Robert Falconer

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.’

‘That’s as muckle as to say, accordin’ to Cocker, that I’m no to speik a word against him. But I’ll say what I like. He’s no my maister,’ said MacGregor, who could drink very little without suffering in his temper and manners; and who, besides, had a certain shrewd suspicion as to the person who still sat in the dark end of the room, possibly because the entrance of Mr. Lammie had interrupted the exorcism.

The chairman interposed with soothing words; and the whole company, Cocker included, did its best to pacify the manufacturer; for they all knew what would be the penalty if they failed.

A good deal of talk followed, and a good deal of whisky was drunk. They were waited upon by Meg, who, without their being aware of it, cast a keen parting glance at them every time she left the room. At length the conversation had turned again to Andrew Falconer’s death.

‘Whaur said ye he dee’d, Mr. Lammie?’

‘I never said he was deid. I said I was feared ‘at he was deid.’

‘An’ what gars ye say that? It micht be o’ consequence to hae ‘t correck,’ said the solicitor.

‘I had a letter frae my auld frien’ and his, Dr. Anderson. Ye min’ upo’ him, Mr. Innes, dunna ye? He’s heid o’ the medical boord at Calcutta noo. He says naething but that he doobts he’s gane. He gaed up the country, and he hasna hard o’ him for sae lang. We hae keepit up a correspondence for mony a year noo, Dr. Anderson an’ me. He was a relation o’ Anerew’s, ye ken—a second cousin, or something. He’ll be hame or lang, I’m thinkin’, wi’ a fine pension.’

‘He winna weir a cotton sark, I’ll be boon’,’ said MacGregor.

‘What’s the auld leddy gaein’ to du wi’ that lang-leggit oye (grandson) o’ hers, Anerew’s son?’ asked Sampson.

‘Ow! he’ll be gaein’ to the college, I’m thinkin’. He’s a fine lad, and a clever, they tell me,’ said Mr. Thomson.

‘Indeed, he’s all that, and more too,’ said the school-master.

‘There’s naething ‘ull du but the college noo!’ said MacGregor, whom nobody heeded, for fear of again rousing his anger.

‘Hoo ‘ill she manage that, honest woman? She maun hae but little to spare frae the cleedin’ o’ ‘m.’

‘She’s a gude manager, Mistress Faukner. And, ye see, she has the bleachgreen yet.’

‘She doesna weir cotton sarks,’ growled MacGregor. ‘Mony’s the wob o’ mine she’s bleached and boucht tu!’

Nobody heeding him yet, he began to feel insulted, and broke in upon the conversation with intent.

‘Ye haena telt ‘s yet, Cocker,’ he said, ‘what that maister o’ yours is duin’ here at this time o’ the year. I wad ken that, gin ye please.’

‘How should I know, Mr. MacGregor?’ returned the factor, taking no notice of the offensive manner in which the question was put.

‘He’s no a hair better nor ane o’ thae Algerine pirates ‘at Lord Exmooth’s het the hips o’—and that’s my opingon.’

‘He’s nae amo’ your feet, MacGregor,’ said the banker. ‘Ye micht jist lat him lie.’

‘Gin I had him doon, faith gin I wadna lat him lie! I’ll jist tell ye ae thing, gentlemen, that cam’ to my knowledge no a hunner year ago. An’ it’s a’ as true ‘s gospel, though I hae aye held my tongue aboot it till this verra nicht. Ay! ye’ll a’ hearken noo; but it’s no lauchin’, though there was sculduddery eneuch, nae doobt, afore it cam’ that len’th. And mony a het drap did the puir lassie greet, I can tell ye. Faith! it was no lauchin’ to her. She was a servan’ o’ oors, an’ a ticht bonnie lass she was. They ca’d her the weyver’s bonny Mary—that’s the name she gaed by. Weel, ye see—’

MacGregor was interrupted by a sound from the further end of the room. The stranger, whom most of them had by this time forgotten, had risen, and was approaching the table where they sat.

‘Guid guide us!’ interrupted several under their breaths, as all rose, ‘it’s Lord Sandy himsel’!’

‘I thank you, gentleman,’ he said, with a mixture of irony and contempt, ‘for the interest you take in my private history. I should have thought it had been as little to the taste as it is to the honour of some of you to listen to such a farrago of lies.’

‘Lees! my lord,’ said MacGregor, starting to his feet. Mr. Cocker looked dismayed, and Mr. Lammie sheepish—all of them dazed and dumbfoundered, except the old weaver, who, as his lordship turned to leave the room, added:

‘Lang lugs (ears) suld be made o’ leather, my lord, for fear they grow het wi’ what they hear.’

Lord Rothie turned in a rage. He too had been drinking.

‘Kick that toad into the street, or, by heaven! it’s the last drop any of you drink in this house!’ he cried.

‘The taed may tell the poddock (frog) what the rottan (rat) did i’ the taed’s hole, my lord,’ said MacGregor, whom independence, honesty, bile, and drink combined to render fearless.

Lord Sandy left the room without another word. His factor took his hat and followed him. The rest dropped into their seats in silence. Mr. Lammie was the first to speak.

‘There’s a pliskie!’ he said.

‘I cud jist say the word efter auld Simeon,’ said MacGregor.

‘I never thocht to be sae favoured! Eh! but I hae langed, and noo I hae spoken!’ with which words he sat down, contented.

When Mr. Cocker overtook his master, as MacGregor had not unfitly styled him, he only got a damning for his pains, and went home considerably crestfallen.

Lord Rothie returned to the landlady in her parlour.

‘What’s the maitter wi’ ye, my lord? What’s vexed ye?’ asked Miss Napier, with a twinkle in her eyes, for she thought, from the baron’s mortification, he must have received some rebuff, and now that the bonnie leddy was safe at Captain Forsyth’s, enjoyed the idea of it.

‘Ye keep an ill-tongued hoose, Miss Naper,’ answered his lordship.

Miss Napier guessed at the truth at once—that he had overheard some free remarks on his well-known licence of behaviour.

‘Weel, my lord, I do my best. A body canna keep an inn and speir the carritchis (catechism) at the door o’ ‘t. But I believe ye’re i’ the richt, my lord, for I heard an awfu’ aff-gang o’ sweirin’ i’ the yard, jist afore yer lordship cam’ in. An’ noo’ ‘at I think o’ ‘t, it wasna that onlike yer lordship’s ain word.’

Lord Sandy broke into a loud laugh. He could enjoy a joke against himself when it came from a woman, and was founded on such a trifle as a personal vice.

‘I think I’ll go to bed,’ he said when his laugh was over. ‘I believe it’s the only safe place from your tongue, Miss Naper.’

‘Letty,’ cried Miss Napier, ‘fess a can’le, and show his lordship to the reid room.’

Till Miss Letty appeared, the baron sat and stretched himself. He then rose and followed her into the archway, and up an outside stair to a door which opened immediately upon a handsome old-fashioned room, where a blazing fire lighted up the red hangings. Miss Letty set down the candle, and bidding his lordship good night, turned and left the room, shutting the door, and locking it behind her—a proceeding of which his lordship took no notice, for, however especially suitable it might be in his case, it was only, from whatever ancient source derived, the custom of the house in regard to this particular room and a corresponding chamber on the opposite side of the archway.

Meantime the consternation amongst the members of the club was not so great as not to be talked over, or to prevent the call for more whisky and hot water. All but MacGregor, however, regretted what had occurred. He was so elevated with his victory and a sense of courage and prowess, that he became more and more facetious and overbearing.

‘It’s all very well for you, Mr. MacGregor,’ said the dominie, with dignity: ‘you have nothing to lose.’

‘Troth! he canna brak the bank—eh, Mr. Tamson?’

‘He may give me a hint to make you withdraw your money, though, Mr. MacGregor.’

‘De’il care gin I do!’ returned the weaver. ‘I can mak’ better o’ ‘t ony day.’

‘But there’s yer hoose an’ kailyard,’ suggested Peddie.

‘They’re ma ain!—a’ ma ain! He canna lay ‘s finger on onything o’ mine but my servan’ lass,’ cried the weaver, slapping his thigh-bone—for there was little else to slap.

Meg, at the moment, was taking her exit-glance. She went straight to Miss Napier.

‘Willie MacGregor’s had eneuch, mem, an’ a drappy ower.’

‘Sen’ Caumill doon to Mrs. MacGregor to say wi’ my compliments that she wad do weel to sen’ for him,’ was the response.

Meantime he grew more than troublesome. Ever on the outlook, when sober, after the foibles of others, he laid himself open to endless ridicule when in drink, which, to tell the truth, was a rare occurrence. He was in the midst of a prophetic denunciation of the vices of the nobility, and especially of Lord Rothie, when Meg, entering the room, went quietly behind his chair and whispered:

‘Maister MacGregor, there’s a lassie come for ye.’

‘I’m nae in,’ he answered, magnificently.

‘But it’s the mistress ‘at’s sent for ye. Somebody’s wantin’ ye.’

‘Somebody maun want me, than.—As I was sayin’, Mr. Cheerman and gentlemen—’

‘Mistress MacGregor ‘ll be efter ye hersel’, gin ye dinna gang,’ said Meg.

‘Let her come. Duv ye think I’m fleyt at her? De’il a step ‘ll I gang till I please. Tell her that, Meg.’

Meg left the room, with a broad grin on her good-humoured face.

‘What’s the bitch lauchin’ at?’ exclaimed MacGregor, starting to his feet.

The whole company rose likewise, using their endeavour to persuade him to go home.

‘Duv ye think I’m drunk, sirs? I’ll lat ye ken I’m no drunk. I hae a wull o’ mine ain yet. Am I to gang hame wi’ a lassie to haud me oot o’ the gutters? Gin ye daur to alloo that I’m drunk, ye ken hoo ye’ll fare, for de’il a fit ‘ll I gang oot o’ this till I hae anither tum’ler.’

‘I’m thinkin’ there’s mair o’ ‘s jist want ane mair,’ said Peddie.

A confirmatory murmur arose as each looked into the bottom of his tumbler, and the bell was instantly rung. But it only brought Meg back with the message that it was time for them all to go home. Every eye turned upon MacGregor reproachfully.

‘Ye needna luik at me that gait, sirs. I’m no fou,’ said he.

‘’Deed no. Naebody taks ye to be,’ answered the chairman. ‘Meggie, there’s naebody’s had ower muckle yet, and twa or three o’ ‘s hasna had freely eneuch. Jist gang an’ fess a mutchkin mair. An’ there’ll be a shillin’ to yersel’, lass.’

Meg retired, but straightway returned.

‘Miss Naper says there’s no a drap mair drink to be had i’ this hoose the nicht.’

‘Here, Meggie,’ said the chairman, ‘there’s yer shillin’; and ye jist gang to Miss Lettie, and gie her my compliments, and say that Mr. Lammie’s here, and we haena seen him for a lang time. And’—the rest was spoken in a whisper—‘I’ll sweir to ye, Meggie, the weyver body sanna hae ae drap o’ ‘t.’

Meg withdrew once more, and returned.

‘Miss Letty’s compliments, sir, and Miss Naper has the keys, and she’s gane till her bed, and we maunna disturb her. And it’s time ‘at a’ honest fowk was in their beds tu. And gin Mr. Lammie wants a bed i’ this hoose, he maun gang till ‘t. An’ here’s his can’le. Gude nicht to ye a’, gentlemen.’

So saying, Meg set the lighted candle on the sideboard, and finally vanished. The good-tempered, who formed the greater part of the company, smiled to each other, and emptied the last drops of their toddy first into their glasses, and thence into their mouths. The ill-tempered, numbering but one more than MacGregor, growled and swore a little, the weaver declaring that he would not go home. But the rest walked out and left him, and at last, appalled by the silence, he rose with his wig awry, and trotted—he always trotted when he was tipsy—home to his wife.

CHAPTER VI. MRS. FALCONER

Meantime Robert was seated in the parlour at the little dark mahogany table, in which the lamp, shaded towards his grandmother’s side, shone brilliantly reflected. Her face being thus hidden both by the light and the shadow, he could not observe the keen look of stern benevolence with which, knowing that he could not see her, she regarded him as he ate his thick oat-cake of Betty’s skilled manufacture, well loaded with the sweetest butter, and drank the tea which she had poured out and sugared for him with liberal hand. It was a comfortable little room, though its inlaid mahogany chairs and ancient sofa, covered with horsehair, had a certain look of hardness, no doubt. A shepherdess and lamb, worked in silks whose brilliance had now faded half-way to neutrality, hung in a black frame, with brass rosettes at the corners, over the chimney-piece—the sole approach to the luxury of art in the homely little place. Besides the muslin stretched across the lower part of the window, it was undefended by curtains. There was no cat in the room, nor was there one in the kitchen even; for Mrs. Falconer had such a respect for humanity that she grudged every morsel consumed by the lower creation. She sat in one of the arm-chairs belonging to the hairy set, leaning back in contemplation of her grandson, as she took her tea.

She was a handsome old lady—little, but had once been taller, for she was more than seventy now. She wore a plain cap of muslin, lying close to her face, and bordered a little way from the edge with a broad black ribbon, which went round her face, and then, turning at right angles, went round the back of her neck. Her gray hair peeped a little way from under this cap. A clear but short-sighted eye of a light hazel shone under a smooth thoughtful forehead; a straight and well-elevated, but rather short nose, which left the firm upper lip long and capable of expressing a world of dignified offence, rose over a well-formed mouth, revealing more moral than temperamental sweetness; while the chin was rather deficient than otherwise, and took little share in indicating the remarkable character possessed by the old lady.

After gazing at Robert for some time, she took a piece of oat-cake from a plate by her side, the only luxury in which she indulged, for it was made with cream instead of water—it was very little she ate of anything—and held it out to Robert in a hand white, soft, and smooth, but with square finger tips, and squat though pearly nails. ‘Ha’e, Robert,’ she said; and Robert received it with a ‘Thank you, grannie’; but when he thought she did not see him, slipped it under the table and into his pocket. She saw him well enough, however, and although she would not condescend to ask him why he put it away instead of eating it, the endeavour to discover what could have been his reason for so doing cost her two hours of sleep that night. She would always be at the bottom of a thing if reflection could reach it, but she generally declined taking the most ordinary measures to expedite the process.

When Robert had finished his tea, instead of rising to get his books and betake himself to his lessons, in regard to which his grandmother had seldom any cause to complain, although she would have considered herself guilty of high treason against the boy’s future if she had allowed herself once to acknowledge as much, he drew his chair towards the fire, and said:

‘Grandmamma!’

‘He’s gaein’ to tell me something,’ said Mrs. Falconer to herself. ‘Will ‘t be aboot the puir barfut crater they ca’ Shargar, or will ‘t be aboot the piece he pat intil ‘s pooch?’

‘Weel, laddie?’ she said aloud, willing to encourage him.

‘Is ‘t true that my gran’father was the blin’ piper o’ Portcloddie?’

‘Ay, laddie; true eneuch. Hoots, na! nae yer grandfather, but yer father’s grandfather, laddie—my husband’s father.’

‘Hoo cam that aboot?’

‘Weel, ye see, he was oot i’ the Forty-five; and efter the battle o’ Culloden, he had to rin for ‘t. He wasna wi’ his ain clan at the battle, for his father had broucht him to the Lawlands whan he was a lad; but he played the pipes till a reg’ment raised by the Laird o’ Portcloddie. And for ooks (weeks) he had to hide amo’ the rocks. And they tuik a’ his property frae him. It wasna muckle—a wheen hooses, and a kailyard or twa, wi’ a bit fairmy on the tap o’ a cauld hill near the sea-shore; but it was eneuch and to spare; and whan they tuik it frae him, he had naething left i’ the warl’ but his sons. Yer grandfather was born the verra day o’ the battle, and the verra day ‘at the news cam, the mother deed. But yer great grandfather wasna lang or he merried anither wife. He was sic a man as ony woman micht hae been prood to merry. She was the dother (daughter) o’ an episcopalian minister, and she keepit a school in Portcloddie. I saw him first mysel’ whan I was aboot twenty—that was jist the year afore I was merried. He was a gey (considerably) auld man than, but as straucht as an ellwand, and jist pooerfu’ beyon’ belief. His shackle-bane (wrist) was as thick as baith mine; and years and years efter that, whan he tuik his son, my husband, and his grandson, my Anerew—’