One afternoon Robert was passing the soutar's shop.He had never gone near him since his return.But now, almost mechanically, he went in at the open door.
'Weel, Robert, ye are a stranger.But what's the maitter wi' ye?
Faith! yon was an ill plisky ye played me to brak into my chop an'
steal the bonnie leddy.'
'Sandy,' said Robert, solemnly, 'ye dinna ken what ye hae dune by that trick ye played me.Dinna ever mention her again i' my hearin'.'
'The auld witch hasna gotten a grup o' her again?' cried the shoemaker, starting half up in alarm.'She cam here to me aboot the shune, but I reckon I sortit her!'
'I winna speir what ye said,' returned Robert.'It's no maitter noo.'
And the tears rose to his eyes.His bonny lady!
'The Lord guide 's!' exclaimed the soutar.'What is the maitter wi'
the bonnie leddy?'
'There's nae bonnie leddy ony mair.I saw her brunt to death afore my verra ain een.'
The shoemaker sprang to his feet and caught up his paring knife.
'For God's sake, say 'at yer leein'!' he cried.
'I wish I war leein',' returned Robert.
The soutar uttered a terrible oath, and swore--'I'll murder the auld--.' The epithet he ended with is too ugly to write.
'Daur to say sic a word in ae breath wi' my grannie,' cried Robert, snatching up the lapstone, 'an' I'll brain ye upo' yer ain shop-flure.'
Sandy threw the knife on his stool, and sat down beside it.Robert dropped the lapstone.Sandy took it up and burst into tears, which before they were half down his face, turned into tar with the blackness of the same.
'I'm an awfu' sinner,' he said, 'and vengeance has owerta'en me.
Gang oot o' my chop! I wasna worthy o' her.Gang oot, I say, or I'll kill ye.'
Robert went.Close by the door he met Miss St.John.He pulled off his cap, and would have passed her.But she stopped him.
'I am going for a walk a little way,' she said.'Will you go with me?'
She had come out in the hope of finding him, for she had seen him go up the street.
'That I wull,' returned Robert, and they walked on together.
When they were beyond the last house, Miss St.John said,'Would you like to play on the piano, Robert?'
'Eh, mem!' said Robert, with a deep suspiration.Then, after a pause: 'But duv ye think I cud?'
'There's no fear of that.Let me see your hands.'
'They're some black, I doobt, mem,' he remarked, rubbing them hard upon his trowsers before he showed them; 'for I was amaist cawin'
oot the brains o' Dooble Sanny wi' his ain lapstane.He's an ill-tongued chield.But eh! mem, ye suld hear him play upo' the fiddle! He's greitin' his een oot e'en noo for the bonnie leddy.'
Not discouraged by her inspection of his hands, black as they were, Miss St.John continued,'But what would your grandmother say?' she asked.
'She maun ken naething aboot it, mem.I can-not tell her a'thing.
She wad greit an' pray awfu', an' lock me up, I daursay.Ye see, she thinks a' kin' o' music 'cep' psalm-singin' comes o' the deevil himsel'.An' I canna believe that.For aye whan I see onything by ordinar bonnie, sic like as the mune was last nicht, it aye gars me greit for my brunt fiddle.'
'Well, you must come to me every day for half-an-hour at least, and I will give you a lesson on my piano.But you can't learn by that.
And my aunt could never bear to hear you practising.So I'll tell you what you must do.I have a small piano in my own room.Do you know there is a door from your house into my room?'
'Ay,' said Robert.'That hoose was my father's afore your uncle bought it.My father biggit it.'
'Is it long since your father died?'
'I dinna ken.'
'Where did he die?'
'I dinna ken.'
'Do you remember it?'
'No, mem.'
'Well, if you will come to my room, you shall practise there.Ishall be down-stairs with my aunt.But perhaps I may look up now and then, to see how you are getting on.I will leave the door unlocked, so that you can come in when you like.If I don't want you, I will lock the door.You understand? You mustn't be handling things, you know.'
''Deed, mem, ye may lippen (trust) to me.But I'm jist feared to lat ye hear me lay a finger upo' the piana, for it's little I cud do wi' my fiddle, an', for the piana! I'm feart I'll jist scunner (disgust) ye.'
'If you really want to learn, there will be no fear of that,'
returned Miss St.John, guessing at the meaning of the word scunner.
'I don't think I am doing anything wrong,' she added, half to herself, in a somewhat doubtful tone.
''Deed no, mem.Ye're jist an angel unawares.For I maist think sometimes that my grannie 'll drive me wud (mad); for there's naething to read but guid buiks, an' naething to sing but psalms;an' there's nae fun aboot the hoose but Betty; an' puir Shargar's nearhan' dementit wi' 't.An' we maun pray till her whether we will or no.An' there's no comfort i' the place but plenty to ate; an'
that canna be guid for onybody.She likes flooers, though, an' wad like me to gar them grow; but I dinna care aboot it: they tak sic a time afore they come to onything.'
Then Miss St.John inquired about Shargar, and began to feel rather differently towards the old lady when she had heard the story.But how she laughed at the tale, and how light-hearted Robert went home, are neither to be told.
The next Sunday, the first time for many years, Dooble Sanny was at church with his wife, though how much good he got by going would be a serious question to discuss.