Grannie's first action every evening, the moment the boys entered the
room, was to glance up at the clock, that she might see whether they had
arrived in reasonable time. This was not pleasant, because it admonished
Robert how impossible it was for him to have a lesson on his own violin
so long as the visit to Bodyfauld lasted. If they had only been allowed
to sleep at Rothieden, what a universe of freedom would have been
theirs! As it was, he had but two hours to himself, pared at both ends,
in the middle of the day. Dooble Sanny might have given him a lesson
at that time, but he did not dare to carry his instrument through the
streets of Rothieden, for the proceeding would be certain to come to
his grandmother's ears. Several days passed indeed before he made up his
mind as to how he was to reap any immediate benefit from the recovery
of the violin. For after he had made up his mind to run the risk of
successive mid-day solos in the old factory--he was not prepared to
carry the instrument through the streets, or be seen entering the place
with it.
But the factory lay at the opposite corner of a quadrangle of gardens,
the largest of which belonged to itself; and the corner of this garden
touched the corner of Captain Forsyth's, which had formerly belonged
to Andrew Falconer: he had had a door made in the walls at the point of
junction, so that he could go from his house to his business across
his own property: if this door were not locked, and Robert could pass
without offence, what a north-west passage it would be for him! The
little garden belonging to his grandmother's house had only a slight
wooden fence to divide it from the other, and even in this fence there
was a little gate: he would only have to run along Captain Forsyth's top
walk to reach the door. The blessed thought came to him as he lay in bed
at Bodyfauld: he would attempt the passage the very next day.
With his violin in its paper under his arm, he sped like a hare from
gate to door, found it not even latched, only pushed to and rusted into
such rest as it was dangerous to the hinges to disturb. He opened it,
however, without any accident, and passed through; then closing it
behind him, took his way more leisurely through the tangled grass of
his grandmother's property. When he reached the factory, he judged it
prudent to search out a more secret nook, one more full of silence, that
is, whence the sounds would be less certain to reach the ears of the
passers by, and came upon a small room, near the top, which had been the
manager's bedroom, and which, as he judged from what seemed the signs of
ancient occupation, a cloak hanging on the wall, and the ashes of a
fire lying in the grate, nobody had entered for years: it was the safest
place in the world. He undid his instrument carefully, tuned its strings
tenderly, and soon found that his former facility, such as it was, had
not ebbed away beyond recovery. Hastening back as he came, he was just
in time for his dinner, and narrowly escaped encountering Betty in the
transe. He had been tempted to leave the instrument, but no one could
tell what might happen, and to doubt would be to be miserable with
anxiety.
He did the same for several days without interruption--not, however,
without observation. When, returning from his fourth visit, he opened
the door between the gardens, he started back in dismay, for there stood
the beautiful lady.
Robert hesitated for a moment whether to fly or speak. He was a Lowland
country boy, and therefore rude of speech, but he was three parts a
Celt, and those who know the address of the Irish or of the Highlanders,
know how much that involves as to manners and bearing. He advanced the
next instant and spoke.
'I beg yer pardon, mem. I thoucht naebody wad see me. I haena dune nae
ill.'
'I had not the least suspicion of it, I assure you,' returned Miss St.
John. 'But, tell me, what makes you go through here always at the same
hour with the same parcel under your arm?'
'Ye winna tell naebody--will ye, mem, gin I tell you?'
Miss St. John, amused, and interested besides in the contrast between
the boy's oddly noble face and good bearing on the one hand, and on the
other the drawl of his bluntly articulated speech and the coarseness of
his tone, both seeming to her in the extreme of provincialism, promised;
and Robert, entranced by all the qualities of her voice and speech, and
nothing disenchanted by the nearer view of her lovely face, confided in
her at once.
'Ye see, mem,' he said, 'I cam' upo' my grandfather's fiddle. But my
grandmither thinks the fiddle's no gude. And sae she tuik and she hed
it. But I faun't it again. An' I daurna play i' the hoose, though my
grannie's i' the country, for Betty hearin' me and tellin' her. And sae
I gang to the auld fact'ry there. It belangs to my grannie, and sae does
the yaird (garden). An' this hoose and yaird was ance my father's, and
sae he had that door throu, they tell me. An' I thocht gin it suld be
open, it wad be a fine thing for me, to haud fowk ohn seen me. But it
was verra ill-bred to you, mem, I ken, to come throu your yaird ohn
speirt leave. I beg yer pardon, mem, an' I'll jist gang back, and roon'
by the ro'd. This is my fiddle I hae aneath my airm. We bude to pit back
the case o' 't whaur it was afore, i' my grannie's bed, to haud her ohn
kent 'at she had tint the grup o' 't.'
Certainly Miss St. John could not have understood the half of the words
Robert used, but she understood his story notwithstanding. Herself an
enthusiast in music, her sympathies were at once engaged for the awkward
boy who was thus trying to steal an entrance into the fairy halls
of sound. But she forbore any further allusion to the violin for the
present, and contented herself with assuring Robert that he was heartily
welcome to go through the garden as often as he pleased. She accompanied
her words with a smile that made Robert feel not only that she was
the most beautiful of all princesses in fairy-tales, but that she had
presented him with something beyond price in the most self-denying
manner. He took off his cap, thanked her with much heartiness, if not
with much polish, and hastened to the gate of his grandmother's little
garden. A few years later such an encounter might have spoiled his
dinner: I have to record no such evil result of the adventure.
With Miss St. John, music was the highest form of human expression, as
must often be the case with those whose feeling is much in advance of
their thought, and to whom, therefore, may be called mental sensation
is the highest known condition. Music to such is poetry in solution, and
generates that infinite atmosphere, common to both musician and poet,
which the latter fills with shining worlds.--But if my reader wishes to
follow out for himself the idea herein suggested, he must be careful to
make no confusion between those who feel musically or think poetically,
and the musician or the poet. One who can only play the music of others,
however exquisitely, is not a musician, any more than one who can read
verse to the satisfaction, or even expound it to the enlightenment of
the poet himself, is therefore a poet.--When Miss St. John would worship
God, it was in music that she found the chariot of fire in which to
ascend heavenward. Hence music was the divine thing in the world for
her; and to find any one loving music humbly and faithfully was to find
a brother or sister believer. But she had been so often disappointed in
her expectations from those she took to be such, that of late she had
become less sanguine. Still there was something about this boy that
roused once more her musical hopes; and, however she may have restrained
herself from the full indulgence of them, certain it is that the next
day, when she saw Robert pass, this time leisurely, along the top of the
garden, she put on her bonnet and shawl, and, allowing him time to reach
his den, followed him, in the hope of finding out whether or not he
could play. I do not know what proficiency the boy had attained, very
likely not much, for a man can feel the music of his own bow, or of his
own lines, long before any one else can discover it. He had already made
a path, not exactly worn one, but trampled one, through the neglected
grass, and Miss St. John had no difficulty in finding his entrance to
the factory.
She felt a little eerie, as Robert would have called it, when she passed
into the waste silent place; for besides the wasteness and the silence,
motionless machines have a look of death about them, at least when they
bear such signs of disuse as those that filled these rooms. Hearing no
violin, she waited for a while in the ground-floor of the building; but
still hearing nothing, she ascended to the first floor. Here, likewise,
all was silence. She hesitated, but at length ventured up the next
stair, beginning, however, to feel a little troubled as well as eerie,
the silence was so obstinately persistent. Was it possible that there
was no violin in that brown paper? But that boy could not be a liar.
Passing shelves piled-up with stores of old thread, she still went on,
led by a curiosity stronger than her gathering fear. At last she came
to a little room, the door of which was open, and there she saw Robert
lying on the floor with his head in a pool of blood.
Now Mary St. John was both brave and kind; and, therefore, though not
insensible to the fact that she too must be in danger where violence had
been used to a boy, she set about assisting him at once. His face was
deathlike, but she did not think he was dead. She drew him out into the
passage, for the room was close, and did all she could to recover him;
but for some time he did not even breathe. At last his lips moved, and
he murmured,
'Sandy, Sandy, ye've broken my bonnie leddy.'
Then he opened his eyes, and seeing a face to dream about bending in
kind consternation over him, closed them again with a smile and a sigh,
as if to prolong his dream.
The blood now came fast into his forsaken cheeks, and began to flow
again from the wound in his head. The lady bound it up with her
handkerchief. After a little he rose, though with difficulty, and stared
wildly about him, saying, with imperfect articulation, 'Father! father!'
Then he looked at Miss St. John with a kind of dazed inquiry in his
eyes, tried several times to speak, and could not.
'Can you walk at all?' asked Miss St. John, supporting him, for she was
anxious to leave the place.
'Yes, mem, weel eneuch,' he answered.
'Come along, then. I will help you home.'
'Na, na,' he said, as if he had just recalled something. 'Dinna min' me.
Rin hame, mem, or he'll see ye!'
'Who will see me?'
Robert stared more wildly, put his hand to his head, and made no reply.
She half led, half supported him down the stair, as far as the first
landing, when he cried out in a tone of anguish,
'My bonny leddy!'
'What is it?' asked Miss St. John, thinking he meant her.
'My fiddle! my fiddle! She 'll be a' in bits,' he answered, and turned
to go up again.
'Sit down here,' said Miss St. John, 'and I'll fetch it.'
Though not without some tremor, she darted back to the room. Then she
turned faint for the first time, but determinedly supporting herself,
she looked about, saw a brown-paper parcel on a shelf, took it, and
hurried out with a shudder.
Robert stood leaning against the wall. He stretched out his hands
eagerly.
'Gie me her. Gie me her.'
'You had better let me carry it. You are not able.'
'Na, na, mem. Ye dinna ken hoo easy she is to hurt.'
'Oh, yes, I do!' returned Miss St. John, smiling, and Robert could not
withstand the smile.
'Weel, tak care o' her, as ye wad o' yer ain sel', mem,' he said,
yielding.
He was now much better, and before he had been two minutes in the
open air, insisted that he was quite well. When they reached Captain
Forsyth's garden he again held out his hands for his violin.
'No, no,' said his new friend. 'You wouldn't have Betty see you like
that, would you?'
'No, mem; but I'll put in the fiddle at my ain window, and she sanna
hae a chance o' seein' 't,' answered Robert, not understanding her;
for though he felt a good deal of pain, he had no idea what a dreadful
appearance he presented.
'Don't you know that you have a wound on your head?' asked Miss St.
John.
'Na! hev I?' said Robert, putting up his hand. 'But I maun gang--there's
nae help for 't,' he added.--'Gin I cud only win to my ain room ohn
Betty seen me!--Eh! mem, I hae blaudit (spoiled) a' yer bonny goon.
That's a sair vex.'
'Never mind it,' returned Miss St. John, smiling. 'It is of no
consequence. But you must come with me. I must see what I can do for
your head. Poor boy!'
'Eh, mem! but ye are kin'! Gin ye speik like that ye'll gar me greit.
Naebody ever spak' to me like that afore. Maybe ye kent my mamma. Ye're
sae like her.'
This word mamma was the only remnant of her that lingered in his speech.
Had she lived he would have spoken very differently. They were now
walking towards the house.
'No, I did not know your mamma. Is she dead?'
'Lang syne, mem. And sae they tell me is yours.'
'Yes; and my father too. Your father is alive, I hope?'
Robert made no answer. Miss St. John turned.
The boy had a strange look, and seemed struggling with something in his
throat. She thought he was going to faint again, and hurried him into
the drawing-room. Her aunt had not yet left her room, and her uncle was
out.
'Sit down,' she said--so kindly--and Robert sat down on the edge of
a chair. Then she left the room, but presently returned with a little
brandy. 'There,' she said, offering the glass, 'that will do you good.'
'What is 't, mem?'
'Brandy. There's water in it, of course.'
'I daurna touch 't. Grannie cudna bide me to touch 't,'
So determined was he, that Miss St. John was forced to yield. Perhaps
she wondered that the boy who would deceive his grandmother about a
violin should be so immovable in regarding her pleasure in the matter of
a needful medicine. But in this fact I begin to see the very Falconer of
my manhood's worship.
'Eh, mem! gin ye wad play something upo' her,' he resumed, pointing
to the piano, which, although he had never seen one before, he at once
recognized, by some hidden mental operation, as the source of the sweet
sounds heard at the window, 'it wad du me mair guid than a haill bottle
o' brandy, or whusky either.'
'How do you know that?' asked Miss St. John, proceeding to sponge the
wound.
''Cause mony's the time I hae stud oot there i' the street, hearkenin'.
Dooble Sanny says 'at ye play jist as gin ye war my gran'father's fiddle
hersel', turned into the bonniest cratur ever God made.'
'How did you get such a terrible cut?'
She had removed the hair, and found that the injury was severe.
The boy was silent. She glanced round in his face. He was staring as if
he saw nothing, heard nothing. She would try again.
'Did you fall? Or how did you cut your head?'
'Yes, yes, mem, I fell,' he answered, hastily, with an air of relief,
and possibly with some tone of gratitude for the suggestion of a true
answer.
'What made you fall?'
Utter silence again. She felt a kind of turn--I do not know another word
to express what I mean: the boy must have fits, and either could not
tell, or was ashamed to tell, what had befallen him. Thereafter she
too was silent, and Robert thought she was offended. Possibly he felt a
change in the touch of her fingers.
'Mem, I wad like to tell ye,' he said, 'but I daurna.'
'Oh! never mind,' she returned kindly.
'Wad ye promise nae to tell naebody?'
'I don't want to know,' she answered, confirmed in her suspicion, and at
the same time ashamed of the alteration of feeling which the discovery
had occasioned.
An uncomfortable silence followed, broken by Robert.
'Gin ye binna pleased wi' me, mem,' he said, 'I canna bide ye to gang on
wi' siccan a job 's that.'
How Miss St. John could have understood him, I cannot think; but she
did.
'Oh! very well,' she answered, smiling. 'Just as you please. Perhaps you
had better take this piece of plaster to Betty, and ask her to finish
the dressing for you.'
Robert took the plaster mechanically, and, sick at heart and speechless,
rose to go, forgetting even his bonny leddy in his grief.
'You had better take your violin with you,' said Miss St. John, urged
to the cruel experiment by a strong desire to see what the strange boy
would do.
He turned. The tears were streaming down his odd face. They went to her
heart, and she was bitterly ashamed of herself.
'Come along. Do sit down again. I only wanted to see what you would do.
I am very sorry,' she said, in a tone of kindness such as Robert had
never imagined.
He sat down instantly, saying,
'Eh, mem! it's sair to bide;' meaning, no doubt, the conflict between
his inclination to tell her all, and his duty to be silent.
The dressing was soon finished, his hair combed down over it, and Robert
looking once more respectable.
'Now, I think that will do,' said his nurse.
'Eh, thank ye, mem!' answered Robert, rising. 'Whan I'm able to play
upo' the fiddle as weel 's ye play upo' the piana, I'll come and play at
yer window ilka nicht, as lang 's ye like to hearken.'
She smiled, and he was satisfied. He did not dare again ask her to play
to him. But she said of herself, 'Now I will play something to you, if
you like,' and he resumed his seat devoutly.
When she had finished a lovely little air, which sounded to Robert
like the touch of her hands, and her breath on his forehead, she
looked round, and was satisfied, from the rapt expression of the boy's
countenance, that at least he had plenty of musical sensibility. As if
despoiled of volition, he stood motionless till she said,
'Now you had better go, or Betty will miss you.'
Then he made her a bow in which awkwardness and grace were curiously
mingled, and taking up his precious parcel, and holding it to his bosom
as if it had been a child for whom he felt an access of tenderness, he
slowly left the room and the house.
Not even to Shargar did he communicate his adventure. And he went no
more to the deserted factory to play there. Fate had again interposed
between him and his bonny leddy.
When he reached Bodyfauld he fancied his grandmother's eyes more
watchful of him than usual, and he strove the more to resist the
weariness, and even faintness, that urged him to go to bed. Whether he
was able to hide as well a certain trouble that clouded his spirit I
doubt. His wound he did manage to keep a secret, thanks to the care of
Miss St. John, who had dressed it with court-plaster.
When he woke the next morning, it was with the consciousness of having
seen something strange the night before, and only when he found that he
was not in his own room at his grandmother's, was he convinced that it
must have been a dream and no vision. For in the night, he had awaked
there as he thought, and the moon was shining with such clearness, that
although it did not shine into his room, he could see the face of the
clock, and that the hands were both together at the top. Close by the
clock stood the bureau, with its end against the partition forming the
head of his grannie's bed.
All at once he saw a tall man, in a blue coat and bright buttons, about
to open the lid of the bureau. The same moment he saw a little elderly
man in a brown coat and a brown wig, by his side, who sought to remove
his hand from the lock. Next appeared a huge stalwart figure, in shabby
old tartans, and laid his hand on the head of each. But the wonder
widened and grew; for now came a stately Highlander with his broadsword
by his side, and an eagle's feather in his bonnet, who laid his hand on
the other Highlander's arm.
When Robert looked in the direction whence this last had appeared, the
head of his grannie's bed had vanished, and a wild hill-side, covered
with stones and heather, sloped away into the distance. Over it passed
man after man, each with an ancestral air, while on the gray sea to the
left, galleys covered with Norsemen tore up the white foam, and dashed
one after the other up to the strand. How long he gazed, he did not
know, but when he withdrew his eyes from the extended scene, there stood
the figure of his father, still trying to open the lid of the bureau,
his grandfather resisting him, the blind piper with his hand on the head
of both, and the stately chief with his hand on the piper's arm. Then a
mist of forgetfulness gathered over the whole, till at last he awoke and
found himself in the little wooden chamber at Bodyfauld, and not in the
visioned room. Doubtless his loss of blood the day before had something
to do with the dream or vision, whichever the reader may choose to
consider it. He rose, and after a good breakfast, found himself very
little the worse, and forgot all about his dream, till a circumstance
which took place not long after recalled it vividly to his mind.
The enchantment of Bodyfauld soon wore off. The boys had no time to
enter into the full enjoyment of country ways, because of those weary
lessons, over the getting of which Mrs. Falconer kept as strict a watch
as ever; while to Robert the evening journey, his violin and Miss St.
John left at Rothieden, grew more than tame. The return was almost
as happy an event to him as the first going. Now he could resume his
lessons with the soutar.
With Shargar it was otherwise. The freedom for so much longer from Mrs.
Falconer's eyes was in itself so much of a positive pleasure, that
the walk twice a day, the fresh air, and the scents and sounds of the
country, only came in as supplementary. But I do not believe the boy
even then had so much happiness as when he was beaten and starved by
his own mother. And Robert, growing more and more absorbed in his own
thoughts and pursuits, paid him less and less attention as the weeks
went on, till Shargar at length judged it for a time an evil day on
which he first had slept under old Ronald Falconer's kilt.