One night she heard a rustling amongst the bushes in the garden; and
the next moment a subdued voice began to sing:
I waited for the Lord my God and patiently did bear;
At length to me he did incline, my voice and cry to hear.
He took me from a fearful pit, and from the miry clay,
And on a rock he set my feet, establishing my way.
The tune was that wildest of trustful wailings--_Martyrs_'.
"I didna ken that ye cared aboot psalm-tunes, Mr Cupples," murmured
Alec.
The singing went on and he grew restless.
It was an _eerie_ thing to go out, but she must stop the singing. If it
was Mr Cupples, she could have nothing to fear. Besides, a bad man
would not sing that song.--As she opened the door, a soft spring wind
blew upon her full of genial strength, as if it came straight from
those dark blue clefts between the heavy clouds of the cast. Away in
the clear west, the half-moon was going down in dreaming stillness. The
dark figure of a little man stood leaning against the house, singing
gently.
"Are you Mr Cupples?" she said.
The man started, and answered,
"Yes, my lass. And wha are ye?"
"I'm Annie Anderson. Alec's some disturbit wi' your singin'. Ye'll wauk
him up, and he'll be a hantle the waur o' 't."
"I winna sing anither stave. It was lanesome stan'in' upo' the ootside
here, as gin I war ane o' the foolish virgins."
"Eh! wadna that be dreidfu'?" responded Annie simply. Her words awoke
an echo in Mr Cupples's conscience, but he returned no reply.
"Hoo's Alec?" he asked.
"Some better. He's growin' better, though it's langsome like."
"And do they lippen you to luik efter him, no?"
"Ay. What for no? His mither wad be worn to deith gin she sat up ilka
nicht. He canna bide ouybody but her or me."
"Weel, ye're a young crater to hae sic a chairge.--I wrote to Mrs
Forbes twa or three times, but I got but ae scrimpit answer. Sae as
sune's I cud win awa', I cam' to speir efter him mysel'."
"Whan did ye come, Mr Cupples?"
"This nicht. Or I reckon it's last nicht noo. But or I wan ower this
len'th, ye war a' i' yer beds, and I daurna disturb ye. Sae I sat doon
in a summer-seat that I cam' upo', and smokit my pipe and luikit at the
stars and the cluds. And I tried to sing a sang, but naething but
psalms wad come, for the nicht's sae awfu' solemn, whan ye win richt
intil the mids o' 't! It jist distresses me that there's naebody up to
worship God a' nicht in sic a nicht's this."
"Nae doobt there's mony praisin' him that we canna see."
"Ow, ay; nae doobt. But aneath this lift, and breathin' the houpfu' air
o' this divine darkness."
Annie did not quite understand him.
"I maun gang back to Alec," she said. "Ye'll come ower the morn, Mr
Cupples, and hear a' aboot him?"
"I will do that, my bairn. Hoo do they ca' ye--for I forget names
dreidfu'?"
"Annie Anderson."
"Ay, ay; Annie Anderson--I hae surely heard that name afore.--Weel, I
winna forget _you_, whether I forget yer name or no."
"But hae ye a bed?" said the thoughtful girl, to whom the comfort of
every one who came near her was an instinctive anxiety.
"Ow, ay. I hae a bed at the hoose o' a sma', jabberin', bitter-barkit
crater they ca' King Robert the Bruce."
Annie knew that he must be occupying her room; and was on the point of
expressing a hope that he "wadna be disturbit wi' the rottans," when
she saw that it would lead to new explanations and delays.
"Good night, Mr Cupples," she said, holding out her hand.
Mr Cupples took it kindly, saying:
"Are ye a niece, or a gran'-dochter o' the hoose, or a hired servan',
or what are ye?--for ye're a wice-spoken lass and a bonnie."
"I'm a servan' o' the hoose," said Annie. Then after a moment's
hesitation, she added, "but no a hired ane."
"Ye're worth hirin' onyhoo, hinnie (honey); and they're weel aff that
has ye i' the hoose in ony capawcity. An auld man like me may say that
to yer face. Sae I'll awa' to my bed, and sing the lave o' my psalm as
I gang."
Mr Cupples had a proclivity to garrets. He could not be comfortable if
any person was over his head. He could breathe, he said, when he got
next to the stars. For the rats he cared nothing, and slept as if the
garret were a cellar in heaven.
It had been a sore trial of his manhood to keep his vow after he knew
that Alec was safe in the haven of a sick-bed. He knew that for him, if
he were once happy again, there was little danger of a relapse; for his
physical nature had not been greatly corrupted: there had not been time
for that. He would rise from his sickness newborn. Hence it was the
harder for Mr Cupples, in his loneliness, to do battle with his
deep-rooted desires. He would never drink as he had done, but might he
not have just one tumbler?--That one tumbler he did not take. And--rich
reward!--after two months the well of song within him began to gurgle
and heave as if its waters would break forth once more in the desert;
the roseate hue returned to the sunsets; and the spring came in with a
very childhood of greenness.--The obfuscations of self-indulgence will
soon vanish where they have not been sealed by crime and systematic
selfishness.
Another though inferior reward was, that he had money in his pocket:
with this money he would go and see Alec Forbes. The amount being
small, however, he would save it by walking. Hence it came that he
arrived late and weary. Entering the first shop he came to, he inquired
after a cheap lodging. For he said to himself that the humblest inn was
beyond his means; though probably his reason for avoiding such a
shelter was the same as made him ask Alec to throw the bottle out of
the garret. Robert Bruce heard his question, and, regarding him keenly
from under his eyebrows, debated with himself whether the applicant was
respectable--that is, whether he could pay, and would bring upon the
house no discredit by the harbourage. The signs of such a man as
Cupples were inscrutable to Bruce; therefore his answer hung fire.
"Are ye deif, man?" said Cupples; "or are ye feared to tyne a chance by
giein' a fair answer to a fair queston?"
The arrow went too near the mark not to irritate Bruce.
"Gang yer wa's," said he. "We dinna want tramps i' this toon."
"Weel, I am a tramp, nae doobt," returned Cupples; "for I hae come ilka
bit o' the road upo' my ain fit; but I hae read in history o' twa or
three tramps that war respectable fowk for a' that. Ye winna _gie_
onything i' this chop, I doobt--nae even information.--Will ye _sell_
me an unce o' pigtail?"
"Ow, ay. I'll sell't gin ye'll buy't."
"There's the bawbees," said Cupples, laying the orthodox pence on the
counter. "And noo will ye tell me whaur I can get a respectable, dacent
place to lie doon in? I'll want it for a week, at ony rate."
Before he had finished the question, the door behind the counter had
opened, and young Bruce had entered. Mr Cupples knew him well enough by
sight as a last year's bejan.
"How are you?" he said. "I know you, though I don't know your name."
"My name's Robert Bruce, Mr Cupples."
"A fine name--Robert Bruce," he replied.
The youth turned to his father, and said--
"This gentleman is the librarian of our college, father."
Bruce took his hat off his head, and set it on the counter.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he said. "I'm terrible short-sichtit in
can'le-licht."
"I'm used to bein' mista'en'," answered Cupples simply, perceiving that
he had got hold of a character. "Mak nae apologies, I beg ye, but
answer my queston."
"Weel, sir, to tell the trowth, seein' ye're a gentleman, we hae a room
oorsels. But it's a garret-room, and maybe--"
"Then I'll hae't, whatever it be, gin ye dinna want ower muckle for't."
"Weel, ye see, sir, your college is a great expense to heumble fowk
like oorsels, and we hae to mak it up the best way that we can."
"Nae doot. Hoo muckle do ye want?"
"Wad ye think five shillins ower muckle?"
"'Deed wad I."
"Weel, we'll say three than--to _you_, sir."
"I winna gie ye mair nor half-a-croon."
"Hoot, sir! It's ower little."
"Well, I'll look further," said Mr Cupples, putting on English, and
moving to the door.
"Na, sir; ye'll do nae sic thing. Do ye think I wad lat the leebrarian
o' my son's college gang oot at my door this time o' nicht, to luik for
a bed till himsel'? Ye s' jist hae't at yer ain price, and welcome.
Ye'll hae yer tay and sugar and bitties o' cheese frae me, ye ken?"
"Of course--of course. And if you could get me some tea at once, I
should be obliged to you."
"Mother," cried Bruce through the house-door, and held a momentary
whispering with the partner of his throne.
"So your name's Bruce, is it?" resumed Cupples, as the other returned
to the counter.
"Robert Bruce, sir, at your service."
"It's a gran' _name_," said Cupples with emphasis.
"'Deed is't, and I hae a richt to beir 't."
"Ye'll be a descendant, nae doot, o' the Yerl o' Carrick?" said
Cupples, guessing at his weakness.
"O' the king, sir. Fowk may think little o' me; but I come o' him that
freed Scotland. Gin it hadna been for Bannockburn, sir, whaur wad
Scotland hae been the day?"
"Nearhan' civileezed unner the fine influences o' the English, wi'
their cultivation and their mainners, and, aboon a', their gran'
Edwards and Hairries."
"I dinna richtly unnerstan' ye, sir," said Bruce. "Ye hae heard hoo the
king clave the skull o' Sir Henry dee Bohunn--haena ye, sir?"
"Ow, aye. But it was a pity it wasna the ither gait. Lat me see the way
to my room, for I want to wash my han's and face. They're jist barkit
wi' stour (dust)."
Bruce hesitated whether to show Mr Cupples out or in. His blue blood
boiled at this insult to his great progenitor. But a half-crown would
cover a greater wrong than that even, and he obeyed. Cupples followed
him up-stairs, murmuring to himself:
"Shades o' Wallace and Bruce! forgie me. But to see sma' craters cock
their noses and their tails as gin they had inherited the michty deeds
as weel as the names o' their forbears, jist scunners me, and turns my
blude into the gall o' bitterness--and that's scripter for't."
After further consultation, Mr and Mrs Bruce came to the conclusion
that it might be politic, for Robert's sake, to treat the librarian
with consideration. Consequently Mrs Bruce invited him to go down to
his tea in _the room_. Descending before it was quite ready, he looked
about him. The only thing that attracted his attention was a handsomely
bound Bible. This he took up, thinking to get some amusement from the
births of the illustrious Bruces; but the only inscription he could
find, besides the name of _John Cowie_, was the following in pencil:
"_Super Davidis Psalmum tertium vicesimum, syngrapham pecuniariam
centum solidos valentem, quoe, me mortuo, a Annie Anderson, mihi
dilecta, sit, posui_."
Then came some figures, and then the date, with the initials _J. C_.
Hence it was that Mr Cupples thought he had heard the name of Annie
Anderson before.
"It's a gran' Bible this, gudewife," he said as Mrs Bruce entered.
"Aye is't. It belanged to oor pairis-minister."
Nothing more passed, for Mr Cupples was hungry.
After a long sleep in the morning, he called upon Mrs Forbes, and was
kindly received; but it was a great disappointment to him to find that
he could not see Alec. As he was in the country, however, he resolved
to make the best of it, and enjoy himself for a week. For his asserted
dislike to the country, though genuine at the time, was anything but
natural to him. So every day he climbed to the top of one or other of
the hills which inclosed the valley, and was rewarded with fresh vigour
and renewed joy. He had not learned to read Wordsworth; yet not a wind
blew through a broom-bush, but it blew a joy from it into his heart. He
too was a prodigal returned at least into _the vestibule_ of his
Father's house. And the Father sent the servants out there to minister
to him; and Nature, the housekeeper, put the robe of health upon him,
and gave him new shoes of strength, and a ring, though not the Father's
white stone. The delights of those spring days were endless to him
whose own nature was budding with new life. Familiar with all the
cottage ways, he would drop into any _hoosie_ he came near about his
dinnertime, and asking for a _piece_ (of oat-cake) and a _coguie o'
milk_, would make his dinner off those content, and leave a trifle
behind him in acknowledgment. But he would always contrive that as the
gloamin began to fall, he should be near Howglen, that he might inquire
after his friend. And Mrs Forbes began to understand him
better.--Before the week was over, there was not a man or woman about
Howglen whom he did not know even by name; for to his surprise, even
his forgetfulness was fast vanishing in the menstruum of the
earth-spirit, the world's breath blown over the corn. In particular he
had made the acquaintance of James Dow, with whose knowing simplicity
he was greatly taken.
On the last day but one of his intended stay, as he went to make his
daily inquiry, he dropped in to see James Dow in the "harled
hypocrite." James had come in from his work, and was sitting alone on a
bench by the table, in a corner of the earth-floored kitchen. The great
pot, lidless, and full of magnificent potatoes, was hanging above the
fire, that its contents might be quite dry for supper. Through the
little window, a foot and a half square, Cupples could see the remains
of a hawthorn hedge, a hundred years old--a hedge no longer, but a row
of knobby, gnarled trees, full of knees and elbows; and through the
trees the remains of an orange-coloured sunset.--It was not a beautiful
country, as I have said before; but the spring was beautiful, and the
heavens were always beautiful; and, like the plainest woman's face, the
country itself, in its best moods, had no end of beauty.
"Hoo are ye, Jeames Doo?"
"Fine, I thank ye, sir," said James rising.
"I wad raither sit doon mysel', nor gar you stan' up efter yer day's
work, Jeames."
"Ow! I dinna warstle mysel' to the deith a'thegither."
But James, who was not a healthy man, was often in the wet field when
another would have been in bed, and righteously in bed. He had a strong
feeling of the worthlessness of man's life in comparison with the work
he has to do, even if that work be only the spreading of a fother of
dung. His mistress could not keep him from his work.
Mr Cupples sat down, and James resumed his seat.
"Ye're awfu' dubby (miry) aboot the feet, Mr Cupples. Jist gie me aff
yer shune, and I'll gie them a scrape and a lick wi' the
blackin'-brush," said James, again rising.
"Deil tak' me gin I do ony sic thing!" exclaimed Mr Cupples. "My
shune'll do weel eneuch."
"Whaur got ye a' that dub, sir? The roads is middlin' the day."
"I dinna aye stick to the roads, Jeames. I wan intil a bog first, and
syne intil some plooed lan' that was a' lumps o' clay shinin' green i'
the sun. Sae it's nae wonner gin I be some clortit. Will ye gie me a
pitawta, Jeames, in place o' the blackin'-brush?"
"Ay, twenty. But winna ye bide till Mysie comes in, and hae a drappy
milk wi' them? They're fine pitawtas the year."
"Na, na, I haena time."
"Weel, jist dip into the pot, and help yersel', sir; and I'll luik for
a grainy o' saut."
"Hoo's yer mistress, Jeames? A fine woman that!"
"Nae that ill, but some forfochten wi' norsin' Mr Alec. Eh! sir, that's
a fine lad, gin he wad only haud steady."
"I'm thinkin' he winna gang far wrang again. He's gotten the arles
(earnest) and he winna want the wages.--That's a fine lassie that's
bidin' wi' them--Annie Anderson they ca' her."
"'Deed is she, sir. I kent her father afore her day, and I hae kent her
sin ever she had a day. She's ane o' the finest bairns ever was seen."
"Is she ony relation to the mistress?"
"Ow, na. Nae mair relation nor 'at a' gude fowk's sib."
And Dow told Cupples the girl's story, including the arrangement made
with Bruce in which he had had a principal part.
"_Annie Anderson_--I canna mak' oot whaur I hae heard her name afore."
"Ye're bidin' at Bruce's, arena ye, Mr Cupples?"
"Ay. That is, I'm sleepin' there, and payin' for't."
"Weel, I hae little doobt ye hae heard it there."
"I dinna think it. But maybe.--What kin' o' chiel' 's Bruce?"
"He's terrible greedy."
"A moudiwarp (mole) wi' ae ee wad see that afore he had winkit twice."
"'Deed micht he."
"Is he honest?"
"That's hard to answer. But I s' gar him be honest wi' regaird to her,
gin I can."
"Wad he chait?"
"Ay. Na. He wadna chait _muckle_. I wadna turn my back till him,
though, ohn keekit ower my shouther to haud him sicker. He wadna min'
doin' ill that gude micht come."
"Ay, ay; I ken him.--And the _ill_ wad be whatever hurtit anither man,
and the _gude_ whatever furthered himsel?" said Mr Cupples as he dipped
the last morsel of his third potato in the salt which he held in the
palm of his left hand.
"Ye hae said it, Mr Cupples."
And therewith, Mr Cupples bade James good-night, and went to _the
hoose_.
There he heard the happy news that Alec insisted on seeing him. Against
her will, Mrs Forbes had given in, as the better alternative to vexing
him. The result of the interview was, that Cupples sat up with him that
night, and Mrs Forbes and Annie both slept. In the morning he found a
bed ready for him, to which he reluctantly betook himself and slept for
a couple of hours. The end of it was, that he did not go back to Mr
Bruce's except to pay his bill. Nor did he leave Howglen for many
weeks.
At length, one lovely morning, when the green corn lay soaking in the
yellow sunlight, and the sky rose above the earth deep and pure and
tender like the thought of God about it, Alec became suddenly aware
that life was good, and the world beautiful. He tried to raise himself,
but failed. Cupples was by his side in a moment. Alec held out his hand
with his old smile so long disused. Cupples propped him up with
pillows, and opened the window that the warm waves of the air might
break into the cave where he had lain so long deaf to its noises and
insensible to its influences. The tide flowed into his chamber like
Pactolus, all golden with sunbeams. He lay with his hands before him
and his eyes closed, looking so happy that Cupples gazed with reverent
delight, for he thought he was praying. But he was only blessed. So
easily can God make a man happy! The past had dropped from him like a
wild but weary and sordid dream. He was reborn, a new child, in a new
bright world, with a glowing summer to revel in. One of God's lyric
prophets, the larks, was within earshot, pouring down a vocal summer of
jubilant melody. The lark thought nobody was listening but his wife;
but God heard in heaven, and the young prodigal heard on the earth. He
would be a good child henceforth, for one bunch of sunrays was enough
to be happy upon. His mother entered. She saw the beauty upon her boy's
worn countenance; she saw the noble watching love on that of his
friend; her own filled with light, and she stood transfixed and silent.
Annie entered, gazed for a moment, fled to her own room, and burst into
adoring tears.--For she had seen the face of God, and that face was
Love--love like the human, only deeper, deeper--tenderer, lovelier,
stronger. She could not recall what she had seen, or how she had known
it; but the conviction remained that she had seen his face, and that it
was infinitely beautiful.
"He has been wi' me a' the time, my God! He gied me my father, and sent
Broonie to tak' care o' me, and Dooie, and Thomas Crann, and Mrs
Forbes, and Alec. And he sent the cat whan I gaed till him aboot the
rottans. An' he's been wi' me I kenna hoo lang, and he's wi' me noo.
And I hae seen his face, and I'll see his face again. And I'll try sair
to be a gude bairn. Eh me! It's jist wonnerfu! And God's
jist....naething but God himsel'."