When he reached the kitchen, he found Betty's nose as much in the air as its construction would permit.For a hook-nosed animal, she certainly was the most harmless and ovine creature in the world, but this was a case in which feminine modesty was both concerned and aggrieved.She showed her resentment no further, however, than by simply returning no answer in syllable, or sound, or motion, to Robert's request.She was washing up the tea-things, and went on with her work as if she had been in absolute solitude, saving that her countenance could hardly have kept up that expression of injured dignity had such been the case.Robert plainly saw, to his great concern, that his secret had been discovered in his absence, and that Shargar had been expelled with contumely.But, with an instinct of facing the worst at once which accompanied him through life, he went straight to his grandmother's parlour.
'Well, grandmamma,' he said, trying to speak as cheerfully as he could.
Grannie's prayers had softened her a little, else she would have been as silent as Betty; for it was from her mistress that Betty had learned this mode of torturing a criminal.So she was just able to return his greeting in the words, 'Weel, Robert,' pronounced in a finality of tone that indicated she had done her utmost, and had nothing to add.
'Here's a browst (brewage)!' thought Robert to himself; and, still on the principle of flying at the first of mischief he saw--the best mode of meeting it, no doubt--addressed his grandmother at once.
The effort necessary gave a tone of defiance to his words.
'What for willna ye speik to me, grannie?' he said.'I'm no a haithen, nor yet a papist.'
'Ye're waur nor baith in ane, Robert.'
'Hoots! ye winna say baith, grannie,' returned Robert, who, even at the age of fourteen, when once compelled to assert himself, assumed a modest superiority.
'Nane o' sic impidence!' retorted Mrs.Falconer.'I wonner whaur ye learn that.But it's nae wonner.Evil communications corrupt gude mainners.Ye're a lost prodigal, Robert, like yer father afore ye.
I hae jist been sittin' here thinkin' wi' mysel' whether it wadna be better for baith o' 's to lat ye gang an' reap the fruit o' yer doin's at ance; for the hard ways is the best road for transgressors.I'm no bund to keep ye.'
'Weel, weel, I s' awa' to Shargar.Him and me 'ill haud on thegither better nor you an' me, grannie.He's a puir cratur, but he can stick till a body.'
'What are ye haverin' aboot Shargar for, ye heepocreet loon? Ye'll no gang to Shargar, I s' warran'! Ye'll be efter that vile limmer that's turnt my honest hoose intil a sty this last fortnicht.'
'Grannie, I dinna ken what ye mean.'
'She kens, than.I sent her aff like ane o' Samson's foxes, wi' a firebrand at her tail.It's a pity it wasna tied atween the twa o'
ye.'
'Preserve 's, grannie! Is't possible ye hae ta'en Shargar for ane o' wumman-kin'?'
'I ken naething aboot Shargar, I tell ye.I ken that Betty an' me tuik an ill-faured dame i' the bed i' the garret.'
'Cud it be his mither?' thought Robert in bewilderment; but he recovered himself in a moment, and answered,'Shargar may be a quean efter a', for onything 'at I ken to the contrairy; but I aye tuik him for a loon.Faith, sic a quean as he'd mak!'
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, Icannot 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.
