All at once a wailful sound arose in his head. He did
not think for some time whether it was born in his brain, or entered
it from without. At length he recognized the Flowers of the Forest,
played as only the soutar could play it. But alas! the cry
responsive to his bow came only from the auld wife--no more from the
bonny leddy! Then he remembered that there had been a humble
wedding that morning on the opposite side of the way; in the street
department of the jollity of which Shargar had taken a small share
by firing a brass cannon, subsequently confiscated by Mrs. Falconer.
But this was a strange tune to play at a wedding! The soutar
half-way to his goal of drunkenness, had begun to repent for the
fiftieth time that year, had with his repentance mingled the memory
of the bonny leddy ruthlessly tortured to death for his wrong, and
had glided from a strathspey into that sorrowful moaning. The
lament interpreted itself to his disconsolate pupil as he had never
understood it before, not even in the stubble-field; for it now
spoke his own feelings of waste misery, forsaken loneliness. Indeed
Robert learned more of music in those few minutes of the foggy
winter night and open street, shut out of all doors, with the tones
of an ancient grief and lamentation floating through the blotted
moonlight over his ever-present sorrow, than he could have learned
from many lessons even of Miss St. John. He was cold to the heart,
yet went in a little comforted.
Pages:
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290