to
take his share in the struggle, but he could not trust his violin to
Shargar, and so had to walk beside ingloriously. On the way they
laid their plans for the accommodation of the dragon. But the
violin was the greater difficulty. Robert would not hear of the
factory, for reasons best known to himself, and there were serious
objections to taking it to Dooble Sanny. It was resolved that the
only way was to seize the right moment, and creep upstairs with it
before presenting themselves to Mrs. Falconer. Their intended
manœuvres with the kite would favour the concealment of this stroke.