'Never ye fash yer heid aboot that.Ye can lippen (trust) that to him, for it's his ain business.He'll see 'at ye're a' richt.
Dinna ye think 'at he'll lat ye aff.'
'The Lord forbid,' responded the soutar earnestly.'It maun be a'
pitten richt.It wad be dreidfu' to be latten aff.I wadna hae him content wi' cobbler's wark.--I hae 't,' he resumed, after a few minutes' pause; 'the Lord's easy pleased, but ill to saitisfee.I'm sair pleased wi' your playin', Robert, but it's naething like the richt thing yet.It does me gude to hear ye, though, for a' that.'
The very next night he found him evidently sinking fast.Robert took the violin, and was about to play, but the soutar stretched out his one left hand, and took it from him, laid it across his chest and his arm over it, for a few moments, as if he were bidding it farewell, then held it out to Robert, saying,'Hae, Robert.She's yours.--Death's a sair divorce.--Maybe they 'll hae an orra3 fiddle whaur I'm gaein', though.Think o' a Rothieden soutar playin' afore his grace!'
Robert saw that his mind was wandering, and mingled the paltry honours of earth with the grand simplicities of heaven.He began to play The Land o' the Leal.For a little while Sandy seemed to follow and comprehend the tones, but by slow degrees the light departed from his face.At length his jaw fell, and with a sigh, the body parted from Dooble Sanny, and he went to God.
His wife closed mouth and eyes without a word, laid the two arms, equally powerless now, straight by his sides, then seating herself on the edge of the bed, said,'Dinna bide, Robert.It's a' ower noo.He's gang hame.Gin I war only wi' 'im wharever he is!'
She burst into tears, but dried her eyes a moment after, and seeing that Robert still lingered, said,'Gang, Robert, an' sen' Mistress Downie to me.Dinna greit--there's a gude lad; but tak yer fiddle an' gang.Ye can be no more use.'
Robert obeyed.With his violin in his hand, he went home; and, with his violin still in his hand, walked into his grandmother's parlour.
'Hoo daur ye bring sic a thing into my hoose?' she said, roused by the apparent defiance of her grandson.'Hoo daur ye, efter what's come an' gane?'
''Cause Dooble Sanny's come and gane, grannie, and left naething but this ahint him.And this ane's mine, whase ever the ither micht be.
His wife's left wi'oot a plack, an' I s' warran' the gude fowk o'
Rothieden winna mak sae muckle o' her noo 'at her man's awa'; for she never was sic a randy as he was, an' the triumph o' grace in her 's but sma', therefore.Sae I maun mak the best 'at I can o' the fiddle for her.An' ye maunna touch this ane, grannie; for though ye way think it richt to burn fiddles, ither fowk disna; and this has to do wi' ither fowk, grannie; it's no atween you an' me, ye ken,' Robert went on, fearful lest she might consider herself divinely commissioned to extirpate the whole race of stringed instruments,--'for I maun sell 't for her.'
'Tak it oot o' my sicht,' said Mrs.Falconer, and said no more.
He carried the instrument up to his room, laid it on his bed, locked his door, put the key in his pocket, and descended to the parlour.
'He's deid, is he?' said his grandmother, as he re-entered.
'Ay is he, grannie,' answered Robert.'He deid a repentant man.'
'An' a believin'?' asked Mrs.Falconer.
'Weel, grannie, I canna say 'at he believed a' thing 'at ever was, for a body michtna ken a' thing.'
'Toots, laddie! Was 't savin' faith?'
'I dinna richtly ken what ye mean by that; but I'm thinkin' it was muckle the same kin' o' faith 'at the prodigal had; for they baith rase an' gaed hame.'
''Deed, maybe ye're richt, laddie,' returned Mrs.Falconer, after a moment's thought.'We'll houp the best.'
All the remainder of the evening she sat motionless, with her eyes fixed on the rug before her, thinking, no doubt, of the repentance and salvation of the fiddler, and what hope there might yet be for her own lost son.
The next day being Saturday, Robert set out for Bodyfauld, taking the violin with him.He went alone, for he was in no mood for Shargar's company.It was a fine spring day, the woods were budding, and the fragrance of the larches floated across his way.
There was a lovely sadness in the sky, and in the motions of the air, and in the scent of the earth--as if they all knew that fine things were at hand which never could be so beautiful as those that had gone away.And Robert wondered how it was that everything should look so different.Even Bodyfauld seemed to have lost its enchantment, though his friends were as kind as ever.Mr.Lammie went into a rage at the story of the lost violin, and Miss Lammie cried from sympathy with Robert's distress at the fate of his bonny leddy.Then he came to the occasion of his visit, which was to beg Mr.Lammie, when next he went to Aberdeen, to take the soutar's fiddle, and get what he could for it, to help his widow.
'Poor Sanny!' said Robert, 'it never cam' intil 's heid to sell her, nae mair nor gin she had been the auld wife 'at he ca'd her.'
Mr.Lammie undertook the commission; and the next time he saw Robert, handed him ten pounds as the result of the negotiation.It was all Robert could do, however, to get the poor woman to take the money.She looked at it with repugnance, almost as if it had been the price of blood.But Robert having succeeded in overcoming her scruples, she did take it, and therewith provide a store of sweeties, and reels of cotton, and tobacco, for sale in Sanny's workshop.She certainly did not make money by her merchandise, for her anxiety to be honest rose to the absurd; but she contrived to live without being reduced to prey upon her own gingerbread and rock.