Alec Forbes of Howglen Part 69

For I hae nae sense left but ane, and that's nearhan' 'wi' excess o'

brightness blind.' Auld Spenser says something like that, doesna he, mem?' I added, seein' that she luikit some grave. But what she micht hae said or dune, I dinna ken; for I sweir to ye, bantam, I know nothing that happent efter, till I cam' to mysel' at the soun' o' a lauch frae outside the door. I kenned it weel eneuch, though it was a licht flutterin' lauch. Maybe I heard it the better frae the conductin'

pooer o' timmer, for my broo was doon o' the buirds o' the flure. I sprang to my feet, but the place reeled roon', and I fell. It was the lauch that killed me. What for sud she lauch?--And sic a ane as her that was no licht-heidit la.s.sie, but cud read and unnerstan', wi the best? I suppose I had gane upo' my knees till her, and syne like the lave o' the celestials she tuik to her feathers and flew. But I ken nae mair than this: that for endless ages I gaed followin' her through the heavenly halls, aye kennin as sure's gospel that she was ahint the neist door, and aye openin' that door upon an empty glory, to be equally certain that she was ahint the neist. And sae on I gaed till, ahint ane o' the thoosan' doors, I saw the reek-enamelled couples o' my auld mither's bit hoosie upo' the mairgin o' the bog, and she was hingin' ower me, sayin' her prayers as gin she wad gang efter them like a balloon wi' verra fervour. And whan she saw my een open, she drappit upo' her knees and gaed on prayin'. And I wonner that thae prayers warna hearkent till. I never cud unnerstan' that."

"Hoo ken ye that they warna hearkent till?" asked Alec.

"Luik at me! Do ye ca' that hearkenin' till a prayer? Luik what she got me back for. Ca' ye that an answer to prayers like my auld mither's?

Faith! I'll be forced to repent some day for her sake, though there sudna be anither woman atween Venus and Mars but wad rive wi' lauchin at a word frae Cosmo Cupples. But, man! I wad hae repent.i.t lang syne gin I cud hae gotten ae glimp o' a possible justice in pittin a hert as grit's mine into sic a misgreein', scrimpit, contemptible body as this.

The verra sowl o' me has to draw up the legs o' 't to haud them inside this coffin o' a corpus, and haud them ohn shot oot into the everlastin' cauld. Man, the first thing I did, whan I cam' to mysel', was to justify her afore G.o.d for lauchin at me. Hoo could onybody help lauchin at me? It wasna her wyte. And eh! man, ye dinna ken hoo quaiet and comfortable I was in my ain min', as sune's I had gotten her justified to mysel' and had laid it doon that I was ane fit to be lauchen at.--I winna lat you lauch at me, though, bantam. I tell ye that."

"Mr Cupples! Laugh at you! I would rather be a doormat to the devil,'

exclaimed Alec.

"Thank you, bantam.--Weel, ye see, ance I had made up my min' aboot that, I jist began followin' at her again like a hungry tyke that stops the minute ye liuk roon efter him--I mean i' my thochts, ye ken--jist as I had been followin' her, a' the time o' my fiver, throu the halls o' heaven, as I thoucht them, whan they war only the sma'

crinkle-crankle convolutions o' my cerebral dome-?a puir heaven for a man to bide in! I hae learnt that waur and better than maist men, as I'm gaein to tell ye; for it was for the sake o' that that I begud this dismal story.--Whan I grew some better, and wan up--wad ye believe 't?--the kin'ness o' the auld, warpit, broon, wrinklet woman that brocht me furth, me Cosmo Cupples, wi' the muckle hert and the sma'

body, began to console me a wee for the lauch o' that queen o'

white-skinned leddies. It was but a wee, ye ken; still it was consolation. My mither thocht a heap o' me. Fowk thinks mair o' fowk, the mair they are themsels. But I wat it was sma' honour I brocht her hame, wi' my een brunt oot wi' greetin' for the mune.--I'll tell ye the lave o' 't efter we win hame. I canna bide to be here i' the dark. It's the quaiet beuks a' roon' me that I canna bide. It was i' the mids o'

beuks, i' the dark, that I heard that lauch. It jist blast.i.t me and the beuks and a' thing. They aye luik as gin they war hearin' 't. For the first time I loot the gloamin come doon upo' me i' this same leebrary, a' at ance I heard the sma' nicher o' a woman's lauch frae somewhaur in or oot o' the warl'. I grew as het's h.e.l.l, and was oot at the door in a cat-loup. And as sure's death I'll hear't again, gin I bide ae minute langer. Come oot wi' ye."

There was light in Mr Fraser's drawing-room, and a shadow flitted across the blind. The frosty night, and the keenness of the stars, made Mr Cupples s.h.i.+ver. Alec was in a feverous glow. When they reached home, Mr Cupples went straight to the cupboard, swallowed a gla.s.s of the _merum_, put coals on the fire, drew his chair close to it, and said:

"It's dooms cauld! Sit doon there, bantam. Pit on the kettle first.

It's an ac' o' the purest disinteresst.i.tness, for deil a drap sall ye drink! But I'll sing ye a sang, by way o' upmak'."

"I never heard ye sing, Mr Cupples. Ye can do a' thing, I think."

"I cudna gar a bonnie, high-born, white-handit leddy fa' in love wi' a puir futteret (weasel) o' a crater--a shargar (scrag) like Cosmo Cupples, bantam. But I can do twa or three things; an' ane o' them is, I can mak' a sang; and anither is, I can mak' a tune till't; and a third is, I can sing the tane to the t.i.ther, that is whan I haena had either ower muckle or ower little o' the tappit hen. Noo, heark ye.

This ane's a' my ain:

GAEIN' AND COMIN'.

Whan Andrew frae Strathbogie gaed, The lift was lowerin' dreary; The sun he wadna lift his heid; The win' blew laich and eerie.

In's pouch he had a plack or twa, I vow he hadna mony; Yet Andrew like a lintie sang, For Lizzie was sae bonny!

O Lizzie, Lizzie, bonnie la.s.sie!

Bonnie, saucy hizzie!

What richt had ye to luik at me, And drive me daft and dizzy?

Whan Andrew to Strathbogie cam', The sun was s.h.i.+nin' rarely; He rade a horse that pranced and sprang-- I vow he sat him fairly.

And he had gowd to spend and spare, And a heart as true as ony; But's luik was doon, and his sigh was sair, For Lizzie was sae bonny!

O Lizzie, Lizzie, bonny hizzie!

Ye've turned the daylicht dreary.

Ye're straucht and rare, ye're fause and fair-- Hech! auld John Armstrong's dearie!"

His voice was mellow, and ought to have been even. His expression was perfect.

The kettle was boiling. Mr Cupples made his toddy, and resumed his story.

"As sune's I was able, I left my mither greitin'--G.o.d bless her!--and cam to this toon, for I wasna gaein' to be eaten up with idleset as weel's wi' idolatry. The first thing I tuik till was teachin'. Noo that's a braw thing, whan the laddies and la.s.sies want to learn, and hae questons o' their ain to speir. But whan they dinna care, it's the verra deevil. Or lang, a'thing grew grey. I cared for naething and naebody. My verra dreams gaed frae me, or cam only to torment me, wi'

the reid hert o' them changed to yallow and grey.

"Weel, ae nicht I had come hame worn oot wi' warstlin' to gar bairns eat that had no hunger, I spied upo' the table a bottle o' whusky. A frien' o' mine--a grocer he was--had sent it across the street to me, for it was hard upo' Hogmanay. I rang the bell incontinent. Up comes the la.s.s, and says I, 'Bell, lat's hae a kettlefu' o' het water.' And to mak' a lang story short, I could never want het water sin syne. For I hadna drunken aboon a twa glaiss, afore the past began to revive as gin ye had come ower't wi' a weet sponge. A' the colours cam' oot upo'

't again, as gin they had never turned wan and grey; and I said to mysel' wi' pride: 'My leddy canna, wi' a' her breedin' and her bonnie skin, haud Cosmo Cupples frae lo'ein' her.' And I followed aboot at her again throu a' the oots and ins o' the story, and the past was restored to me.--That's hoo it appeared to me that nicht.--Was't ony wonner that the first thing I did whan I cam' hame the neist nicht was to ring for the het water? I want.i.t naething frae Providence or Natur' but jist that the colour michtna be a' ta'en oot o' my life. The muckle deevil was in't, that I cudna stan' up to my fate like a man, and, gin my life was to cast the colour, jist tak my auld cloak aboot me, and gang on content. But I cudna. I bude to see things bonnie, or my strength gaed frae me. But ye canna slink in at back doors that gait. I was pitten oot, and oot I maun bide. It wasna that lang afore I began to discover that it was a' a delusion and a snare. Whan I fell asleep, I wad dream whiles that, openin' the door into ane o' thae halls o' licht, there she was stan'in' lauchin' at me. And she micht hae gane on lauchin' to a' eternity--for onything I cared. And--ten times waur--I wad whiles come upon her greitin' and repentin', and haudin' oot her han' to me, and me carin' no more for her than for the beard o' a barley-stalk. And for makin' a sang--I jist steikit my lugs (stopped my ears) whan I heard a puir misguidit canary singin' i' the suns.h.i.+ne. And I begud to hear a laich lauch far awa', and it cam' nearer and nearer ilka week, till it was ringin' i' my verra lug. But a' that was naething compairateevely. I' the mids o' a quaiet contemplation, suddenly, wi'

an awfu' stoon, a ghaistly doobt pat it's heid up i' my breist, and cried: 'It's a' fause. The grey luik o' life's the true ane, and the only aspec' ye hae a richt to see.' And efter that, a' the whusky in Glenlivat cudna console me.--Luik at me noo. Ye see what I am. I can whiles sing an auld sang--but mak' a new ane!--Lord, man! I can hardly believe 'at ever I made a sang i' my life. Luik at my han' hoo it trimles. Luik at my hert. It's brunt oot. There's no a leevin' crater but yersel' that I hae ony regaird for, sin my auld mither deid. Gin it warna for buiks, I wad amaist cut my throat. And the senawtus disna think me bye and aboon half a proper companion for buiks even; as gin Cupples micht corrup' Milton himsel, although he was ten feet ower his heid bottled in a buik. And whan I saw ye poor oot the whusky in that mad-like mainner, as gin 't had been some sma' tipple o' penny ale, it jist drave me mad wi' anger."

"Weel, Mr Cupples," Alec ventured to say, "what for dinna ye sen' the bottle to the devil?"

"What, my ain auld tappit hen!" exclaimed Mr Cupples, with a sudden reaction from the seriousness of his late mood; "Na, na, she shanna gang to the deil till we gang thegither. Eh! but we'll baith hae dry insides or we win frae him again, I doobt. That drouth's an awfu' thing to contemplate. But speyk o' giein' ower the drink! The verra attemp'--an' dinna ye think that I haena made it--aich! What for sud I gang to h.e.l.l afore my time? The deils themselves compleen o' that. Na, na. Ance ye hae learned to drink, ye _canna_ do wantin' 't. Man, dinna touch 't. For G.o.d's sake, for yer mither's sake, for _ony_ sake, dinna lat a drap o' the h.e.l.l-broth gang ower yer thrapple--or ye're d.a.m.ned like me for ever and ever. It's as guid's signin' awa' yer sowl wi' yer ain han' and yer ain blude."

Mr Cupples lifted his gla.s.s, emptied it, and, setting it down on the table with a gesture of hatred, proceeded to fill it yet again.

CHAPTER LXXI.

"I say, Forbes, you keep yourself all to yourself and old Cupples, away there in the new town. Come and take some supper with me to-night. It's my birthday, old boy."

"I don't do much in that way, you know, Gibby."

"Oh yes, I know. You're never jolly but amongst the sh.e.l.l-fish. At least that's what the Venall thinks of you. But for once in a way you might come."

"Well, I don't mind," said Alec, really not caring what came to him or of him, and glad of anything to occupy him with no-thinking. "When shall I come?"

"At seven. We'll have a night of it. To-morrow's Sat.u.r.day."

It was hardly worth while to go home. He would not dine to-day. He would go and renew his grief by the ever-grieving sea. For his was a young love, and his sorrow was interesting to him: he embalmed his pangs in the amber of his consciousness. So he crossed the links to the desolate sandy sh.o.r.e; there let the sound of the waves enter the portals of his brain and fill all its hollow caves with their moaning; and then wandering back to the old city, stood at length over the keystone of the bridge, and looked down into the dark water below the Gothic arch.

He heard a footstep behind him on the bridge. Looking round he saw Beauchamp. Without reason or object, he walked up to him and barred his way. Beauchamp started, and drew back.

"Beauchamp," said Alec, "you are my devil."

"Granted," said Beauchamp, coolly, but on his guard.

"What are you about with my cousin?"

"What is that to you?"

"She is my cousin."

"I don't care. She's not mine."

"If you play her false, as you have played me--by heavens!--"

"Oh! I'll be very kind to her. You needn't be afraid. I only wanted to take down your d.a.m.ned impudence. You may go to her when you like."