Alec Forbes of Howglen Part 78

The youth turned to his father, and said?-

"This gentleman is the librarian of our college, father."

Bruce took his hat off his head, and set it on the counter.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said. "I'm terrible short-sicht.i.t in can'le-licht."

"I'm used to bein' mista'en'," answered Cupples simply, perceiving that he had got hold of a character. "Mak nae apologies, I beg ye, but answer my queston."

"Weel, sir, to tell the trowth, seein' ye're a gentleman, we hae a room oorsels. But it's a garret-room, and maybe?-"

"Then I'll hae't, whatever it be, gin ye dinna want ower muckle for't."

"Weel, ye see, sir, your college is a great expense to heumble fowk like oorsels, and we hae to mak it up the best way that we can."

"Nae doot. Hoo muckle do ye want?"

"Wad ye think five shillins ower muckle?"

"'Deed wad I."

"Weel, we'll say three than?-to _you_, sir."

"I winna gie ye mair nor half-a-croon."

"Hoot, sir! It's ower little."

"Well, I'll look further," said Mr Cupples, putting on English, and moving to the door.

"Na, sir; ye'll do nae sic thing. Do ye think I wad lat the leebrarian o' my son's college gang oot at my door this time o' nicht, to luik for a bed till himsel'? Ye s' jist hae't at yer ain price, and welcome.

Ye'll hae yer tay and sugar and bitties o' cheese frae me, ye ken?"

"Of course?-of course. And if you could get me some tea at once, I should be obliged to you."

"Mother," cried Bruce through the house-door, and held a momentary whispering with the partner of his throne.

"So your name's Bruce, is it?" resumed Cupples, as the other returned to the counter.

"Robert Bruce, sir, at your service."

"It's a gran' _name_," said Cupples with emphasis.

"'Deed is't, and I hae a richt to beir 't."

"Ye'll be a descendant, nae doot, o' the Yerl o' Carrick?" said Cupples, guessing at his weakness.

"O' the king, sir. Fowk may think little o' me; but I come o' him that freed Scotland. Gin it hadna been for Bannockburn, sir, whaur wad Scotland hae been the day?"

"Nearhan' civileezed unner the fine influences o' the English, wi'

their cultivation and their mainners, and, aboon a', their gran'

Edwards and Hairries."

"I dinna richtly unnerstan' ye, sir," said Bruce. "Ye hae heard hoo the king clave the skull o' Sir Henry dee Bohunn?-haena ye, sir?"

"Ow, aye. But it was a pity it wasna the ither gait. Lat me see the way to my room, for I want to wash my han's and face. They're jist barkit wi' stour (dust)."

Bruce hesitated whether to show Mr Cupples out or in. His blue blood boiled at this insult to his great progenitor. But a half-crown would cover a greater wrong than that even, and he obeyed. Cupples followed him up-stairs, murmuring to himself:

"Shades o' Wallace and Bruce! forgie me. But to see sma' craters c.o.c.k their noses and their tails as gin they had inherited the michty deeds as weel as the names o' their forbears, jist scunners me, and turns my blude into the gall o' bitterness?-and that's scripter for't."

After further consultation, Mr and Mrs Bruce came to the conclusion that it might be politic, for Robert's sake, to treat the librarian with consideration. Consequently Mrs Bruce invited him to go down to his tea in _the room_. Descending before it was quite ready, he looked about him. The only thing that attracted his attention was a handsomely bound Bible. This he took up, thinking to get some amus.e.m.e.nt from the births of the ill.u.s.trious Bruces; but the only inscription he could find, besides the name of _John Cowie_, was the following in pencil:

"_Super Davidis Psalmum tertium vicesimum, syngrapham pecuniariam centum solidos valentem, qu?, me mortuo, a Annie Anderson, mihi dilecta, sit, posui_."

Then came some figures, and then the date, with the initials _J. C_.

Hence it was that Mr Cupples thought he had heard the name of Annie Anderson before.

"It's a gran' Bible this, gudewife," he said as Mrs Bruce entered.

"Aye is't. It belanged to oor pairis-minister."

Nothing more pa.s.sed, for Mr Cupples was hungry.

After a long sleep in the morning, he called upon Mrs Forbes, and was kindly received; but it was a great disappointment to him to find that he could not see Alec. As he was in the country, however, he resolved to make the best of it, and enjoy himself for a week. For his a.s.serted dislike to the country, though genuine at the time, was anything but natural to him. So every day he climbed to the top of one or other of the hills which inclosed the valley, and was rewarded with fresh vigour and renewed joy. He had not learned to read Wordsworth; yet not a wind blew through a broom-bush, but it blew a joy from it into his heart. He too was a prodigal returned at least into _the vestibule_ of his Father's house. And the Father sent the servants out there to minister to him; and Nature, the housekeeper, put the robe of health upon him, and gave him new shoes of strength, and a ring, though not the Father's white stone. The delights of those spring days were endless to him whose own nature was budding with new life. Familiar with all the cottage ways, he would drop into any _hoosie_ he came near about his dinnertime, and asking for a _piece_ (of oat-cake) and a _coguie o'

milk_, would make his dinner off those content, and leave a trifle behind him in acknowledgment. But he would always contrive that as the gloamin began to fall, he should be near Howglen, that he might inquire after his friend. And Mrs Forbes began to understand him better.-?Before the week was over, there was not a man or woman about Howglen whom he did not know even by name; for to his surprise, even his forgetfulness was fast vanishing in the menstruum of the earth-spirit, the world's breath blown over the corn. In particular he had made the acquaintance of James Dow, with whose knowing simplicity he was greatly taken.

On the last day but one of his intended stay, as he went to make his daily inquiry, he dropped in to see James Dow in the "harled hypocrite." James had come in from his work, and was sitting alone on a bench by the table, in a corner of the earth-floored kitchen. The great pot, lidless, and full of magnificent potatoes, was hanging above the fire, that its contents might be quite dry for supper. Through the little window, a foot and a half square, Cupples could see the remains of a hawthorn hedge, a hundred years old?-a hedge no longer, but a row of k.n.o.bby, gnarled trees, full of knees and elbows; and through the trees the remains of an orange-coloured sunset.?-It was not a beautiful country, as I have said before; but the spring was beautiful, and the heavens were always beautiful; and, like the plainest woman's face, the country itself, in its best moods, had no end of beauty.

"Hoo are ye, Jeames Doo?"

"Fine, I thank ye, sir," said James rising.

"I wad raither sit doon mysel', nor gar you stan' up efter yer day's work, Jeames."

"Ow! I dinna warstle mysel' to the deith a'thegither."

But James, who was not a healthy man, was often in the wet field when another would have been in bed, and righteously in bed. He had a strong feeling of the worthlessness of man's life in comparison with the work he has to do, even if that work be only the spreading of a fother of dung. His mistress could not keep him from his work.

Mr Cupples sat down, and James resumed his seat.

"Ye're awfu' dubby (miry) aboot the feet, Mr Cupples. Jist gie me aff yer shune, and I'll gie them a sc.r.a.pe and a lick wi' the blackin'-brush," said James, again rising.

"Deil tak' me gin I do ony sic thing!" exclaimed Mr Cupples. "My shune'll do weel eneuch."

"Whaur got ye a' that dub, sir? The roads is middlin' the day."

"I dinna aye stick to the roads, Jeames. I wan intil a bog first, and syne intil some plooed lan' that was a' lumps o' clay shinin' green i'

the sun. Sae it's nae wonner gin I be some clort.i.t. Will ye gie me a pitawta, Jeames, in place o' the blackin'-brush?"