THE ANGEL UNAWARES.
Although Betty seemed to hold little communication with the outer world, she yet contrived somehow or other to bring home what gossip was going to the ears of her mistress, who had very few visitors;for, while her neighbours held Mrs.Falconer in great and evident respect, she was not the sort of person to sit down and have a news with.There was a certain sedate self-contained dignity about her which the common mind felt to be chilling and repellant; and from any gossip of a personal nature--what Betty brought her always excepted--she would turn away, generally with the words, 'Hoots! Icanna bide clashes.'
On the evening following that of Shargar's introduction to Mrs.
Falconer's house, Betty came home from the butcher's--for it was Saturday night, and she had gone to fetch the beef for their Sunday's broth--with the news that the people next door, that is, round the corner in the next street, had a visitor.
The house in question had been built by Robert's father, and was, compared with Mrs.Falconer's one-storey house, large and handsome.
Robert had been born, and had spent a few years of his life in it, but could recall nothing of the facts of those early days.Some time before the period at which my history commences it had passed into other hands, and it was now quite strange to him.It had been bought by a retired naval officer, who lived in it with his wife--the only Englishwoman in the place, until the arrival, at The Boar's Head, of the lady so much admired by Dooble Sanny.
Robert was up-stairs when Betty emptied her news-bag, and so heard nothing of this bit of gossip.He had just assured Shargar that as soon as his grandmother was asleep he would look about for what he could find, and carry it up to him in the garret.As yet he had confined the expenditure out of Shargar's shilling to twopence.
The household always retired early--earlier on Saturday night in preparation for the Sabbath--and by ten o'clock grannie and Betty were in bed.Robert, indeed, was in bed too; but he had lain down in his clothes, waiting for such time as might afford reasonable hope of his grandmother being asleep, when he might both ease Shargar's hunger and get to sleep himself.Several times he got up, resolved to make his attempt; but as often his courage failed and he lay down again, sure that grannie could not be asleep yet.When the clock beside him struck eleven, he could bear it no longer, and finally rose to do his endeavour.
Opening the door of the closet slowly and softly, he crept upon his hands and knees into the middle of the parlour, feeling very much like a thief, as, indeed, in a measure he was, though from a blameless motive.But just as he had accomplished half the distance to the door, he was arrested and fixed with terror; for a deep sigh came from grannie's bed, followed by the voice of words.He thought at first that she had heard him, but he soon found that he was mistaken.Still, the fear of discovery held him there on all fours, like a chained animal.A dull red gleam, faint and dull, from the embers of the fire, was the sole light in the room.Everything so common to his eyes in the daylight seemed now strange and eerie in the dying coals, and at what was to the boy the unearthly hour of the night.
He felt that he ought not to listen to grannie, but terror made him unable to move.
'Och hone! och hone!' said grannie from the bed.'I've a sair, sair hert.I've a sair hert i' my breist, O Lord! thoo knowest.My ain Anerew! To think o' my bairnie that I cairriet i' my ain body, that sookit my breists, and leuch i' my face--to think o' 'im bein' a reprobate! O Lord! cudna he be eleckit yet? Is there nae turnin'
o' thy decrees? Na, na; that wadna do at a'.But while there's life there's houp.But wha kens whether he be alive or no? Naebody can tell.Glaidly wad I luik upon 's deid face gin I cud believe that his sowl wasna amang the lost.But eh! the torments o' that place! and the reik that gangs up for ever an' ever, smorin'
(smothering) the stars! And my Anerew doon i' the hert o' 't cryin'! And me no able to win till him! O Lord! I canna say thy will be done.But dinna lay 't to my chairge; for gin ye was a mither yersel' ye wadna pit him there.O Lord! I'm verra ill-fashioned.I beg yer pardon.I'm near oot o' my min'.Forgie me, O Lord! for I hardly ken what I'm sayin'.He was my ain babe, my ain Anerew, and ye gae him to me yersel'.And noo he's for the finger o' scorn to pint at; an ootcast an' a wan'erer frae his ain country, an' daurna come within sicht o' 't for them 'at wad tak'
the law o' 'm.An' it's a' drink--drink an' ill company! He wad hae dune weel eneuch gin they wad only hae latten him be.What for maun men be aye drink-drinkin' at something or ither? I never want it.Eh! gin I war as young as whan he was born, I wad be up an'
awa' this verra nicht to luik for him.But it's no use me tryin'
't.O God! ance mair I pray thee to turn him frae the error o' 's ways afore he goes hence an' isna more.And O dinna lat Robert gang efter him, as he's like eneuch to do.Gie me grace to haud him ticht, that he may be to the praise o' thy glory for ever an' ever.
Amen.'
