Great Britain -- History -- 17th century -- Fiction; Historical fiction
My father sat at the head of the long oak table which had been scoured
to a light-brown and shone like polished stone. Claret, his favourite
drink, was in a tankard by his elbow, and many wines decked the board.
Lower down sat my cousin, gallantly dressed in the fashion of the times,
with a coat of fine Spanish leather and small-clothes of some rich dark
stuff. His plumed hat and riding cloak of purple velvet lay on the
settle at his side. His brown hair fell over his collar and shoulders
and well set off his strong, brown face. He sat after the fashion of a
soldier, on the side of his chair half-turned away from the table, and
every now and then he would cast a piece of meat to Pierce, my old
hound, who lay stretched by the fireplace.
My father turned round as I entered, and when he saw me his face glowed
with pleasure. Had we been alone we should have met otherwise, but it
is not meet to show one’s feelings before a stranger, even though that
stranger be one of the family. He contented himself with looking
eagerly upon me and bidding me welcome in a shaking voice. I marked
with grief that his eye did not seem so keen and brave as before, and
that he was scarce able to rise from his chair.
My cousin half arose and made me a grand bow in his courtly fashion.
"Welcome, my dear cousin," said he. "I am glad to see that your studies
have had little effect on your face." (I was flushed with hard riding.)
"You look as if you had just come from a campaign. But fall to. Here
are prime fish which I can commend; and venison, also good, though I
have had better. Here, too, is wine, and I drink to your success, my
learned cousin"; and he filled his glass and drank it at a gulp. He
spoke in a half-bantering tone, though his words were kindly. I
answered him briskly.
"I had little thought to find you here, Gilbert, but I am right glad to
see you. You are prospering mightily, I hear, and will soon be
forgetting your poor cousins of Barns"; and after a few more words I set
myself to give my father a history of my doings at Glasgow College.
Again, had we been alone, I should have told him my causes for leaving
and my wishes for my after life, but since my cousin was present, who
had ever a sharp tongue, I judged it better to say nothing.
I told my father all that I could think of, and then asked how he had
fared in my absence, for I had had but few letters, and what of note had
happened at Barns.
"Ay, John," he said, "I’m an old man. I fear that my life here will be
short. I scarce can get outside without Tam Todd to lean on, and I have
little sleep o’ nights. And John, I could wish that you would bide at
home now, for I like to see you beside me, and you’ll have learned all
the folk of Glasgow have to teach you. I once wished you a soldier, but
I am glad now that I let the thing blow by, for I would have cared
little to have you coming here but once in the six months, for a flying
visit."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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