CHAPTER IV. SHARGAR
Robert went out into the thin drift, and again crossing the wide desolate-looking square, turned down an entry leading to a kind of court, which had once been inhabited by a well-to-do class of the townspeople, but had now fallen in estimation. Upon a stone at the door of what seemed an outhouse he discovered the object of his search.
‘What are ye sittin’ there for, Shargar?’
Shargar is a word of Gaelic origin, applied, with some sense of the ridiculous, to a thin, wasted, dried-up creature. In the present case it was the nickname by which the boy was known at school; and, indeed, where he was known at all.
‘What are ye sittin’ there for, Shargar? Did naebody offer to tak ye in?’
‘Na, nane o’ them. I think they maun be a’ i’ their beds. I’m most dreidfu’ cauld.’
The fact was, that Shargar’s character, whether by imputation from his mother, or derived from his own actions, was none of the best. The consequence was, that, although scarcely one of the neighbours would have allowed him to sit there all night, each was willing to wait yet a while, in the hope that somebody else’s humanity would give in first, and save her from the necessity of offering him a seat by the fireside, and a share of the oatmeal porridge which probably would be scanty enough for her own household. For it must be borne in mind that all the houses in the place were occupied by poor people, with whom the one virtue, Charity, was, in a measure, at home, and amidst many sins, cardinal and other, managed to live in even some degree of comfort.
‘Get up, than, Shargar, ye lazy beggar! Or are ye frozen to the door-stane? I s’ awa’ for a kettle o’ bilin’ water to lowse ye.’
‘Na, na, Bob. I’m no stucken. I’m only some stiff wi’ the cauld; for wow, but I am cauld!’ said Shargar, rising with difficulty. ‘Gie ‘s a haud o’ yer han’, Bob.’
Robert gave him his hand, and Shargar was straightway upon his feet.
‘Come awa’ noo, as fest and as quaiet ‘s ye can.’
‘What are ye gaein’ to du wi’ me, Bob?’
‘What’s that to you, Shargar?’
‘Naything. Only I wad like to ken.’
‘Hae patience, and ye will ken. Only mind ye do as I tell ye, and dinna speik a word.’
Shargar followed in silence.
On the way Robert remembered that Miss Napier had not, after all, given him the receipt for which his grandmother had sent him. So he returned to The Boar’s Head, and, while he went in, left Shargar in the archway, to shiver, and try in vain to warm his hands by the alternate plans of slapping them on the opposite arms, and hiding them under them.
When Robert came out, he saw a man talking to him under the lamp. The moment his eyes fell upon the two, he was struck by a resemblance between them. Shargar was right under the lamp, the man to the side of it, so that Shargar was shadowed by its frame, and the man was in its full light. The latter turned away, and passing Robert, went into the inn.
‘Wha’s that?’ asked Robert.
‘I dinna ken,’ answered Shargar. ‘He spak to me or ever I kent he was there, and garred my hert gie sic a loup ‘at it maist fell into my breeks.’
‘And what said he to ye?’
‘He said was the deevil at my lug, that I did naething but caw my han’s to bits upo’ my shoothers.’
‘And what said ye to that?’
‘I said I wissed he was, for he wad aiblins hae some spare heat aboot him, an’ I hadna freely (quite) eneuch.’
‘Weel dune, Shargar! What said he to that?’
‘He leuch, and speirt gin I wad list, and gae me a shillin’.’
‘Ye didna tak it, Shargar?’ asked Robert in some alarm.
‘Ay did I. Catch me no taking a shillin’!’
‘But they’ll haud ye till ‘t.’
‘Na, na. I’m ower shochlin’ (in-kneed) for a sodger. But that man was nae sodger.’
‘And what mair said he?’
‘He speirt what I wad do wi’ the shillin’.’
‘And what said ye?’
‘Ow! syne ye cam’ oot, and he gaed awa’.’
‘And ye dinna ken wha it was?’ repeated Robert.
‘It was some like my brither, Lord Sandy; but I dinna ken,’ said Shargar.
By this time they had arrived at Yule the baker’s shop.
‘Bide ye here,’ said Robert, who happened to possess a few coppers, ‘till I gang into Eel’s.’
Shargar stood again and shivered at the door, till Robert came out with a penny loaf in one hand, and a twopenny loaf in the other.
‘Gie’s a bit, Bob,’ said Shargar. ‘I’m as hungry as I am cauld.’
‘Bide ye still,’ returned Robert. ‘There’s a time for a’ thing, and your time ‘s no come to forgather wi’ this loaf yet. Does na it smell fine? It’s new frae the bakehoose no ten minutes ago. I ken by the fin’ (feel) o’ ‘t.’
‘Lat me fin’ ‘t,’ said Shargar, stretching out one hand, and feeling his shilling with the other.
‘Na. Yer han’s canna be clean. And fowk suld aye eat clean, whether they gang clean or no.’
‘I’ll awa’ in an’ buy ane oot o’ my ain shillin’,’ said Shargar, in a tone of resolute eagerness.
‘Ye’ll do naething o’ the kin’,’ returned Robert, darting his hand at his collar. ‘Gie me the shillin’. Ye’ll want it a’ or lang.’
Shargar yielded the coin and slunk behind, while Robert again led the way till they came to his grandmother’s door.
‘Gang to the ga’le o’ the hoose there, Shargar, and jist keek roon’ the neuk at me; and gin I whustle upo’ ye, come up as quaiet ‘s ye can. Gin I dinna, bide till I come to ye.’
Robert opened the door cautiously. It was never locked except at night, or when Betty had gone to the well for water, or to the butcher’s or baker’s, or the prayer-meeting, upon which occasions she put the key in her pocket, and left her mistress a prisoner. He looked first to the right, along the passage, and saw that his grandmother’s door was shut; then across the passage to the left, and saw that the kitchen door was likewise shut, because of the cold, for its normal position was against the wall. Thereupon, closing the door, but keeping the handle in his hand, and the bolt drawn back, he turned to the street and whistled soft and low. Shargar had, in a moment, dragged his heavy feet, ready to part company with their shoes at any instant, to Robert’s side. He bent his ear to Robert’s whisper.
‘Gang in there, and creep like a moose to the fit o’ the stair. I maun close the door ahin’ ‘s,’ said he, opening the door as he spoke.
‘I’m fleyt (frightened), Robert.’
‘Dinna be a fule. Grannie winna bite aff yer heid. She had ane till her denner, the day, an’ it was ill sung (singed).’
‘What ane o’?’
‘A sheep’s heid, ye gowk (fool). Gang in direckly.’
Shargar persisted no longer, but, taking about four steps a minute, slunk past the kitchen like a thief—not so carefully, however, but that one of his soles yet looser than the other gave one clap upon the flagged passage, when Betty straightway stood in the kitchen door, a fierce picture in a deal frame. By this time Robert had closed the outer door, and was following at Shargar’s heels.
‘What’s this?’ she cried, but not so loud as to reach the ears of Mrs. Falconer; for, with true Scotch foresight, she would not willingly call in another power before the situation clearly demanded it. ‘Whaur’s Shargar gaein’ that gait?’
‘Wi’ me. Dinna ye see me wi’ him? I’m nae a thief, nor yet’s Shargar.’
‘There may be twa opingons upo’ that, Robert. I s’ jist awa’ benn to the mistress. I s’ hae nae sic doin’s i’ my hoose.’
‘It’s nae your hoose, Betty. Dinna lee.’
‘Weel, I s’ hae nae sic things gang by my kitchie door. There, Robert! what ‘ll ye mak’ o’ that? There’s nae offence, there, I houp, gin it suldna be a’thegither my ain hoose. Tak Shargar oot o’ that, or I s’ awa’ benn the hoose, as I tell ye.’
Meantime Shargar was standing on the stones, looking like a terrified white rabbit, and shaking from head to foot with cold and fright combined.
‘I’ll tak him oot o’ this, but it’s up the stair, Betty. An’ gin ye gang benn the hoose aboot it, I sweir to ye, as sure ‘s death, I’ll gang doon to Muckledrum upo’ Setterday i’ the efternune.’
‘Gang awa’ wi’ yer havers. Only gin the mistress speirs onything aboot it, what am I to say?’
‘Bide till she speirs. Auld Spunkie says, “Ready-made answers are aye to seek.” And I say, Betty, hae ye a cauld pitawta (potato)?’
‘I’ll luik and see. Wadna ye like it het up?’
‘Ow ay, gin ye binna lang aboot it.’
Suddenly a bell rang, shrill and peremptory, right above Shargar’s head, causing in him a responsive increase of trembling.
‘Haud oot o’ my gait. There’s the mistress’s bell,’ said Betty.
‘Jist bide till we’re roon’ the neuk and on to the stair,’ said Robert, now leading the way.
Betty watched them safe round the corner before she made for the parlour, little thinking to what she had become an unwilling accomplice, for she never imagined that more than an evening’s visit was intended by Shargar, which in itself seemed to her strange and improper enough even for such an eccentric boy as Robert to encourage.
Shargar followed in mortal terror, for, like Christian in The Pilgrim’s Progress, he had no armour to his back. Once round the corner, two strides of three steps each took them to the top of the first stair, Shargar knocking his head in the darkness against the never-opened door. Again three strides brought them to the top of the second flight; and turning once more, still to the right, Robert led Shargar up the few steps into the higher of the two garrets.
Here there was just glimmer enough from the sky to discover the hollow of a close bedstead, built in under the sloping roof, which served it for a tester, while the two ends and most of the front were boarded up to the roof. This bedstead fortunately was not so bare as the one in the other room, although it had not been used for many years, for an old mattress covered the boards with which it was bottomed.
‘Gang in there, Shargar. Ye’ll be warmer there than upo’ the door-step ony gait. Pit aff yer shune.’
Shargar obeyed, full of delight at finding himself in such good quarters. Robert went to a forsaken press in the room, and brought out an ancient cloak of tartan, of the same form as what is now called an Inverness cape, a blue dress-coat, with plain gilt buttons, which shone even now in the all but darkness, and several other garments, amongst them a kilt, and heaped them over Shargar as he lay on the mattress. He then handed him the twopenny and the penny loaves, which were all his stock had reached to the purchase of, and left him, saying,—
‘I maun awa’ to my tay, Shargar. I’ll fess ye a cauld tawtie het again, gin Betty has ony. Lie still, and whatever ye do, dinna come oot o’ that.’
The last injunction was entirely unnecessary.
‘Eh, Bob, I’m jist in haven!’ said the poor creature, for his skin began to feel the precious possibility of reviving warmth in the distance.
Now that he had gained a new burrow, the human animal soon recovered from his fears as well. It seemed to him, in the novelty of the place, that he had made so many doublings to reach it, that there could be no danger of even the mistress of the house finding him out, for she could hardly be supposed to look after such a remote corner of her dominions. And then he was boxed in with the bed, and covered with no end of warm garments, while the friendly darkness closed him and his shelter all round. Except the faintest blue gleam from one of the panes in the roof, there was soon no hint of light anywhere; and this was only sufficient to make the darkness visible, and thus add artistic effect to the operation of it upon Shargar’s imagination—a faculty certainly uneducated in Shargar, but far, very far from being therefore non-existent. It was, indeed, actively operative, although, like that of many a fine lady and gentleman, only in relation to such primary questions as: ‘What shall we eat? And what shall we drink? And wherewithal shall we be clothed?’ But as he lay and devoured the new ‘white breid,’ his satisfaction—the bare delight of his animal existence—reached a pitch such as even this imagination, stinted with poverty, and frost-bitten with maternal oppression, had never conceived possible. The power of enjoying the present without anticipation of the future or regard of the past, is the especial privilege of the animal nature, and of the human nature in proportion as it has not been developed beyond the animal. Herein lies the happiness of cab horses and of tramps: to them the gift of forgetfulness is of worth inestimable. Shargar’s heaven was for the present gained.
CHAPTER V. THE SYMPOSIUM
Robert had scarcely turned out of the square on his way to find Shargar, when a horseman entered it. His horse and he were both apparently black on one side and gray on the other, from the snow-drift settling to windward. The animal looked tired, but the rider sat as easy as if he were riding to cover. The reins hung loose, and the horse went in a straight line for The Boar’s Head, stopping under the archway only when his master drew bridle at the door of the inn.
At that moment Miss Letty was standing at the back of Miss Napier’s chair, leaning her arms upon it as she talked to her. This was her way of resting as often as occasion arose for a chat with her elder sister. Miss Letty’s hair was gathered in a great knot at the top of her head, and little ringlets hung like tendrils down the sides of her face, the benevolence of which was less immediately striking than that of her sister’s, because of the constant play of humour upon it, especially about the mouth. If a spirit of satire could be supposed converted into something Christian by an infusion of the tenderest loving-kindness and humanity, remaining still recognizable notwithstanding that all its bitterness was gone, such was the expression of Miss Letty’s mouth, It was always half puckered as if in resistance to a comic smile, which showed itself at the windows of the keen gray eyes, however the mouth might be able to keep it within doors. She was neatly dressed in black silk, with a lace collar. Her hands were small and white.
The moment the traveller stopped at the door, Miss Napier started.
‘Letty,’ she said, ‘wha’s that? I could amaist sweir to Black Geordie’s fit.’
‘A’ four o’ them, I think,’ returned Miss Letty, as the horse, notwithstanding, or perhaps in consequence of his fatigue, began to paw and move about on the stones impatiently.
The rider had not yet spoken.
‘He’ll be efter some o’ ‘s deevil-ma’-care sculduddery. But jist rin to the door, Letty, or Lizzy ‘ll be there afore ye, and maybe she wadna be ower ceevil. What can he be efter noo?’
‘What wad the grew (grayhound) be efter but maukin (hare)?’ returned Miss Letty.
‘Hoot! nonsense! He kens naething aboot her. Gang to the door, lassie.’
Miss Letty obeyed.
‘Wha’s there?’ she asked, somewhat sharply, as she opened it, ‘that neither chaps (knocks) nor ca’s?—Preserve ‘s a’! is’t you, my lord?’
‘Hoo ken ye me, Miss Letty withoot seein’ my face?’
‘A’body at The Boar’s Heid kens Black Geordie as weel ‘s yer lordship’s ain sel’. But whaur comes yer lordship frae in sic a nicht as this?’
‘From Russia. Never dismounted between Moscow and Aberdeen. The ice is bearing to-night.’
And the baron laughed inside the upturned collar of his cloak, for he knew that strangely-exaggerated stories were current about his feats in the saddle.
‘That’s a lang ride, my lord, and a sliddery. And what’s yer lordship’s wull?’
‘Muckle ye care aboot my lordship to stand jawin’ there in a night like this! Is nobody going to take my horse?’
‘I beg yer lordship’s pardon. Caumill!—Yer lordship never said ye wanted yer lordship’s horse ta’en. I thocht ye micht be gaein’ on to The Bothie.—Tak’ Black Geordie here, Caumill.—Come in to the parlour, my lord.’
‘How d’ye do, Miss Naper?’ said Lord Rothie, as he entered the room. ‘Here’s this jade of a sister of yours asking me why I don’t go home to The Bothie, when I choose to stop and water here.’
‘What’ll ye tak’, my lord?—Letty, fess the brandy.’
‘Oh! damn your brandy! Bring me a gill of good Glendronach.’
‘Rin, Letty. His lordship’s cauld.—I canna rise to offer ye the airm-cheir, my lord.’
‘I can get one for myself, thank heaven!’
‘Lang may yer lordship return sic thanks.’
‘For I’m only new begun, ye think, Miss Naper. Well, I don’t often trouble heaven with my affairs. By Jove! I ought to be heard when I do.’
‘Nae doobt ye will, my lord, whan ye seek onything that’s fit to be gien ye.’
‘True. Heaven’s gifts are seldom much worth the asking.’
‘Haud yer tongue, my lord, and dinna bring doon a judgment upo’ my hoose, for it wad be missed oot o’ Rothieden.’
‘You’re right there, Miss Naper. And here comes the whisky to stop my mouth.’
The Baron of Rothie sat for a few minutes with his feet on the fender before Miss Letty’s blazing fire, without speaking, while he sipped the whisky neat from a wine-glass. He was a man about the middle height, rather full-figured, muscular and active, with a small head, and an eye whose brightness had not yet been dimmed by the sensuality which might be read in the condition rather than frame of his countenance. But while he spoke so pleasantly to the Miss Napiers, and his forehead spread broad and smooth over the twinkle of his hazel eye, there was a sharp curve on each side of his upper lip, half-way between the corner and the middle, which reminded one of the same curves in the lip of his ancestral boar’s head, where it was lifted up by the protruding tusks. These curves disappeared, of course, when he smiled, and his smile, being a lord’s, was generally pronounced irresistible. He was good-natured, and nowise inclined to stand upon his rank, so long as he had his own way.
‘Any customers by the mail to-night, Miss Naper?’ he asked, in a careless tone.
‘Naebody partic’lar, my lord.’
‘I thought ye never let anybody in that wasn’t particularly particular. No foot-passengers—eh?’
‘Hoot, my lord! that’s twa year ago. Gin I had jaloosed him to be a fren’ o’ yer lordship’s, forby bein’ a lord himsel’, ye ken as weel ‘s I du that I wadna hae sent him ower the gait to Luckie Happit’s, whaur he wadna even be ower sure o’ gettin’ clean sheets. But gin lords an’ lords’ sons will walk afit like ither fowk, wha’s to ken them frae ither fowk?’
‘Well, Miss Naper, he was no lord at all. He was nothing but a factor-body doon frae Glenbucket.’
‘There was sma’ hairm dune than, my lord. I’m glaid to hear ‘t. But what’ll yer lordship hae to yer supper?’
‘I would like a dish o’ your chits and nears (sweetbreads and kidneys).’
‘Noo, think o’ that!’ returned the landlady, laughing. ‘You great fowk wad hae the verra coorse o’ natur’ turned upside doon to shuit yersels. Wha ever heard o’ caure (calves) at this time o’ the year?’
‘Well, anything you like. Who was it came by the mail, did you say?’
‘I said naebody partic’lar, my lord.’
‘Well, I’ll just go and have a look at Black Geordie.’
‘Verra weel, my lord.—Letty, rin an’ luik efter him; and as sune ‘s he’s roon’ the neuk, tell Lizzie no to say a word aboot the leddy. As sure ‘s deith he’s efter her. Whaur cud he hae heard tell o’ her?’
Lord Rothie came, a moment after, sauntering into the bar-parlour, where Lizzie, the third Miss Napier, a red-haired, round-eyed, white-toothed woman of forty, was making entries in a book.
‘She’s a bonnie lassie that, that came in the coach to-night, they say, Miss Lizzie.’
‘As ugly ‘s sin, my lord,’ answered Lizzie.
‘I hae seen some sin ‘at was nane sae ugly, Miss Lizzie.’
‘She wad hae clean scunnert (disgusted) ye, my lord. It’s a mercy ye didna see her.’
‘If she be as ugly as all that, I would just like to see her.’
Miss Lizzie saw she had gone too far.
‘Ow, deed! gin yer lordship wants to see her, ye may see her at yer wull. I s’ gang and tell her.’
And she rose as if to go.
‘No, no. Nothing of the sort, Miss Lizzie. Only I heard that she was bonnie, and I wanted to see her. You know I like to look at a pretty girl.’
‘That’s ower weel kent, my lord.’
‘Well, there’s no harm in that, Miss Lizzie.’
‘There’s no harm in that, my lord, though yer lordship says ‘t.’
The facts were that his lordship had been to the county-town, some forty miles off, and Black Geordie had been sent to Hillknow to meet him; for in any weather that would let him sit, he preferred horseback to every other mode of travelling, though he seldom would be followed by a groom. He had posted to Hillknow, and had dined with a friend at the inn. The coach stopping to change horses, he had caught a glimpse of a pretty face, as he thought, from its window, and had hoped to overtake the coach before it reached Rothieden. But stopping to drink another bottle, he had failed; and it was on the merest chance of seeing that pretty face that he stopped at The Boar’s Head. In all probability, had the Marquis seen the lady, he would not have thought her at all such a beauty as she appeared in the eyes of Dooble Sanny; nor, I venture to think, had he thought as the shoemaker did, would he yet have dared to address her in other than the words of such respect as he could still feel in the presence of that which was more noble than himself.
Whether or not on his visit to the stable he found anything amiss with Black Geordie, I cannot tell, but he now begged Miss Lizzie to have a bedroom prepared for him.
It happened to be the evening of Friday, one devoted by some of the townspeople to a symposium. To this, knowing that the talk will throw a glimmer on several matters, I will now introduce my reader, as a spectator through the reversed telescope of my history.
A few of the more influential of the inhabitants had grown, rather than formed themselves, into a kind of club, which met weekly at The Boar’s Head. Although they had no exclusive right to the room in which they sat, they generally managed to retain exclusive possession of it; for if any supposed objectionable person entered, they always got rid of him, sometimes without his being aware of how they had contrived to make him so uncomfortable. They began to gather about seven o’clock, when it was expected that boiling water would be in readiness for the compound generally called toddy, sometimes punch. As soon as six were assembled, one was always voted into the chair.
On the present occasion, Mr. Innes, the school-master, was unanimously elected to that honour. He was a hard-featured, sententious, snuffy individual, of some learning, and great respectability.
I omit the political talk with which their intercommunications began; for however interesting at the time is the scaffolding by which existing institutions arise, the poles and beams when gathered again in the builder’s yard are scarcely a subject for the artist.
The first to lead the way towards matters of nearer personality was William MacGregor, the linen manufacturer, a man who possessed a score of hand-looms or so—half of which, from the advance of cotton and the decline of linen-wear, now stood idle—but who had already a sufficient deposit in the hands of Mr. Thomson the banker—agent, that is, for the county-bank—to secure him against any necessity for taking to cotton shirts himself, which were an abomination and offence unpardonable in his eyes.
‘Can ye tell me, Mr. Cocker,’ he said, ‘what mak’s Sandy, Lord Rothie, or Wrathy, or what suld he be ca’d?—tak’ to The Bothie at a time like this, whan there’s neither huntin’, nor fishin’, nor shutin’, nor onything o’ the kin’ aboot han’ to be playacks till him, the bonnie bairn—‘cep’ it be otters an’ sic like?’
William was a shrunken old man, with white whiskers and a black wig, a keen black eye, always in search of the ludicrous in other people, and a mouth ever on the move, as if masticating something comical.
‘You know just as well as I do,’ answered Mr. Cocker, the Marquis of Boarshead’s factor for the surrounding estate. ‘He never was in the way of giving a reason for anything, least of all for his own movements.’
‘Somebody was sayin’ to me,’ resumed MacGregor, who, in all probability, invented the story at the moment, ‘that the prince took him kissin’ ane o’ his servan’ lasses, and kickit him oot o’ Carlton Hoose into the street, and he canna win’ ower the disgrace o’ ‘t.’
‘’Deed for the kissin’,’ said Mr. Thomson, a portly, comfortable-looking man, ‘that’s neither here nor there, though it micht hae been a duchess or twa; but for the kickin’, my word! but Lord Sandy was mair likly to kick oot the prince. Do ye min’ hoo he did whan the Markis taxed him wi’—?’
‘Haud a quaiet sough,’ interposed Mr. Cruickshank, the solicitor; ‘there’s a drap i’ the hoose.’
This was a phrase well understood by the company, indicating the presence of some one unknown, or unfit to be trusted.
As he spoke he looked towards the farther end of the room, which lay in obscurity; for it was a large room, lighted only by the four candles on the table at which the company sat.
‘Whaur, Mr. Cruickshank?’ asked the dominie in a whisper.
‘There,’ answered Sampson Peddie, the bookseller, who seized the opportunity of saying something, and pointed furtively where the solicitor had only looked.
A dim figure was descried at a table in the farthest corner of the room, and they proceeded to carry out the plan they generally adopted to get rid of a stranger.
‘Ye made use o’ a curious auld Scots phrase this moment, Mr. Curshank: can ye explain hoo it comes to beir the meanin’ that it’s weel kent to beir?’ said the manufacturer.
‘Not I, Mr. MacGregor,’ answered the solicitor. ‘I’m no philologist or antiquarian. Ask the chairman.’
‘Gentlemen,’ responded Mr. Innes, taking a huge pinch of snuff after the word, and then, passing the box to Mr. Cocker, a sip from his glass before he went on: ‘the phrase, gentlemen, “a drap i’ the hoose,” no doobt refers to an undesirable presence, for ye’re weel awaur that it’s a most unpleasin’ discovery, in winter especially, to find a drop o’ water hangin’ from yer ceiling; a something, in short, whaur it has no business to be, and is not accordingly looked for, or prepared against.’
‘It seems to me, Mr. Innes,’ said MacGregor, ‘that ye hae hit the nail, but no upo’ the heid. What mak’ ye o’ the phrase, no confined to the Scots tongue, I believe, o’ an eaves-drapper? The whilk, no doobt, represents a body that hings aboot yer winnock, like a drap hangin’ ower abune it frae the eaves—therefore called an eaves drapper. But the sort of whilk we noo speak, are a waur sort a’thegither; for they come to the inside o’ yer hoose, o’ yer verra chaumer, an’ hing oot their lang lugs to hear what ye carena to be hard save by a dooce frien’ or twa ower a het tum’ler.’
At the same moment the door opened, and a man entered, who was received with unusual welcome.
‘Bless my sowl!’ said the president, rising; ‘it’s Mr. Lammie!—Come awa’, Mr. Lammie. Sit doon; sit doon. Whaur hae ye been this mony a day, like a pelican o’ the wilderness?’
Mr. Lammie was a large, mild man, with florid cheeks, no whiskers, and a prominent black eye. He was characterized by a certain simple alacrity, a gentle, but outspeaking readiness, which made him a favourite.
‘I dinna richtly mak’ oot wha ye are,’ he answered. ‘Ye hae unco little licht here! Hoo are ye a’, gentlemen? I s’ discover ye by degrees, and pay my respecks accordin’.’
And he drew a chair to the table.
‘’Deed I wuss ye wad,’ returned MacGregor, in a voice pretentiously hushed, but none the less audible. ‘There’s a drap in yon en’ o’ the hoose, Mr. Lammie.’
‘Hoot! never min’ the man,’ said Lammie, looking round in the direction indicated. ‘I s’ warran’ he cares as little aboot hiz as we care aboot him. There’s nae treason noo a-days. I carena wha hears what I say.’
‘For my pairt,’ said Mr. Peddie, ‘I canna help wonnerin’ gin it cud be oor auld frien’ Mr. Faukener.’
‘Speyk o’ the de’il—’ said Mr. Lammie.
‘Hoot! na,’ returned Peddie, interrupting. ‘He wasna a’thegither the de’il.’
‘Haud the tongue o’ ye,’ retorted Lammie. ‘Dinna ye ken a proverb whan ye hear ‘t? De’il hae ye! ye’re as sharpset as a missionar’. I was only gaun to say that I’m doobtin’ Andrew’s deid.’
‘Ay! ay!’ commenced a chorus of questioning.
‘Mhm!’
‘Aaay!’
‘What gars ye think that?’
‘And sae he’s deid!’
‘He was a great favourite, Anerew!’
‘Whaur dee’d he?’
‘Aye some upsettin’ though!’
‘Ay. He was aye to be somebody wi’ his tale.’
‘A gude-hertit crater, but ye cudna lippen till him.’
‘Speyk nae ill o’ the deid. Maybe they’ll hear ye, and turn roon’ i’ their coffins, and that’ll whumle you i’ your beds,’ said MacGregor, with a twinkle in his eye.
‘Ring the bell for anither tum’ler, Sampson,’ said the chairman.
‘What’ll be dune wi’ that factory place, noo? It’ll be i’ the market?’
‘It’s been i’ the market for mony a year. But it’s no his ava. It belangs to the auld leddy, his mither,’ said the weaver.
‘Why don’t you buy it, Mr. MacGregor, and set up a cotton mill? There’s not much doing with the linen now,’ said Mr. Cocker.
‘Me!’ returned MacGregor, with indignation. ‘The Lord forgie ye for mintin’ (hinting) at sic a thing, Mr. Cocker! Me tak’ to coaton! I wad as sune spin the hair frae Sawtan’s hurdies. Short fushionless dirt, that canna grow straucht oot o’ the halesome yird, like the bonnie lint-bells, but maun stick itsel’ upo’ a buss!—set it up! Coorse vulgar stuff, ‘at naebody wad weir but loup-coonter lads that wad fain luik like gentlemen by means o’ the collars and ruffles—an’ a’ comin’ frae the auld loom! They may weel affoord se’enteen hunner linen to set it aff wi’ ‘at has naething but coaton inside the breeks o’ them.’
‘But Dr. Wagstaff says it’s healthier,’ interposed Peddie.
‘I’ll wag a staff till him. De’il a bit o’ ‘t ‘s healthier! an’ that he kens. It’s nae sae healthy, an’ sae it mak’s him mair wark wi’ ‘s poothers an’ his drauchts, an’ ither stinkin’ stuff. Healthier! What neist?’
‘Somebody tellt me,’ said the bookseller, inwardly conscious of offence, ‘’at hoo Lord Sandy himsel’ weirs cotton.’
‘Ow ‘deed, maybe. And he sets mony a worthy example furbye. Hoo mony, can ye tell me, Mr. Peddie, has he pulled doon frae honest, if no frae high estate, and sent oot to seek their livin’ as he taucht them? Hoo mony—?’
‘Hoot, hoot! Mr. MacGregor, his lordship hasn’t a cotton shirt in his possession, I’ll be bound,’ said Mr. Cocker. ‘And, besides, you have not to wash his dirty linen—or cotton either.’