Robert Falconer. George MacDonald
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he had eneuch already, do ye think, Meg?’
‘I dinna ken aboot eneuch, mem; that’s ill to mizzer; but I dinna think he’s had ower muckle.’
‘Weel, lat him tak’ it. But dinna lat him sit doon.’
‘Verra weel, mem,’ said Meg, and departed.
‘What gars Mr. Lumley say ‘at my gran’father was the blin’ piper o’ Portcloddie? Can ye tell me, Miss Naper?’ asked Robert.
‘Whan said he that, Robert?’
‘Jist as I cam in.’
Miss Napier rang the bell. Another maid appeared.
‘Sen’ Meg here direckly.’
Meg came, her eyes full of interrogation.
‘Dinna gie Lumley a drap. Set him up to insult a young gentleman at my door-cheek! He s’ no hae a drap here the nicht. He ‘s had ower muckle, Meg, already, an’ ye oucht to hae seen that.’
‘’Deed, mem, he ‘s had mair than ower muckle, than; for there’s anither gill ower the thrapple o’ ‘m. I div my best, mem, but, never tastin’ mysel’, I canna aye tell hoo muckle ‘s i’ the wame o’ a’ body ‘at comes in.’
‘Ye’re no fit for the place, Meg; that’s a fac’.’
At this charge Meg took no offence, for she had been in the place for twenty years. And both mistress and maid laughed the moment they parted company.
‘Wha’s this ‘at’s come the nicht, Miss Naper, ‘at they’re sae ta’en wi’?’ asked Robert.
‘Atweel, I dinna ken yet. She’s ower bonnie by a’ accoonts to be gaein’ about her lane (alone). It’s a mercy the baron’s no at hame. I wad hae to lock her up wi’ the forks and spunes.’
‘What for that?’ asked Robert.
But Miss Napier vouchsafed no further explanation. She stuffed his pockets with sweet biscuits instead, dismissed him in haste, and rang the bell.
‘Meg, whaur hae they putten the stranger-leddy?’
‘She’s no gaein’ to bide at our hoose, mem.’
‘What say ye, lass? She’s never gaein’ ower to Lucky Happit’s, is she?’
‘Ow na, mem. She’s a leddy, ilka inch o’ her. But she’s some sib (relation) to the auld captain, and she’s gaein’ doon the street as sune’s Caumill’s ready to tak her bit boxes i’ the barrow. But I doobt there’ll be maist three barrowfu’s o’ them.’
‘Atweel. Ye can gang.’
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