Robert Falconer. George MacDonald
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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