George MacDonald - Robert Falconer

The shoemaker looked blank.

‘Ye’re no gaein’ to desert me, are ye?’

‘Na, weel I wat!’ returned Robert. ‘But I want to try her at hame. I maun get used till her a bittie, ye ken, afore I can du onything wi’ her.’

‘I wiss ye had na brought her here ava. What I am to du wantin’ her!’

‘What for dinna ye get yer ain back?’

‘I haena the siller, man. And, forbye, I doobt I wadna be that sair content wi’ her noo gin I had her. I used to think her gran’. But I’m clean oot o’ conceit o’ her. That bonnie leddy’s ta’en ‘t clean oot o’ me.’

‘But ye canna hae her aye, ye ken, Sanders. She’s no mine. She’s my grannie’s, ye ken.’

‘What’s the use o’ her to her? She pits nae vailue upon her. Eh, man, gin she wad gie her to me, I wad haud her i’ the best o’ shune a’ the lave o’ her days.’

‘That wadna be muckle, Sanders, for she hasna had a new pair sin’ ever I mind.’

‘But I wad haud Betty in shune as weel.’

‘Betty pays for her ain shune, I reckon.’

‘Weel, I wad haud you in shune, and yer bairns, and yer bairns’ bairns,’ cried the soutar, with enthusiasm.

‘Hoot, toot, man! Lang or that ye’ll be fiddlin’ i’ the new Jeroozlem.’

‘Eh, man!’ said Alexander, looking up—he had just cracked the roset-ends off his hands, for he had the upper leather of a boot in the grasp of the clams, and his right hand hung arrested on its blind way to the awl—‘duv ye think there’ll be fiddles there? I thocht they war a’ hairps, a thing ‘at I never saw, but it canna be up till a fiddle.’

‘I dinna ken,’ answered Robert; ‘but ye suld mak a pint o’ seein’ for yersel’.’

‘Gin I thoucht there wad be fiddles there, faith I wad hae a try. It wadna be muckle o’ a Jeroozlem to me wantin’ my fiddle. But gin there be fiddles, I daursay they’ll be gran’ anes. I daursay they wad gi’ me a new ane—I mean ane as auld as Noah’s ‘at he played i’ the ark whan the de’il cam’ in by to hearken. I wad fain hae a try. Ye ken a’ aboot it wi’ that grannie o’ yours: hoo’s a body to begin?’

‘By giein’ up the drink, man.’

‘Ay—ay—ay—I reckon ye’re richt. Weel, I’ll think aboot it whan ance I’m throu wi’ this job. That’ll be neist ook, or thereabouts, or aiblins twa days efter. I’ll hae some leiser than.’

Before he had finished speaking he had caught up his awl and begun to work vigorously, boring his holes as if the nerves of feeling were continued to the point of the tool, inserting the bristles that served him for needles with a delicacy worthy of soft-skinned fingers, drawing through the rosined threads with a whisk, and untwining them with a crack from the leather that guarded his hands.

‘Gude nicht to ye,’ said Robert, with the fiddle-case under his arm.

The shoemaker looked up, with his hands bound in his threads.

‘Ye’re no gaein’ to tak her frae me the nicht?’

‘Ay am I, but I’ll fess her back again. I’m no gaein’ to Jericho wi’ her.’

‘Gang to Hecklebirnie wi’ her, and that’s three mile ayont hell.’

‘Na; we maun win farther nor that. There canna be muckle fiddlin’ there.’

‘Weel, tak her to the new Jeroozlem. I s’ gang doon to Lucky Leary’s, and fill mysel’ roarin’ fou, an’ it’ll be a’ your wyte (blame).’

‘I doobt ye’ll get the straiks (blows) though. Or maybe ye think Bell ‘ill tak them for ye.’

Dooble Sanny caught up a huge boot, the sole of which was filled with broad-headed nails as thick as they could be driven, and, in a rage, threw it at Robert as he darted out. Through its clang against the door-cheek, the shoemaker heard a cry from the instrument. He cast everything from him and sprang after Robert. But Robert was down the wynd like a long-legged grayhound, and Elshender could only follow like a fierce mastiff. It was love and grief, though, and apprehension and remorse, not vengeance, that winged his heels. He soon saw that pursuit was vain.

‘Robert! Robert!’ he cried; ‘I canna win up wi’ ye. Stop, for God’s sake! Is she hurtit?’

Robert stopped at once.

‘Ye hae made a bonny leddy o’ her—a lameter (cripple) I doobt, like yer wife,’ he answered, with indignation.

‘Dinna be aye flingin’ a man’s fau’ts in ‘s face. It jist maks him ‘at he canna bide himsel’ or you eyther. Lat’s see the bonny crater.’

Robert complied, for he too was anxious. They were now standing in the space in front of Shargar’s old abode, and there was no one to be seen. Elshender took the box, opened it carefully, and peeped in with a face of great apprehension.

‘I thocht that was a’!’ he said with some satisfaction. ‘I kent the string whan I heard it. But we’ll sune get a new thairm till her,’ he added, in a tone of sorrowful commiseration and condolence, as he took the violin from the case, tenderly as if it had been a hurt child.

One touch of the bow, drawing out a goul of grief, satisfied him that she was uninjured. Next a hurried inspection showed him that there was enough of the catgut twisted round the peg to make up for the part that was broken off. In a moment he had fastened it to the tail-piece, tightened and tuned it. Forthwith he took the bow from the case-lid, and in jubilant guise he expatiated upon the wrong he had done his bonny leddy, till the doors and windows around were crowded with heads peering through the dark to see whence the sounds came, and a little child toddled across from one of the lowliest houses with a ha’penny for the fiddler. Gladly would Robert have restored it with interest, but, alas! there was no interest in his bank, for not a ha’penny had he in the world. The incident recalled Sandy to Rothieden and its cares. He restored the violin to its case, and while Robert was fearing he would take it under his arm and walk away with it, handed it back with a humble sigh and a ‘Praise be thankit;’ then, without another word, turned and went to his lonely stool and home ‘untreasured of its mistress.’ Robert went home too, and stole like a thief to his room.

The next day was a Saturday, which, indeed, was the real old Sabbath, or at least the half of it, to the schoolboys of Rothieden. Even Robert’s grannie was Jew enough, or rather Christian enough, to respect this remnant of the fourth commandment—divine antidote to the rest of the godless money-making and soul-saving week—and he had the half-day to himself. So as soon as he had had his dinner, he managed to give Shargar the slip, left him to the inroads of a desolate despondency, and stole away to the old factory-garden. The key of that he had managed to purloin from the kitchen where it hung; nor was there much danger of its absence being discovered, seeing that in winter no one thought of the garden. The smuggling of the violin out of the house was the ‘dearest danger’—the more so that he would not run the risk of carrying her out unprotected, and it was altogether a bulky venture with the case. But by spying and speeding he managed it, and soon found himself safe within the high walls of the garden.

It was early spring. There had been a heavy fall of sleet in the morning, and now the wind blew gustfully about the place. The neglected trees shook showers upon him as he passed under them, trampling down the rank growth of the grass-walks. The long twigs of the wall-trees, which had never been nailed up, or had been torn down by the snow and the blasts of winter, went trailing away in the moan of the fitful wind, and swung back as it sunk to a sigh. The currant and gooseberry bushes, bare and leafless, and ‘shivering all for cold,’ neither reminded him of the feasts of the past summer, nor gave him any hope for the next. He strode careless through it all to gain the door at the bottom. It yielded to a push, and the long grass streamed in over the threshold as he entered. He mounted by a broad stair in the main part of the house, passing the silent clock in one of its corners, now expiating in motionlessness the false accusations it had brought against the work-people, and turned into the chaos of machinery.