George MacDonald - Robert Falconer

And careless to resist the ludicrousness of the idea, he burst into a loud fit of laughter, which did more to reassure his grannie than any amount of protestation could have done, however she pretended to take offence at his ill-timed merriment.

Seeing his grandmother staggered, Robert gathered courage to assume the offensive.

‘But, granny! hoo ever Betty, no to say you, cud hae driven oot a puir half-stervit cratur like Shargar, even supposin’ he oucht to hae been in coaties, and no in troosers—and the mither o’ him run awa’ an’ left him—it’s mair nor I can unnerstan.’ I misdoobt me sair but he’s gane and droont himsel’.’

Robert knew well enough that Shargar would not drown himself without at least bidding him good-bye; but he knew too that his grandmother could be wrought upon. Her conscience was more tender than her feelings; and this peculiarity occasioned part of the mutual non-understanding rather than misunderstanding between her grandson and herself. The first relation she bore to most that came near her was one of severity and rebuke; but underneath her cold outside lay a warm heart, to which conscience acted the part of a somewhat capricious stoker, now quenching its heat with the cold water of duty, now stirring it up with the poker of reproach, and ever treating it as an inferior and a slave. But her conscience was, on the whole, a better friend to her race than her heart; and, indeed, the conscience is always a better friend than a heart whose motions are undirected by it. From Falconer’s account of her, however, I cannot help thinking that she not unfrequently took refuge in severity of tone and manner from the threatened ebullition of a feeling which she could not otherwise control, and which she was ashamed to manifest. Possibly conscience had spoken more and more gently as its behests were more and more readily obeyed, until the heart began to gather courage, and at last, as in many old people, took the upper hand, which was outwardly inconvenient to one of Mrs. Falconer’s temperament. Hence, in doing the kindest thing in the world, she would speak in a tone of command, even of rebuke, as if she were compelling the performance of the most unpleasant duty in the person who received the kindness. But the human heart is hard to analyze, and, indeed, will not submit quietly to the operation, however gently performed. Nor is the result at all easy to put into words. It is best shown in actions.

Again, it may appear rather strange that Robert should be able to talk in such an easy manner to his grandmother, seeing he had been guilty of concealment, if not of deception. But she had never been so actively severe towards Robert as she had been towards her own children. To him she was wonderfully gentle for her nature, and sought to exercise the saving harshness which she still believed necessary, solely in keeping from him every enjoyment of life which the narrowest theories as to the rule and will of God could set down as worldly. Frivolity, of which there was little in this sober boy, was in her eyes a vice; loud laughter almost a crime; cards, and novelles, as she called them, were such in her estimation, as to be beyond my powers of characterization. Her commonest injunction was, ‘Noo be douce,’—that is sober—uttered to the soberest boy she could ever have known. But Robert was a large-hearted boy, else this life would never have had to be written; and so, through all this, his deepest nature came into unconscious contact with that of his noble old grandmother. There was nothing small about either of them. Hence Robert was not afraid of her. He had got more of her nature in him than of her son’s. She and his own mother had more share in him than his father, though from him he inherited good qualities likewise.

He had concealed his doings with Shargar simply because he believed they could not be done if his grandmother knew of his plans. Herein he did her less than justice. But so unpleasant was concealment to his nature, and so much did the dread of discovery press upon him, that the moment he saw the thing had come out into the daylight of her knowledge, such a reaction of relief took place as, operating along with his deep natural humour and the comical circumstance of the case, gave him an ease and freedom of communication which he had never before enjoyed with her. Likewise there was a certain courage in the boy which, if his own natural disposition had not been so quiet that he felt the negations of her rule the less, might have resulted in underhand doings of a very different kind, possibly, from those of benevolence.

He must have been a strange being to look at, I always think, at this point of his development, with his huge nose, his black eyes, his lanky figure, and his sober countenance, on which a smile was rarely visible, but from which burst occasional guffaws of laughter.

At the words ‘droont himsel’,’ Mrs. Falconer started.

‘Rin, laddie, rin,’ she said, ‘an’ fess him back direckly! Betty! Betty! gang wi’ Robert and help him to luik for Shargar. Ye auld, blin’, doited body, ‘at says ye can see, and canna tell a lad frae a lass!’

‘Na, na, grannie. I’m no gaein’ oot wi’ a dame like her trailin’ at my fut. She wad be a sair hinnerance to me. Gin Shargar be to be gotten—that is, gin he be in life—I s’ get him wantin’ Betty. And gin ye dinna ken him for the crater ye fand i’ the garret, he maun be sair changed sin’ I left him there.’

‘Weel, weel, Robert, gang yer wa’s. But gin ye be deceivin’ me, may the Lord—forgie ye, Robert, for sair ye’ll need it.’

‘Nae fear o’ that, grannie,’ returned Robert, from the street door, and vanished.

Mrs. Falconer stalked—No, I will not use that word of the gait of a woman like my friend’s grandmother. ‘Stately stept she butt the hoose’ to Betty. She felt strangely soft at the heart, Robert not being yet proved a reprobate; but she was not therefore prepared to drop one atom of the dignity of her relation to her servant.

‘Betty,’ she said, ‘ye hae made a mistak.’

‘What’s that, mem?’ returned Betty.

‘It wasna a lass ava; it was that crater Shargar.’

‘Ye said it was a lass yersel’ first, mem.’

‘Ye ken weel eneuch that I’m short sichtit, an’ hae been frae the day o’ my birth.’

‘I’m no auld eneuch to min’ upo’ that, mem,’ returned Betty revengefully, but in an undertone, as if she did not intend her mistress to hear. And although she heard well enough, her mistress adopted the subterfuge. ‘But I’ll sweir the crater I saw was in cwytes (petticoats).’

‘Sweir not at all, Betty. Ye hae made a mistak ony gait.’

‘Wha says that, mem?’

‘Robert.’

‘Aweel, gin he be tellin’ the trowth—’

‘Daur ye mint (insinuate) to me that a son o’ mine wad tell onything but the trowth?’

‘Na, na, mem. But gin that wasna a quean, ye canna deny but she luikit unco like ane, and no a blate (bashful) ane eyther.’

‘Gin he was a loon, he wadna luik like a blate lass, ony gait, Betty. And there ye’re wrang.’

‘Weel, weel, mem, hae ‘t yer ain gait,’ muttered Betty.

‘I wull hae ‘t my ain gait,’ retorted her mistress, ‘because it’s the richt gait, Betty. An’ noo ye maun jist gang up the stair, an’ get the place cleant oot an’ put in order.’

‘I wull do that, mem.’

‘Ay wull ye. An’ luik weel aboot, Betty, you that can see sae weel, in case there suld be ony cattle aboot; for he’s nane o’ the cleanest, yon dame!’

‘I wull do that, mem.’

‘An’ gang direckly, afore he comes back.’

‘Wha comes back?’

‘Robert, of course.’

‘What for that?’

‘’Cause he’s comin’ wi’ ‘im.’

‘What he ‘s comin’ wi’ ‘im?’