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diff --git a/old/rflcn10.txt b/old/rflcn10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..90d826d --- /dev/null +++ b/old/rflcn10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,26045 @@ +The Project Gutenberg Etext Robert Falconer, by George MacDonald +#10 in our series by Robert Falconer, by George MacDonald + + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations* + +Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and +further information is included below. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +This electronic text was created by John Bechard, London, England +(JaBBechard@aol.com) + + + + + +ROBERT FALCONER + +by GEORGE MACDONALD, LL.D. + + + + +Note from electronic text creator: I have compiled a glossary with +definitions of most of the Scottish words found in this work and +placed it at the end of this electronic text. This glossary does +not belong to the original work, but is designed to help with the +conversations and references in Broad Scots found in this work. A +further explanation of this list can be found towards the end of +this document, preceding the glossary. + +Any notes that I have made in the text (e.g. relating to Greek words +in the text) have been enclosed in {} brackets. + + + +TO + +THE MEMORY + +OF THE MAN WHO + +STANDS HIGHEST IN THE ORATORY + +OF MY MEMORY, + +ALEXANDER JOHN SCOTT, + +I, DARING, PRESUME TO DEDICATE THIS BOOK. + + + + + +PART I.--HIS BOYHOOD. + + + +CHAPTER I. + +A RECOLLECTION. + +Robert Falconer, school-boy, aged fourteen, thought he had never +seen his father; that is, thought he had no recollection of having +ever seen him. But the moment when my story begins, he had begun to +doubt whether his belief in the matter was correct. And, as he went +on thinking, he became more and more assured that he had seen his +father somewhere about six years before, as near as a thoughtful boy +of his age could judge of the lapse of a period that would form half +of that portion of his existence which was bound into one by the +reticulations of memory. + +For there dawned upon his mind the vision of one Sunday afternoon. +Betty had gone to church, and he was alone with his grandmother, +reading The Pilgrim's Progress to her, when, just as Christian +knocked at the wicket-gate, a tap came to the street door, and he +went to open it. There he saw a tall, somewhat haggard-looking man, +in a shabby black coat (the vision gradually dawned upon him till it +reached the minuteness of all these particulars), his hat pulled +down on to his projecting eyebrows, and his shoes very dusty, as +with a long journey on foot--it was a hot Sunday, he remembered +that--who looked at him very strangely, and without a word pushed +him aside, and went straight into his grandmother's parlour, +shutting the door behind him. He followed, not doubting that the +man must have a right to go there, but questioning very much his +right to shut him out. When he reached the door, however, he found +it bolted; and outside he had to stay all alone, in the desolate +remainder of the house, till Betty came home from church. + +He could even recall, as he thought about it, how drearily the +afternoon had passed. First he had opened the street door, and +stood in it. There was nothing alive to be seen, except a sparrow +picking up crumbs, and he would not stop till he was tired of him. +The Royal Oak, down the street to the right, had not even a +horseless gig or cart standing before it; and King Charles, grinning +awfully in its branches on the signboard, was invisible from the +distance at which he stood. In at the other end of the empty +street, looked the distant uplands, whose waving corn and grass were +likewise invisible, and beyond them rose one blue truncated peak in +the distance, all of them wearily at rest this weary Sabbath day. +However, there was one thing than which this was better, and that +was being at church, which, to this boy at least, was the very fifth +essence of dreariness. + +He closed the door and went into the kitchen. That was nearly as +bad. The kettle was on the fire, to be sure, in anticipation of +tea; but the coals under it were black on the top, and it made only +faint efforts, after immeasurable intervals of silence, to break +into a song, giving a hum like that of a bee a mile off, and then +relapsing into hopeless inactivity. Having just had his dinner, he +was not hungry enough to find any resource in the drawer where the +oatcakes lay, and, unfortunately, the old wooden clock in the corner +was going, else there would have been some amusement in trying to +torment it into demonstrations of life, as he had often done in less +desperate circumstances than the present. At last he went up-stairs +to the very room in which he now was, and sat down upon the floor, +just as he was sitting now. He had not even brought his Pilgrim's +Progress with him from his grandmother's room. But, searching about +in all holes and corners, he at length found Klopstock's Messiah +translated into English, and took refuge there till Betty came home. +Nor did he go down till she called him to tea, when, expecting to +join his grandmother and the stranger, he found, on the contrary, +that he was to have his tea with Betty in the kitchen, after which +he again took refuge with Klopstock in the garret, and remained +there till it grew dark, when Betty came in search of him, and put +him to bed in the gable-room, and not in his usual chamber. In the +morning, every trace of the visitor had vanished, even to the thorn +stick which he had set down behind the door as he entered. + +All this Robert Falconer saw slowly revive on the palimpsest of his +memory, as he washed it with the vivifying waters of recollection. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +A VISITOR. + +It was a very bare little room in which the boy sat, but it was his +favourite retreat. Behind the door, in a recess, stood an empty +bedstead, without even a mattress upon it. This was the only piece +of furniture in the room, unless some shelves crowded with papers +tied up in bundles, and a cupboard in the wall, likewise filled with +papers, could be called furniture. There was no carpet on the +floor, no windows in the walls. The only light came from the door, +and from a small skylight in the sloping roof, which showed that it +was a garret-room. Nor did much light come from the open door, for +there was no window on the walled stair to which it opened; only +opposite the door a few steps led up into another garret, larger, +but with a lower roof, unceiled, and perforated with two or three +holes, the panes of glass filling which were no larger than the +small blue slates which covered the roof: from these panes a little +dim brown light tumbled into the room where the boy sat on the +floor, with his head almost between his knees, thinking. + +But there was less light than usual in the room now, though it was +only half-past two o'clock, and the sun would not set for more than +half-an-hour yet; for if Robert had lifted his head and looked up, +it would have been at, not through, the skylight. No sky was to be +seen. A thick covering of snow lay over the glass. A partial thaw, +followed by frost, had fixed it there--a mass of imperfect cells and +confused crystals. It was a cold place to sit in, but the boy had +some faculty for enduring cold when it was the price to be paid for +solitude. And besides, when he fell into one of his thinking moods, +he forgot, for a season, cold and everything else but what he was +thinking about--a faculty for which he was to be envied. + +If he had gone down the stair, which described half the turn of a +screw in its descent, and had crossed the landing to which it +brought him, he could have entered another bedroom, called the gable +or rather ga'le room, equally at his service for retirement; but, +though carpeted and comfortably furnished, and having two windows at +right angles, commanding two streets, for it was a corner house, the +boy preferred the garret-room--he could not tell why. Possibly, +windows to the streets were not congenial to the meditations in +which, even now, as I have said, the boy indulged. + +These meditations, however, though sometimes as abstruse, if not so +continuous, as those of a metaphysician--for boys are not +unfrequently more given to metaphysics than older people are able +or, perhaps, willing to believe--were not by any means confined to +such subjects: castle-building had its full share in the occupation +of those lonely hours; and for this exercise of the constructive +faculty, what he knew, or rather what he did not know, of his own +history gave him scope enough, nor was his brain slow in supplying +him with material corresponding in quantity to the space afforded. +His mother had been dead for so many years that he had only the +vaguest recollections of her tenderness, and none of her person. +All he was told of his father was that he had gone abroad. His +grandmother would never talk about him, although he was her own son. +When the boy ventured to ask a question about where he was, or when +he would return, she always replied--'Bairns suld haud their +tongues.' Nor would she vouchsafe another answer to any question +that seemed to her from the farthest distance to bear down upon that +subject. 'Bairns maun learn to haud their tongues,' was the sole +variation of which the response admitted. And the boy did learn to +hold his tongue. Perhaps he would have thought less about his +father if he had had brothers or sisters, or even if the nature of +his grandmother had been such as to admit of their relationship +being drawn closer--into personal confidence, or some measure of +familiarity. How they stood with regard to each other will soon +appear. + +Whether the visions vanished from his brain because of the +thickening of his blood with cold, or he merely acted from one of +those undefined and inexplicable impulses which occasion not a few +of our actions, I cannot tell, but all at once Robert started to his +feet and hurried from the room. At the foot of the garret stair, +between it and the door of the gable-room already mentioned, stood +another door at right angles to both, of the existence of which the +boy was scarcely aware, simply because he had seen it all his life +and had never seen it open. Turning his back on this last door, +which he took for a blind one, he went down a short broad stair, at +the foot of which was a window. He then turned to the left into a +long flagged passage or transe, passed the kitchen door on the one +hand, and the double-leaved street door on the other; but, instead +of going into the parlour, the door of which closed the transe, he +stopped at the passage-window on the right, and there stood looking +out. + +What might be seen from this window certainly could not be called a +very pleasant prospect. A broad street with low houses of cold gray +stone is perhaps as uninteresting a form of street as any to be +found in the world, and such was the street Robert looked out upon. +Not a single member of the animal creation was to be seen in it, +not a pair of eyes to be discovered looking out at any of the +windows opposite. The sole motion was the occasional drift of a +vapour-like film of white powder, which the wind would lift like +dust from the snowy carpet that covered the street, and wafting it +along for a few yards, drop again to its repose, till another +stronger gust, prelusive of the wind about to rise at sun-down,--a +wind cold and bitter as death--would rush over the street, and raise +a denser cloud of the white water-dust to sting the face of any +improbable person who might meet it in its passage. It was a keen, +knife-edged frost, even in the house, and what Robert saw to make +him stand at the desolate window, I do not know, and I believe he +could not himself have told. There he did stand, however, for the +space of five minutes or so, with nothing better filling his outer +eyes at least than a bald spot on the crown of the street, whence +the wind had swept away the snow, leaving it brown and bare, a spot +of March in the middle of January. + +He heard the town drummer in the distance, and let the sound invade +his passive ears, till it crossed the opening of the street, and +vanished 'down the town.' + +'There's Dooble Sanny,' he said to himself--'wi' siccan cauld han's, +'at he's playin' upo' the drum-heid as gin he was loupin' in a bowie +(leaping in a cask).' + +Then he stood silent once more, with a look as if anything would be +welcome to break the monotony. + +While he stood a gentle timorous tap came to the door, so gentle +indeed that Betty in the kitchen did not hear it, or she, tall and +Roman-nosed as she was, would have answered it before the +long-legged dreamer could have reached the door, though he was not +above three yards from it. In lack of anything better to do, Robert +stalked to the summons. As he opened the door, these words greeted +him: + +'Is Robert at--eh! it's Bob himsel'! Bob, I'm byous (exceedingly) +cauld.' + +'What for dinna ye gang hame, than?' + +'What for wasna ye at the schuil the day?' + +'I spier ae queston at you, and ye answer me wi' anither.' + +'Weel, I hae nae hame to gang till.' + +'Weel, and I had a sair heid (a headache). But whaur's yer hame +gane till than?' + +'The hoose is there a' richt, but whaur my mither is I dinna ken. +The door's lockit, an' Jeames Jaup, they tell me 's tane awa' the +key. I doobt my mither's awa' upo' the tramp again, and what's to +come o' me, the Lord kens.' + +'What's this o' 't?' interposed a severe but not unmelodious voice, +breaking into the conversation between the two boys; for the parlour +door had opened without Robert's hearing it, and Mrs. Falconer, his +grandmother, had drawn near to the speakers. + +'What's this o' 't?' she asked again. 'Wha's that ye're conversin' +wi' at the door, Robert? Gin it be ony decent laddie, tell him to +come in, and no stan' at the door in sic a day 's this.' + +As Robert hesitated with his reply, she looked round the open half +of the door, but no sooner saw with whom he was talking than her +tone changed. By this time Betty, wiping her hands in her apron, +had completed the group by taking her stand in the kitchen door. + +'Na, na,' said Mrs. Falconer. 'We want nane sic-like here. What +does he want wi' you, Robert? Gie him a piece, Betty, and lat him +gang.--Eh, sirs! the callant hasna a stockin'-fit upo' 'im--and in +sic weather!' + +For, before she had finished her speech, the visitor, as if in +terror of her nearer approach, had turned his back, and literally +showed her, if not a clean pair of heels, yet a pair of naked heels +from between the soles and uppers of his shoes: if he had any +stockings at all, they ceased before they reached his ankles. + +'What ails him at me?' continued Mrs. Falconer, 'that he rins as gin +I war a boodie? But it's nae wonner he canna bide the sicht o' a +decent body, for he's no used till 't. What does he want wi' you, +Robert?' + +But Robert had a reason for not telling his grandmother what the boy +had told him: he thought the news about his mother would only make +her disapprove of him the more. In this he judged wrong. He did +not know his grandmother yet. + +'He's in my class at the schuil,' said Robert, evasively. + +'Him? What class, noo?' + +Robert hesitated one moment, but, compelled to give some answer, +said, with confidence, + +'The Bible-class.' + +'I thocht as muckle! What gars ye play at hide and seek wi' me? Do +ye think I dinna ken weel eneuch there's no a lad or a lass at the +schuil but 's i' the Bible-class? What wants he here?' + +'Ye hardly gae him time to tell me, grannie. Ye frichtit him.' + +'Me fricht him! What for suld I fricht him, laddie? I'm no sic +ferlie (wonder) that onybody needs be frichtit at me.' + +The old lady turned with visible, though by no means profound +offence upon her calm forehead, and walking back into her parlour, +where Robert could see the fire burning right cheerily, shut the +door, and left him and Betty standing together in the transe. The +latter returned to the kitchen, to resume the washing of the +dinner-dishes; and the former returned to his post at the window. +He had not stood more than half a minute, thinking what was to be +done with his school-fellow deserted of his mother, when the sound +of a coach-horn drew his attention to the right, down the street, +where he could see part of the other street which crossed it at +right angles, and in which the gable of the house stood. A minute +after, the mail came in sight--scarlet, spotted with snow--and +disappeared, going up the hill towards the chief hostelry of the +town, as fast as four horses, tired with the bad footing they had +had through the whole of the stage, could draw it after them. By +this time the twilight was falling; for though the sun had not yet +set, miles of frozen vapour came between him and this part of the +world, and his light was never very powerful so far north at this +season of the year. + +Robert turned into the kitchen, and began to put on his shoes. He +had made up his mind what to do. + +'Ye're never gaein' oot, Robert?' said Betty, in a hoarse tone of +expostulation. + +''Deed am I, Betty. What for no?' + +'You 'at's been in a' day wi' a sair heid! I'll jist gang benn the +hoose and tell the mistress, and syne we'll see what she'll please +to say till 't.' + +'Ye'll do naething o' the kin', Betty. Are ye gaein' to turn +clash-pyet (tell-tale) at your age?' + +'What ken ye aboot my age? There's never a man-body i' the toon +kens aught aboot my age.' + +'It's ower muckle for onybody to min' upo' (remember), is 't, +Betty?' + +'Dinna be ill-tongued, Robert, or I'll jist gang benn the hoose to +the mistress.' + +'Betty, wha began wi' bein' ill-tongued? Gin ye tell my grandmither +that I gaed oot the nicht, I'll gang to the schuilmaister o' +Muckledrum, and get a sicht o' the kirstenin' buik; an' gin yer name +binna there, I'll tell ilkabody I meet 'at oor Betty was never +kirstened; and that'll be a sair affront, Betty.' + +'Hoot! was there ever sic a laddie!' said Betty, attempting to laugh +it off. 'Be sure ye be back afore tay-time, 'cause yer grannie 'ill +be speirin' efter ye, and ye wadna hae me lee aboot ye?' + +'I wad hae naebody lee about me. Ye jist needna lat on 'at ye hear +her. Ye can be deif eneuch when ye like, Betty. But I s' be back +afore tay-time, or come on the waur.' + +Betty, who was in far greater fear of her age being discovered than +of being unchristianized in the search, though the fact was that she +knew nothing certain about the matter, and had no desire to be +enlightened, feeling as if she was thus left at liberty to hint what +she pleased,--Betty, I say, never had any intention of going 'benn +the hoose to the mistress.' For the threat was merely the rod of +terror which she thought it convenient to hold over the back of the +boy, whom she always supposed to be about some mischief except he +were in her own presence and visibly reading a book: if he were +reading aloud, so much the better. But Robert likewise kept a rod +for his defence, and that was Betty's age, which he had discovered +to be such a precious secret that one would have thought her virtue +depended in some cabalistic manner upon the concealment of it. And, +certainly, nature herself seemed to favour Betty's weakness, casting +such a mist about the number of her years as the goddesses of old +were wont to cast about a wounded favourite; for some said Betty was +forty, others said she was sixty-five, and, in fact, almost +everybody who knew her had a different belief on the matter. + +By this time Robert had conquered the difficulty of induing boots as +hard as a thorough wetting and as thorough a drying could make them, +and now stood prepared to go. His object in setting out was to find +the boy whom his grandmother had driven from the door with a hastier +and more abject flight than she had in the least intended. But, if +his grandmother should miss him, as Betty suggested, and inquire +where he had been, what was he to say? He did not mind misleading +his grannie, but he had a great objection to telling her a lie. His +grandmother herself delivered him from this difficulty. + +'Robert, come here,' she called from the parlour door. And Robert +obeyed. + +'Is 't dingin' on, Robert?' she asked. + +'No, grannie; it's only a starnie o' drift.' + +The meaning of this was that there was no fresh snow falling, or +beating on, only a little surface snow blowing about. + +'Weel, jist pit yer shune on, man, and rin up to Miss Naper's upo' +the Squaur, and say to Miss Naper, wi' my compliments, that I wad be +sair obleeged till her gin she wad len' me that fine receipt o' hers +for crappit heids, and I'll sen' 't back safe the morn's mornin'. +Rin, noo.' + +This commission fell in admirably with Robert's plans, and he +started at once. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +THE BOAR'S HEAD. + +Miss Napier was the eldest of three maiden sisters who kept the +principal hostelry of Rothieden, called The Boar's Head; from which, +as Robert reached the square in the dusk, the mail-coach was moving +away with a fresh quaternion of horses. He found a good many boxes +standing upon the pavement close by the archway that led to the +inn-yard, and around them had gathered a group of loungers, not too +cold to be interested. These were looking towards the windows of +the inn, where the owner of the boxes had evidently disappeared. + +'Saw ye ever sic a sicht in oor toon afore!' said Dooble Sanny, as +people generally called him, his name being Alexander Alexander, +pronounced, by those who chose to speak of him with the ordinary +respect due from one mortal to another, Sandy Elshender. Double +Sandy was a soutar, or shoemaker, remarkable for his love of sweet +sounds and whisky. He was, besides, the town-crier, who went about +with a drum at certain hours of the morning and evening, like a +perambulating clock, and also made public announcements of sales, +losses, &c.; for the rest--a fierce, fighting fellow when in anger +or in drink, which latter included the former. + +'What's the sicht, Sandy?' asked Robert, coming up with his hands in +the pockets of his trowsers. + +'Sic a sicht as ye never saw, man,' returned Sandy; 'the bonniest +leddy ever man set his ee upo'. I culd na hae thocht there had been +sic a woman i' this warl'.' + +'Hoot, Sandy!' said Robert, 'a body wad think she was tint (lost) +and ye had the cryin' o' her. Speyk laicher, man; she'll maybe hear +ye. Is she i' the inn there?' + +'Ay is she,' answered Sandy. 'See sic a warl' o' kists as she's +brocht wi' her,' he continued, pointing towards the pile of luggage. +'Saw ye ever sic a bourach (heap)? It jist blecks (beats) me to +think what ae body can du wi' sae mony kists. For I mayna doobt but +there's something or ither in ilka ane o' them. Naebody wad carry +aboot toom (empty) kists wi' them. I cannot mak' it oot.' + +The boxes might well surprise Sandy, if we may draw any conclusions +from the fact that the sole implement of personal adornment which he +possessed was two inches of a broken comb, for which he had to +search when he happened to want it, in the drawer of his stool, +among awls, lumps of rosin for his violin, masses of the same +substance wrought into shoemaker's wax for his ends, and packets of +boar's bristles, commonly called birse, for the same. + +'Are thae a' ae body's?' asked Robert. + +'Troth are they. They're a' hers, I wat. Ye wad hae thocht she had +been gaein' to The Bothie; but gin she had been that, there wad hae +been a cairriage to meet her,' said Crookit Caumill, the ostler. + +The Bothie was the name facetiously given by Alexander, Baron +Rothie, son of the Marquis of Boarshead, to a house he had built in +the neighbourhood, chiefly for the accommodation of his bachelor +friends from London during the shooting-season. + +'Haud yer tongue, Caumill,' said the shoemaker. 'She's nae sic +cattle, yon.' + +'Haud up the bit bowat (stable-lantern), man, and lat Robert here +see the direction upo' them. Maybe he'll mak' something o't. He's +a fine scholar, ye ken,' said another of the bystanders. + +The ostler held the lantern to the card upon one of the boxes, but +Robert found only an M., followed by something not very definite, +and a J., which might have been an I., Rothieden, Driftshire, +Scotland. + +As he was not immediate with his answer, Peter Lumley, one of the +group, a lazy ne'er-do-weel, who had known better days, but never +better manners, and was seldom quite drunk, and seldomer still quite +sober, struck in with, + +'Ye dinna ken a' thing yet, ye see, Robbie.' + +>From Sandy this would have been nothing but a good-humoured attempt +at facetiousness. From Lumley it meant spite, because Robert's +praise was in his ears. + +'I dinna preten' to ken ae hair mair than ye do yersel', Mr. Lumley; +and that's nae sayin' muckle, surely,' returned Robert, irritated at +his tone more than at his words. + +The bystanders laughed, and Lumley flew into a rage. + +'Haud yer ill tongue, ye brat,' he said. 'Wha' are ye to mak' sic +remarks upo' yer betters? A'body kens yer gran'father was naething +but the blin' piper o' Portcloddie.' + +This was news to Robert--probably false, considering the quarter +whence it came. But his mother-wit did not forsake him. + +'Weel, Mr. Lumley,' he answered, 'didna he pipe weel? Daur ye tell +me 'at he didna pipe weel?--as weel's ye cud hae dune 't yersel', +noo, Mr. Lumley?' + +The laugh again rose at Lumley's expense, who was well known to have +tried his hand at most things, and succeeded in nothing. Dooble +Sanny was especially delighted. + +'De'il hae ye for a de'il's brat! 'At I suld sweer!' was all +Lumley's reply, as he sought to conceal his mortification by +attempting to join in the laugh against himself. Robert seized the +opportunity of turning away and entering the house. + +'That ane's no to be droont or brunt aither,' said Lumley, as he +disappeared. + +'He'll no be hang't for closin' your mou', Mr. Lumley,' said the +shoemaker. + +Thereupon Lumley turned and followed Robert into the inn. + +Robert had delivered his message to Miss Napier, who sat in an +arm-chair by the fire, in a little comfortable parlour, held sacred +by all about the house. She was paralytic, and unable to attend to +her guests further than by giving orders when anything especial was +referred to her decision. She was an old lady--nearly as old as +Mrs. Falconer--and wore glasses, but they could not conceal the +kindness of her kindly eyes. Probably from giving less heed to a +systematic theology, she had nothing of that sternness which first +struck a stranger on seeing Robert's grandmother. But then she did +not know what it was to be contradicted; and if she had been +married, and had had sons, perhaps a sternness not dissimilar might +have shown itself in her nature. + +'Noo ye maunna gang awa' till ye get something,' she said, after +taking the receipt in request from a drawer within her reach, and +laying it upon the table. But ere she could ring the bell which +stood by her side, one of her servants came in. + +'Please, mem,' she said, 'Miss Letty and Miss Lizzy's seein' efter +the bonny leddy; and sae I maun come to you.' + +'Is she a' that bonny, Meg?' asked her mistress. + +'Na, na, she's nae sae fearsome bonny; but Miss Letty's unco ta'en +wi' her, ye ken. An' we a' say as Miss Letty says i' this hoose. +But that's no the pint. Mr. Lumley's here, seekin' a gill: is he +to hae't?' + +'Has he had eneuch already, do ye think, Meg?' + +'I dinna ken aboot eneuch, mem; that's ill to mizzer; but I dinna +think he's had ower muckle.' + +'Weel, lat him tak' it. But dinna lat him sit doon.' + +'Verra weel, mem,' said Meg, and departed. + +'What gars Mr. Lumley say 'at my gran'father was the blin' piper o' +Portcloddie? Can ye tell me, Miss Naper?' asked Robert. + +'Whan said he that, Robert?' + +'Jist as I cam in.' + +Miss Napier rang the bell. Another maid appeared. + +'Sen' Meg here direckly.' + +Meg came, her eyes full of interrogation. + +'Dinna gie Lumley a drap. Set him up to insult a young gentleman at +my door-cheek! He s' no hae a drap here the nicht. He 's had ower +muckle, Meg, already, an' ye oucht to hae seen that.' + +''Deed, mem, he 's had mair than ower muckle, than; for there's +anither gill ower the thrapple o' 'm. I div my best, mem, but, +never tastin' mysel', I canna aye tell hoo muckle 's i' the wame o' +a' body 'at comes in.' + +'Ye're no fit for the place, Meg; that's a fac'.' + +At this charge Meg took no offence, for she had been in the place +for twenty years. And both mistress and maid laughed the moment +they parted company. + +'Wha's this 'at's come the nicht, Miss Naper, 'at they're sae ta'en +wi'?' asked Robert. + +'Atweel, I dinna ken yet. She's ower bonnie by a' accoonts to be +gaein' about her lane (alone). It's a mercy the baron's no at hame. +I wad hae to lock her up wi' the forks and spunes.' + +'What for that?' asked Robert. + +But Miss Napier vouchsafed no further explanation. She stuffed his +pockets with sweet biscuits instead, dismissed him in haste, and +rang the bell. + +'Meg, whaur hae they putten the stranger-leddy?' + +'She's no gaein' to bide at our hoose, mem.' + +'What say ye, lass? She's never gaein' ower to Lucky Happit's, is +she?' + +'Ow na, mem. She's a leddy, ilka inch o' her. But she's some sib +(relation) to the auld captain, and she's gaein' doon the street as +sune's Caumill's ready to tak her bit boxes i' the barrow. But I +doobt there'll be maist three barrowfu's o' them.' + +'Atweel. Ye can gang.' + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +SHARGAR. + +Robert went out into the thin drift, and again crossing the wide +desolate-looking square, turned down an entry leading to a kind of +court, which had once been inhabited by a well-to-do class of the +townspeople, but had now fallen in estimation. Upon a stone at the +door of what seemed an outhouse he discovered the object of his +search. + +'What are ye sittin' there for, Shargar?' + +Shargar is a word of Gaelic origin, applied, with some sense of the +ridiculous, to a thin, wasted, dried-up creature. In the present +case it was the nickname by which the boy was known at school; and, +indeed, where he was known at all. + +'What are ye sittin' there for, Shargar? Did naebody offer to tak +ye in?' + +'Na, nane o' them. I think they maun be a' i' their beds. I'm most +dreidfu' cauld.' + +The fact was, that Shargar's character, whether by imputation from +his mother, or derived from his own actions, was none of the best. +The consequence was, that, although scarcely one of the neighbours +would have allowed him to sit there all night, each was willing to +wait yet a while, in the hope that somebody else's humanity would +give in first, and save her from the necessity of offering him a +seat by the fireside, and a share of the oatmeal porridge which +probably would be scanty enough for her own household. For it must +be borne in mind that all the houses in the place were occupied by +poor people, with whom the one virtue, Charity, was, in a measure, +at home, and amidst many sins, cardinal and other, managed to live +in even some degree of comfort. + +'Get up, than, Shargar, ye lazy beggar! Or are ye frozen to the +door-stane? I s' awa' for a kettle o' bilin' water to lowse ye.' + +'Na, na, Bob. I'm no stucken. I'm only some stiff wi' the cauld; +for wow, but I am cauld!' said Shargar, rising with difficulty. 'Gie +'s a haud o' yer han', Bob.' + +Robert gave him his hand, and Shargar was straightway upon his feet. + +'Come awa' noo, as fest and as quaiet 's ye can.' + +'What are ye gaein' to du wi' me, Bob?' + +'What's that to you, Shargar?' + +'Naything. Only I wad like to ken.' + +'Hae patience, and ye will ken. Only mind ye do as I tell ye, and +dinna speik a word.' + +Shargar followed in silence. + +On the way Robert remembered that Miss Napier had not, after all, +given him the receipt for which his grandmother had sent him. So he +returned to The Boar's Head, and, while he went in, left Shargar in +the archway, to shiver, and try in vain to warm his hands by the +alternate plans of slapping them on the opposite arms, and hiding +them under them. + +When Robert came out, he saw a man talking to him under the lamp. +The moment his eyes fell upon the two, he was struck by a +resemblance between them. Shargar was right under the lamp, the man +to the side of it, so that Shargar was shadowed by its frame, and +the man was in its full light. The latter turned away, and passing +Robert, went into the inn. + +'Wha's that?' asked Robert. + +'I dinna ken,' answered Shargar. 'He spak to me or ever I kent he +was there, and garred my hert gie sic a loup 'at it maist fell into +my breeks.' + +'And what said he to ye?' + +'He said was the deevil at my lug, that I did naething but caw my +han's to bits upo' my shoothers.' + +'And what said ye to that?' + +'I said I wissed he was, for he wad aiblins hae some spare heat +aboot him, an' I hadna freely (quite) eneuch.' + +'Weel dune, Shargar! What said he to that?' + +'He leuch, and speirt gin I wad list, and gae me a shillin'.' + +'Ye didna tak it, Shargar?' asked Robert in some alarm. + +'Ay did I. Catch me no taking a shillin'!' + +'But they'll haud ye till 't.' + +'Na, na. I'm ower shochlin' (in-kneed) for a sodger. But that man +was nae sodger.' + +'And what mair said he?' + +'He speirt what I wad do wi' the shillin'.' + +'And what said ye?' + +'Ow! syne ye cam' oot, and he gaed awa'.' + +'And ye dinna ken wha it was?' repeated Robert. + +'It was some like my brither, Lord Sandy; but I dinna ken,' said +Shargar. + +By this time they had arrived at Yule the baker's shop. + +'Bide ye here,' said Robert, who happened to possess a few coppers, +'till I gang into Eel's.' + +Shargar stood again and shivered at the door, till Robert came out +with a penny loaf in one hand, and a twopenny loaf in the other. + +'Gie's a bit, Bob,' said Shargar. 'I'm as hungry as I am cauld.' + +'Bide ye still,' returned Robert. 'There's a time for a' thing, and +your time 's no come to forgather wi' this loaf yet. Does na it +smell fine? It's new frae the bakehoose no ten minutes ago. I ken +by the fin' (feel) o' 't.' + +'Lat me fin' 't,' said Shargar, stretching out one hand, and feeling +his shilling with the other. + +'Na. Yer han's canna be clean. And fowk suld aye eat clean, whether +they gang clean or no.' + +'I'll awa' in an' buy ane oot o' my ain shillin',' said Shargar, in +a tone of resolute eagerness. + +'Ye'll do naething o' the kin',' returned Robert, darting his hand +at his collar. 'Gie me the shillin'. Ye'll want it a' or lang.' + +Shargar yielded the coin and slunk behind, while Robert again led +the way till they came to his grandmother's door. + +'Gang to the ga'le o' the hoose there, Shargar, and jist keek roon' +the neuk at me; and gin I whustle upo' ye, come up as quaiet 's ye +can. Gin I dinna, bide till I come to ye.' + +Robert opened the door cautiously. It was never locked except at +night, or when Betty had gone to the well for water, or to the +butcher's or baker's, or the prayer-meeting, upon which occasions +she put the key in her pocket, and left her mistress a prisoner. He +looked first to the right, along the passage, and saw that his +grandmother's door was shut; then across the passage to the left, +and saw that the kitchen door was likewise shut, because of the +cold, for its normal position was against the wall. Thereupon, +closing the door, but keeping the handle in his hand, and the bolt +drawn back, he turned to the street and whistled soft and low. +Shargar had, in a moment, dragged his heavy feet, ready to part +company with their shoes at any instant, to Robert's side. He bent +his ear to Robert's whisper. + +'Gang in there, and creep like a moose to the fit o' the stair. I +maun close the door ahin' 's,' said he, opening the door as he +spoke. + +'I'm fleyt (frightened), Robert.' + +'Dinna be a fule. Grannie winna bite aff yer heid. She had ane +till her denner, the day, an' it was ill sung (singed).' + +'What ane o'?' + +'A sheep's heid, ye gowk (fool). Gang in direckly.' + +Shargar persisted no longer, but, taking about four steps a minute, +slunk past the kitchen like a thief--not so carefully, however, but +that one of his soles yet looser than the other gave one clap upon +the flagged passage, when Betty straightway stood in the kitchen +door, a fierce picture in a deal frame. By this time Robert had +closed the outer door, and was following at Shargar's heels. + +'What's this?' she cried, but not so loud as to reach the ears of +Mrs. Falconer; for, with true Scotch foresight, she would not +willingly call in another power before the situation clearly +demanded it. 'Whaur's Shargar gaein' that gait?' + +'Wi' me. Dinna ye see me wi' him? I'm nae a thief, nor yet's +Shargar.' + +'There may be twa opingons upo' that, Robert. I s' jist awa' benn +to the mistress. I s' hae nae sic doin's i' my hoose.' + +'It's nae your hoose, Betty. Dinna lee.' + +'Weel, I s' hae nae sic things gang by my kitchie door. There, +Robert! what 'll ye mak' o' that? There's nae offence, there, I +houp, gin it suldna be a'thegither my ain hoose. Tak Shargar oot o' +that, or I s' awa' benn the hoose, as I tell ye.' + +Meantime Shargar was standing on the stones, looking like a +terrified white rabbit, and shaking from head to foot with cold and +fright combined. + +'I'll tak him oot o' this, but it's up the stair, Betty. An' gin ye +gang benn the hoose aboot it, I sweir to ye, as sure 's death, I'll +gang doon to Muckledrum upo' Setterday i' the efternune.' + +'Gang awa' wi' yer havers. Only gin the mistress speirs onything +aboot it, what am I to say?' + +'Bide till she speirs. Auld Spunkie says, "Ready-made answers are +aye to seek." And I say, Betty, hae ye a cauld pitawta (potato)?' + +'I'll luik and see. Wadna ye like it het up?' + +'Ow ay, gin ye binna lang aboot it.' + +Suddenly a bell rang, shrill and peremptory, right above Shargar's +head, causing in him a responsive increase of trembling. + +'Haud oot o' my gait. There's the mistress's bell,' said Betty. + +'Jist bide till we're roon' the neuk and on to the stair,' said +Robert, now leading the way. + +Betty watched them safe round the corner before she made for the +parlour, little thinking to what she had become an unwilling +accomplice, for she never imagined that more than an evening's visit +was intended by Shargar, which in itself seemed to her strange and +improper enough even for such an eccentric boy as Robert to +encourage. + +Shargar followed in mortal terror, for, like Christian in The +Pilgrim's Progress, he had no armour to his back. Once round the +corner, two strides of three steps each took them to the top of the +first stair, Shargar knocking his head in the darkness against the +never-opened door. Again three strides brought them to the top of +the second flight; and turning once more, still to the right, Robert +led Shargar up the few steps into the higher of the two garrets. + +Here there was just glimmer enough from the sky to discover the +hollow of a close bedstead, built in under the sloping roof, which +served it for a tester, while the two ends and most of the front +were boarded up to the roof. This bedstead fortunately was not so +bare as the one in the other room, although it had not been used for +many years, for an old mattress covered the boards with which it was +bottomed. + +'Gang in there, Shargar. Ye'll be warmer there than upo' the +door-step ony gait. Pit aff yer shune.' + +Shargar obeyed, full of delight at finding himself in such good +quarters. Robert went to a forsaken press in the room, and brought +out an ancient cloak of tartan, of the same form as what is now +called an Inverness cape, a blue dress-coat, with plain gilt +buttons, which shone even now in the all but darkness, and several +other garments, amongst them a kilt, and heaped them over Shargar as +he lay on the mattress. He then handed him the twopenny and the +penny loaves, which were all his stock had reached to the purchase +of, and left him, saying,-- + +'I maun awa' to my tay, Shargar. I'll fess ye a cauld tawtie het +again, gin Betty has ony. Lie still, and whatever ye do, dinna come +oot o' that.' + +The last injunction was entirely unnecessary. + +'Eh, Bob, I'm jist in haven!' said the poor creature, for his skin +began to feel the precious possibility of reviving warmth in the +distance. + +Now that he had gained a new burrow, the human animal soon recovered +from his fears as well. It seemed to him, in the novelty of the +place, that he had made so many doublings to reach it, that there +could be no danger of even the mistress of the house finding him +out, for she could hardly be supposed to look after such a remote +corner of her dominions. And then he was boxed in with the bed, and +covered with no end of warm garments, while the friendly darkness +closed him and his shelter all round. Except the faintest blue +gleam from one of the panes in the roof, there was soon no hint of +light anywhere; and this was only sufficient to make the darkness +visible, and thus add artistic effect to the operation of it upon +Shargar's imagination--a faculty certainly uneducated in Shargar, +but far, very far from being therefore non-existent. It was, +indeed, actively operative, although, like that of many a fine lady +and gentleman, only in relation to such primary questions as: 'What +shall we eat? And what shall we drink? And wherewithal shall we be +clothed?' But as he lay and devoured the new 'white breid,' his +satisfaction--the bare delight of his animal existence--reached a +pitch such as even this imagination, stinted with poverty, and +frost-bitten with maternal oppression, had never conceived possible. +The power of enjoying the present without anticipation of the +future or regard of the past, is the especial privilege of the +animal nature, and of the human nature in proportion as it has not +been developed beyond the animal. Herein lies the happiness of cab +horses and of tramps: to them the gift of forgetfulness is of worth +inestimable. Shargar's heaven was for the present gained. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +THE SYMPOSIUM. + +Robert had scarcely turned out of the square on his way to find +Shargar, when a horseman entered it. His horse and he were both +apparently black on one side and gray on the other, from the +snow-drift settling to windward. The animal looked tired, but the +rider sat as easy as if he were riding to cover. The reins hung +loose, and the horse went in a straight line for The Boar's Head, +stopping under the archway only when his master drew bridle at the +door of the inn. + +At that moment Miss Letty was standing at the back of Miss Napier's +chair, leaning her arms upon it as she talked to her. This was her +way of resting as often as occasion arose for a chat with her elder +sister. Miss Letty's hair was gathered in a great knot at the top +of her head, and little ringlets hung like tendrils down the sides +of her face, the benevolence of which was less immediately striking +than that of her sister's, because of the constant play of humour +upon it, especially about the mouth. If a spirit of satire could be +supposed converted into something Christian by an infusion of the +tenderest loving-kindness and humanity, remaining still recognizable +notwithstanding that all its bitterness was gone, such was the +expression of Miss Letty's mouth, It was always half puckered as if +in resistance to a comic smile, which showed itself at the windows +of the keen gray eyes, however the mouth might be able to keep it +within doors. She was neatly dressed in black silk, with a lace +collar. Her hands were small and white. + +The moment the traveller stopped at the door, Miss Napier started. + +'Letty,' she said, 'wha's that? I could amaist sweir to Black +Geordie's fit.' + +'A' four o' them, I think,' returned Miss Letty, as the horse, +notwithstanding, or perhaps in consequence of his fatigue, began to +paw and move about on the stones impatiently. + +The rider had not yet spoken. + +'He'll be efter some o' 's deevil-ma'-care sculduddery. But jist +rin to the door, Letty, or Lizzy 'll be there afore ye, and maybe +she wadna be ower ceevil. What can he be efter noo?' + +'What wad the grew (grayhound) be efter but maukin (hare)?' returned +Miss Letty. + +'Hoot! nonsense! He kens naething aboot her. Gang to the door, +lassie.' + +Miss Letty obeyed. + +'Wha's there?' she asked, somewhat sharply, as she opened it, 'that +neither chaps (knocks) nor ca's?--Preserve 's a'! is't you, my +lord?' + +'Hoo ken ye me, Miss Letty withoot seein' my face?' + +'A'body at The Boar's Heid kens Black Geordie as weel 's yer +lordship's ain sel'. But whaur comes yer lordship frae in sic a +nicht as this?' + +'From Russia. Never dismounted between Moscow and Aberdeen. The +ice is bearing to-night.' + +And the baron laughed inside the upturned collar of his cloak, for +he knew that strangely-exaggerated stories were current about his +feats in the saddle. + +'That's a lang ride, my lord, and a sliddery. And what's yer +lordship's wull?' + +'Muckle ye care aboot my lordship to stand jawin' there in a night +like this! Is nobody going to take my horse?' + +'I beg yer lordship's pardon. Caumill!--Yer lordship never said ye +wanted yer lordship's horse ta'en. I thocht ye micht be gaein' on +to The Bothie.--Tak' Black Geordie here, Caumill.--Come in to the +parlour, my lord.' + +'How d'ye do, Miss Naper?' said Lord Rothie, as he entered the room. +'Here's this jade of a sister of yours asking me why I don't go home +to The Bothie, when I choose to stop and water here.' + +'What'll ye tak', my lord?--Letty, fess the brandy.' + +'Oh! damn your brandy! Bring me a gill of good Glendronach.' + +'Rin, Letty. His lordship's cauld.--I canna rise to offer ye the +airm-cheir, my lord.' + +'I can get one for myself, thank heaven!' + +'Lang may yer lordship return sic thanks.' +'For I'm only new begun, ye think, Miss Naper. Well, I don't often +trouble heaven with my affairs. By Jove! I ought to be heard when +I do.' + +'Nae doobt ye will, my lord, whan ye seek onything that's fit to be +gien ye.' + +'True. Heaven's gifts are seldom much worth the asking.' + +'Haud yer tongue, my lord, and dinna bring doon a judgment upo' my +hoose, for it wad be missed oot o' Rothieden,' + +'You're right there, Miss Naper. And here comes the whisky to stop +my mouth.' + +The Baron of Rothie sat for a few minutes with his feet on the +fender before Miss Letty's blazing fire, without speaking, while he +sipped the whisky neat from a wine-glass. He was a man about the +middle height, rather full-figured, muscular and active, with a +small head, and an eye whose brightness had not yet been dimmed by +the sensuality which might be read in the condition rather than +frame of his countenance. But while he spoke so pleasantly to the +Miss Napiers, and his forehead spread broad and smooth over the +twinkle of his hazel eye, there was a sharp curve on each side of +his upper lip, half-way between the corner and the middle, which +reminded one of the same curves in the lip of his ancestral boar's +head, where it was lifted up by the protruding tusks. These curves +disappeared, of course, when he smiled, and his smile, being a +lord's, was generally pronounced irresistible. He was good-natured, +and nowise inclined to stand upon his rank, so long as he had his +own way. + +'Any customers by the mail to-night, Miss Naper?' he asked, in a +careless tone. + +'Naebody partic'lar, my lord.' + +'I thought ye never let anybody in that wasn't particularly +particular. No foot-passengers--eh?' + +'Hoot, my lord! that's twa year ago. Gin I had jaloosed him to be a +fren' o' yer lordship's, forby bein' a lord himsel', ye ken as weel +'s I du that I wadna hae sent him ower the gait to Luckie Happit's, +whaur he wadna even be ower sure o' gettin' clean sheets. But gin +lords an' lords' sons will walk afit like ither fowk, wha's to ken +them frae ither fowk?' + +'Well, Miss Naper, he was no lord at all. He was nothing but a +factor-body doon frae Glenbucket.' + +'There was sma' hairm dune than, my lord. I'm glaid to hear 't. +But what'll yer lordship hae to yer supper?' + +'I would like a dish o' your chits and nears (sweetbreads and +kidneys).' + +'Noo, think o' that!' returned the landlady, laughing. 'You great +fowk wad hae the verra coorse o' natur' turned upside doon to shuit +yersels. Wha ever heard o' caure (calves) at this time o' the +year?' + +'Well, anything you like. Who was it came by the mail, did you +say?' + +'I said naebody partic'lar, my lord.' + +'Well, I'll just go and have a look at Black Geordie.' + +'Verra weel, my lord.--Letty, rin an' luik efter him; and as sune 's +he's roon' the neuk, tell Lizzie no to say a word aboot the leddy. +As sure 's deith he's efter her. Whaur cud he hae heard tell o' +her?' + +Lord Rothie came, a moment after, sauntering into the bar-parlour, +where Lizzie, the third Miss Napier, a red-haired, round-eyed, +white-toothed woman of forty, was making entries in a book. + +'She's a bonnie lassie that, that came in the coach to-night, they +say, Miss Lizzie.' + +'As ugly 's sin, my lord,' answered Lizzie. + +'I hae seen some sin 'at was nane sae ugly, Miss Lizzie.' + +'She wad hae clean scunnert (disgusted) ye, my lord. It's a mercy +ye didna see her.' + +'If she be as ugly as all that, I would just like to see her.' + +Miss Lizzie saw she had gone too far. + +'Ow, deed! gin yer lordship wants to see her, ye may see her at yer +wull. I s' gang and tell her.' + +And she rose as if to go. + +'No, no. Nothing of the sort, Miss Lizzie. Only I heard that she +was bonnie, and I wanted to see her. You know I like to look at a +pretty girl.' + +'That's ower weel kent, my lord.' + +'Well, there's no harm in that, Miss Lizzie.' + +'There's no harm in that, my lord, though yer lordship says 't.' + +The facts were that his lordship had been to the county-town, some +forty miles off, and Black Geordie had been sent to Hillknow to meet +him; for in any weather that would let him sit, he preferred +horseback to every other mode of travelling, though he seldom would +be followed by a groom. He had posted to Hillknow, and had dined +with a friend at the inn. The coach stopping to change horses, he +had caught a glimpse of a pretty face, as he thought, from its +window, and had hoped to overtake the coach before it reached +Rothieden. But stopping to drink another bottle, he had failed; and +it was on the merest chance of seeing that pretty face that he +stopped at The Boar's Head. In all probability, had the Marquis seen +the lady, he would not have thought her at all such a beauty as she +appeared in the eyes of Dooble Sanny; nor, I venture to think, had +he thought as the shoemaker did, would he yet have dared to address +her in other than the words of such respect as he could still feel +in the presence of that which was more noble than himself. + +Whether or not on his visit to the stable he found anything amiss +with Black Geordie, I cannot tell, but he now begged Miss Lizzie to +have a bedroom prepared for him. + +It happened to be the evening of Friday, one devoted by some of the +townspeople to a symposium. To this, knowing that the talk will +throw a glimmer on several matters, I will now introduce my reader, +as a spectator through the reversed telescope of my history. + +A few of the more influential of the inhabitants had grown, rather +than formed themselves, into a kind of club, which met weekly at The +Boar's Head. Although they had no exclusive right to the room in +which they sat, they generally managed to retain exclusive +possession of it; for if any supposed objectionable person entered, +they always got rid of him, sometimes without his being aware of how +they had contrived to make him so uncomfortable. They began to +gather about seven o'clock, when it was expected that boiling water +would be in readiness for the compound generally called toddy, +sometimes punch. As soon as six were assembled, one was always +voted into the chair. + +On the present occasion, Mr. Innes, the school-master, was +unanimously elected to that honour. He was a hard-featured, +sententious, snuffy individual, of some learning, and great +respectability. + +I omit the political talk with which their intercommunications +began; for however interesting at the time is the scaffolding by +which existing institutions arise, the poles and beams when gathered +again in the builder's yard are scarcely a subject for the artist. + +The first to lead the way towards matters of nearer personality was +William MacGregor, the linen manufacturer, a man who possessed a +score of hand-looms or so--half of which, from the advance of cotton +and the decline of linen-wear, now stood idle--but who had already a +sufficient deposit in the hands of Mr. Thomson the banker--agent, +that is, for the county-bank--to secure him against any necessity +for taking to cotton shirts himself, which were an abomination and +offence unpardonable in his eyes. + +'Can ye tell me, Mr. Cocker,' he said, 'what mak's Sandy, Lord +Rothie, or Wrathy, or what suld he be ca'd?--tak' to The Bothie at a +time like this, whan there's neither huntin', nor fishin', nor +shutin', nor onything o' the kin' aboot han' to be playacks till +him, the bonnie bairn--'cep' it be otters an' sic like?' + +William was a shrunken old man, with white whiskers and a black wig, +a keen black eye, always in search of the ludicrous in other people, +and a mouth ever on the move, as if masticating something comical. + +'You know just as well as I do,' answered Mr. Cocker, the Marquis of +Boarshead's factor for the surrounding estate. 'He never was in the +way of giving a reason for anything, least of all for his own +movements.' + +'Somebody was sayin' to me,' resumed MacGregor, who, in all +probability, invented the story at the moment, 'that the prince took +him kissin' ane o' his servan' lasses, and kickit him oot o' Carlton +Hoose into the street, and he canna win' ower the disgrace o' 't.' + +''Deed for the kissin',' said Mr. Thomson, a portly, +comfortable-looking man, 'that's neither here nor there, though it +micht hae been a duchess or twa; but for the kickin', my word! but +Lord Sandy was mair likly to kick oot the prince. Do ye min' hoo he +did whan the Markis taxed him wi'--?' + +'Haud a quaiet sough,' interposed Mr. Cruickshank, the solicitor; +'there's a drap i' the hoose.' + +This was a phrase well understood by the company, indicating the +presence of some one unknown, or unfit to be trusted. + +As he spoke he looked towards the farther end of the room, which lay +in obscurity; for it was a large room, lighted only by the four +candles on the table at which the company sat. + +'Whaur, Mr. Cruickshank?' asked the dominie in a whisper. + +'There,' answered Sampson Peddie, the bookseller, who seized the +opportunity of saying something, and pointed furtively where the +solicitor had only looked. + +A dim figure was descried at a table in the farthest corner of the +room, and they proceeded to carry out the plan they generally +adopted to get rid of a stranger. + +'Ye made use o' a curious auld Scots phrase this moment, Mr. +Curshank: can ye explain hoo it comes to beir the meanin' that it's +weel kent to beir?' said the manufacturer. + +'Not I, Mr. MacGregor,' answered the solicitor. 'I'm no philologist +or antiquarian. Ask the chairman.' + +'Gentlemen,' responded Mr. Innes, taking a huge pinch of snuff after +the word, and then, passing the box to Mr. Cocker, a sip from his +glass before he went on: 'the phrase, gentlemen, "a drap i' the +hoose," no doobt refers to an undesirable presence, for ye're weel +awaur that it's a most unpleasin' discovery, in winter especially, +to find a drop o' water hangin' from yer ceiling; a something, in +short, whaur it has no business to be, and is not accordingly looked +for, or prepared against.' + +'It seems to me, Mr. Innes,' said MacGregor, 'that ye hae hit the +nail, but no upo' the heid. What mak' ye o' the phrase, no confined +to the Scots tongue, I believe, o' an eaves-drapper? The whilk, no +doobt, represents a body that hings aboot yer winnock, like a drap +hangin' ower abune it frae the eaves--therefore called an eaves +drapper. But the sort of whilk we noo speak, are a waur sort +a'thegither; for they come to the inside o' yer hoose, o' yer verra +chaumer, an' hing oot their lang lugs to hear what ye carena to be +hard save by a dooce frien' or twa ower a het tum'ler.' + +At the same moment the door opened, and a man entered, who was +received with unusual welcome. + +'Bless my sowl!' said the president, rising; 'it's Mr. Lammie!--Come +awa', Mr. Lammie. Sit doon; sit doon. Whaur hae ye been this mony +a day, like a pelican o' the wilderness?' + +Mr. Lammie was a large, mild man, with florid cheeks, no whiskers, +and a prominent black eye. He was characterized by a certain simple +alacrity, a gentle, but outspeaking readiness, which made him a +favourite. + +'I dinna richtly mak' oot wha ye are,' he answered. 'Ye hae unco +little licht here! Hoo are ye a', gentlemen? I s' discover ye by +degrees, and pay my respecks accordin'.' + +And he drew a chair to the table. + +''Deed I wuss ye wad,' returned MacGregor, in a voice pretentiously +hushed, but none the less audible. 'There's a drap in yon en' o' the +hoose, Mr. Lammie.' + +'Hoot! never min' the man,' said Lammie, looking round in the +direction indicated. 'I s' warran' he cares as little aboot hiz as +we care aboot him. There's nae treason noo a-days. I carena wha +hears what I say.' + +'For my pairt,' said Mr. Peddie, 'I canna help wonnerin' gin it cud +be oor auld frien' Mr. Faukener.' + +'Speyk o' the de'il--' said Mr. Lammie. + +'Hoot! na,' returned Peddie, interrupting. 'He wasna a'thegither the +de'il.' + +'Haud the tongue o' ye,' retorted Lammie. 'Dinna ye ken a proverb +whan ye hear 't? De'il hae ye! ye're as sharpset as a missionar'. +I was only gaun to say that I'm doobtin' Andrew's deid.' + +'Ay! ay!' commenced a chorus of questioning. + +'Mhm!' + +'Aaay!' + +'What gars ye think that?' + +'And sae he's deid!' + +'He was a great favourite, Anerew!' + +'Whaur dee'd he?' + +'Aye some upsettin' though!' + +'Ay. He was aye to be somebody wi' his tale.' + +'A gude-hertit crater, but ye cudna lippen till him.' + +'Speyk nae ill o' the deid. Maybe they'll hear ye, and turn roon' +i' their coffins, and that'll whumle you i' your beds,' said +MacGregor, with a twinkle in his eye. + +'Ring the bell for anither tum'ler, Sampson,' said the chairman. + +'What'll be dune wi' that factory place, noo? It'll be i' the +market?' + +'It's been i' the market for mony a year. But it's no his ava. It +belangs to the auld leddy, his mither,' said the weaver. + +'Why don't you buy it, Mr. MacGregor, and set up a cotton mill? +There's not much doing with the linen now,' said Mr. Cocker. + +'Me!' returned MacGregor, with indignation. 'The Lord forgie ye for +mintin' (hinting) at sic a thing, Mr. Cocker! Me tak' to coaton! I +wad as sune spin the hair frae Sawtan's hurdies. Short fushionless +dirt, that canna grow straucht oot o' the halesome yird, like the +bonnie lint-bells, but maun stick itsel' upo' a buss!--set it up! +Coorse vulgar stuff, 'at naebody wad weir but loup-coonter lads +that wad fain luik like gentlemen by means o' the collars and +ruffles--an' a' comin' frae the auld loom! They may weel affoord +se'enteen hunner linen to set it aff wi' 'at has naething but coaton +inside the breeks o' them.' + +'But Dr. Wagstaff says it's healthier,' interposed Peddie. + +'I'll wag a staff till him. De'il a bit o' 't 's healthier! an' +that he kens. It's nae sae healthy, an' sae it mak's him mair wark +wi' 's poothers an' his drauchts, an' ither stinkin' stuff. +Healthier! What neist?' + +'Somebody tellt me,' said the bookseller, inwardly conscious of +offence, ''at hoo Lord Sandy himsel' weirs cotton.' + +'Ow 'deed, maybe. And he sets mony a worthy example furbye. Hoo +mony, can ye tell me, Mr. Peddie, has he pulled doon frae honest, if +no frae high estate, and sent oot to seek their livin' as he taucht +them? Hoo mony--?' + +'Hoot, hoot! Mr. MacGregor, his lordship hasn't a cotton shirt in +his possession, I'll be bound,' said Mr. Cocker. 'And, besides, you +have not to wash his dirty linen--or cotton either.' + +'That's as muckle as to say, accordin' to Cocker, that I'm no to +speik a word against him. But I'll say what I like. He's no my +maister,' said MacGregor, who could drink very little without +suffering in his temper and manners; and who, besides, had a certain +shrewd suspicion as to the person who still sat in the dark end of +the room, possibly because the entrance of Mr. Lammie had +interrupted the exorcism. + +The chairman interposed with soothing words; and the whole company, +Cocker included, did its best to pacify the manufacturer; for they +all knew what would be the penalty if they failed. + +A good deal of talk followed, and a good deal of whisky was drunk. +They were waited upon by Meg, who, without their being aware of it, +cast a keen parting glance at them every time she left the room. At +length the conversation had turned again to Andrew Falconer's death. + +'Whaur said ye he dee'd, Mr. Lammie?' + +'I never said he was deid. I said I was feared 'at he was deid.' + +'An' what gars ye say that? It micht be o' consequence to hae 't +correck,' said the solicitor. + +'I had a letter frae my auld frien' and his, Dr. Anderson. Ye min' +upo' him, Mr. Innes, dunna ye? He's heid o' the medical boord at +Calcutta noo. He says naething but that he doobts he's gane. He +gaed up the country, and he hasna hard o' him for sae lang. We hae +keepit up a correspondence for mony a year noo, Dr. Anderson an' me. +He was a relation o' Anerew's, ye ken--a second cousin, or +something. He'll be hame or lang, I'm thinkin', wi' a fine +pension.' + +'He winna weir a cotton sark, I'll be boon',' said MacGregor. + +'What's the auld leddy gaein' to du wi' that lang-leggit oye +(grandson) o' hers, Anerew's son?' asked Sampson. + +'Ow! he'll be gaein' to the college, I'm thinkin'. He's a fine lad, +and a clever, they tell me,' said Mr. Thomson. + +'Indeed, he's all that, and more too,' said the school-master. + +'There's naething 'ull du but the college noo!' said MacGregor, whom +nobody heeded, for fear of again rousing his anger. + +'Hoo 'ill she manage that, honest woman? She maun hae but little to +spare frae the cleedin' o' 'm.' + +'She's a gude manager, Mistress Faukner. And, ye see, she has the +bleachgreen yet.' + +'She doesna weir cotton sarks,' growled MacGregor. 'Mony's the wob +o' mine she's bleached and boucht tu!' + +Nobody heeding him yet, he began to feel insulted, and broke in upon +the conversation with intent. + +'Ye haena telt 's yet, Cocker,' he said, 'what that maister o' yours +is duin' here at this time o' the year. I wad ken that, gin ye +please.' + +'How should I know, Mr. MacGregor?' returned the factor, taking no +notice of the offensive manner in which the question was put. + +'He's no a hair better nor ane o' thae Algerine pirates 'at Lord +Exmooth's het the hips o'--and that's my opingon.' + +'He's nae amo' your feet, MacGregor,' said the banker. 'Ye micht +jist lat him lie.' + +'Gin I had him doon, faith gin I wadna lat him lie! I'll jist tell +ye ae thing, gentlemen, that cam' to my knowledge no a hunner year +ago. An' it's a' as true 's gospel, though I hae aye held my tongue +aboot it till this verra nicht. Ay! ye'll a' hearken noo; but it's +no lauchin', though there was sculduddery eneuch, nae doobt, afore +it cam' that len'th. And mony a het drap did the puir lassie greet, +I can tell ye. Faith! it was no lauchin' to her. She was a servan' +o' oors, an' a ticht bonnie lass she was. They ca'd her the +weyver's bonny Mary--that's the name she gaed by. Weel, ye see--' + +MacGregor was interrupted by a sound from the further end of the +room. The stranger, whom most of them had by this time forgotten, +had risen, and was approaching the table where they sat. + +'Guid guide us!' interrupted several under their breaths, as all +rose, 'it's Lord Sandy himsel'!' + +'I thank you, gentleman,' he said, with a mixture of irony and +contempt, 'for the interest you take in my private history. I +should have thought it had been as little to the taste as it is to +the honour of some of you to listen to such a farrago of lies.' + +'Lees! my lord,' said MacGregor, starting to his feet. Mr. Cocker +looked dismayed, and Mr. Lammie sheepish--all of them dazed and +dumbfoundered, except the old weaver, who, as his lordship turned to +leave the room, added: + +'Lang lugs (ears) suld be made o' leather, my lord, for fear they +grow het wi' what they hear.' + +Lord Rothie turned in a rage. He too had been drinking. + +'Kick that toad into the street, or, by heaven! it's the last drop +any of you drink in this house!' he cried. + +'The taed may tell the poddock (frog) what the rottan (rat) did i' +the taed's hole, my lord,' said MacGregor, whom independence, +honesty, bile, and drink combined to render fearless. + +Lord Sandy left the room without another word. His factor took his +hat and followed him. The rest dropped into their seats in silence. +Mr. Lammie was the first to speak. + +'There's a pliskie!' he said. + +'I cud jist say the word efter auld Simeon,' said MacGregor. + +'I never thocht to be sae favoured! Eh! but I hae langed, and noo I +hae spoken!' with which words he sat down, contented. + +When Mr. Cocker overtook his master, as MacGregor had not unfitly +styled him, he only got a damning for his pains, and went home +considerably crestfallen. + +Lord Rothie returned to the landlady in her parlour. + +'What's the maitter wi' ye, my lord? What's vexed ye?' asked Miss +Napier, with a twinkle in her eyes, for she thought, from the +baron's mortification, he must have received some rebuff, and now +that the bonnie leddy was safe at Captain Forsyth's, enjoyed the +idea of it. + +'Ye keep an ill-tongued hoose, Miss Naper,' answered his lordship. + +Miss Napier guessed at the truth at once--that he had overheard some +free remarks on his well-known licence of behaviour. + +'Weel, my lord, I do my best. A body canna keep an inn and speir +the carritchis (catechism) at the door o' 't. But I believe ye're +i' the richt, my lord, for I heard an awfu' aff-gang o' sweirin' i' +the yard, jist afore yer lordship cam' in. An' noo' 'at I think o' +'t, it wasna that onlike yer lordship's ain word.' + +Lord Sandy broke into a loud laugh. He could enjoy a joke against +himself when it came from a woman, and was founded on such a trifle +as a personal vice. + +'I think I'll go to bed,' he said when his laugh was over. 'I +believe it's the only safe place from your tongue, Miss Naper.' + +'Letty,' cried Miss Napier, 'fess a can'le, and show his lordship to +the reid room.' + +Till Miss Letty appeared, the baron sat and stretched himself. He +then rose and followed her into the archway, and up an outside stair +to a door which opened immediately upon a handsome old-fashioned +room, where a blazing fire lighted up the red hangings. Miss Letty +set down the candle, and bidding his lordship good night, turned and +left the room, shutting the door, and locking it behind her--a +proceeding of which his lordship took no notice, for, however +especially suitable it might be in his case, it was only, from +whatever ancient source derived, the custom of the house in regard +to this particular room and a corresponding chamber on the opposite +side of the archway. + +Meantime the consternation amongst the members of the club was not +so great as not to be talked over, or to prevent the call for more +whisky and hot water. All but MacGregor, however, regretted what +had occurred. He was so elevated with his victory and a sense of +courage and prowess, that he became more and more facetious and +overbearing. + +'It's all very well for you, Mr. MacGregor,' said the dominie, with +dignity: 'you have nothing to lose.' + +'Troth! he canna brak the bank--eh, Mr. Tamson?' + +'He may give me a hint to make you withdraw your money, though, Mr. +MacGregor.' + +'De'il care gin I do!' returned the weaver. 'I can mak' better o' 't +ony day.' + +'But there's yer hoose an' kailyard,' suggested Peddie. + +'They're ma ain!--a' ma ain! He canna lay 's finger on onything o' +mine but my servan' lass,' cried the weaver, slapping his +thigh-bone--for there was little else to slap. + +Meg, at the moment, was taking her exit-glance. She went straight +to Miss Napier. + +'Willie MacGregor's had eneuch, mem, an' a drappy ower.' + +'Sen' Caumill doon to Mrs. MacGregor to say wi' my compliments that +she wad do weel to sen' for him,' was the response. + +Meantime he grew more than troublesome. Ever on the outlook, when +sober, after the foibles of others, he laid himself open to endless +ridicule when in drink, which, to tell the truth, was a rare +occurrence. He was in the midst of a prophetic denunciation of the +vices of the nobility, and especially of Lord Rothie, when Meg, +entering the room, went quietly behind his chair and whispered: + +'Maister MacGregor, there's a lassie come for ye.' + +'I'm nae in,' he answered, magnificently. + +'But it's the mistress 'at's sent for ye. Somebody's wantin' ye.' + +'Somebody maun want me, than.--As I was sayin', Mr. Cheerman and +gentlemen--' + +'Mistress MacGregor 'll be efter ye hersel', gin ye dinna gang,' +said Meg. + +'Let her come. Duv ye think I'm fleyt at her? De'il a step 'll I +gang till I please. Tell her that, Meg.' + +Meg left the room, with a broad grin on her good-humoured face. + +'What's the bitch lauchin' at?' exclaimed MacGregor, starting to his +feet. + +The whole company rose likewise, using their endeavour to persuade +him to go home. + +'Duv ye think I'm drunk, sirs? I'll lat ye ken I'm no drunk. I hae +a wull o' mine ain yet. Am I to gang hame wi' a lassie to haud me +oot o' the gutters? Gin ye daur to alloo that I'm drunk, ye ken hoo +ye'll fare, for de'il a fit 'll I gang oot o' this till I hae +anither tum'ler.' + +'I'm thinkin' there's mair o' 's jist want ane mair,' said Peddie. + +A confirmatory murmur arose as each looked into the bottom of his +tumbler, and the bell was instantly rung. But it only brought Meg +back with the message that it was time for them all to go home. +Every eye turned upon MacGregor reproachfully. + +'Ye needna luik at me that gait, sirs. I'm no fou,' said he. + +''Deed no. Naebody taks ye to be,' answered the chairman. 'Meggie, +there's naebody's had ower muckle yet, and twa or three o' 's hasna +had freely eneuch. Jist gang an' fess a mutchkin mair. An' +there'll be a shillin' to yersel', lass.' + +Meg retired, but straightway returned. + +'Miss Naper says there's no a drap mair drink to be had i' this +hoose the nicht.' + +'Here, Meggie,' said the chairman, 'there's yer shillin'; and ye +jist gang to Miss Lettie, and gie her my compliments, and say that +Mr. Lammie's here, and we haena seen him for a lang time. And'--the +rest was spoken in a whisper--'I'll sweir to ye, Meggie, the weyver +body sanna hae ae drap o' 't.' + +Meg withdrew once more, and returned. + +'Miss Letty's compliments, sir, and Miss Naper has the keys, and +she's gane till her bed, and we maunna disturb her. And it's time +'at a' honest fowk was in their beds tu. And gin Mr. Lammie wants a +bed i' this hoose, he maun gang till 't. An' here's his can'le. +Gude nicht to ye a', gentlemen.' + +So saying, Meg set the lighted candle on the sideboard, and finally +vanished. The good-tempered, who formed the greater part of the +company, smiled to each other, and emptied the last drops of their +toddy first into their glasses, and thence into their mouths. The +ill-tempered, numbering but one more than MacGregor, growled and +swore a little, the weaver declaring that he would not go home. But +the rest walked out and left him, and at last, appalled by the +silence, he rose with his wig awry, and trotted--he always trotted +when he was tipsy--home to his wife. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +MRS. FALCONER. + +Meantime Robert was seated in the parlour at the little dark +mahogany table, in which the lamp, shaded towards his grandmother's +side, shone brilliantly reflected. Her face being thus hidden both +by the light and the shadow, he could not observe the keen look of +stern benevolence with which, knowing that he could not see her, she +regarded him as he ate his thick oat-cake of Betty's skilled +manufacture, well loaded with the sweetest butter, and drank the tea +which she had poured out and sugared for him with liberal hand. It +was a comfortable little room, though its inlaid mahogany chairs and +ancient sofa, covered with horsehair, had a certain look of +hardness, no doubt. A shepherdess and lamb, worked in silks whose +brilliance had now faded half-way to neutrality, hung in a black +frame, with brass rosettes at the corners, over the +chimney-piece--the sole approach to the luxury of art in the homely +little place. Besides the muslin stretched across the lower part of +the window, it was undefended by curtains. There was no cat in the +room, nor was there one in the kitchen even; for Mrs. Falconer had +such a respect for humanity that she grudged every morsel consumed +by the lower creation. She sat in one of the arm-chairs belonging +to the hairy set, leaning back in contemplation of her grandson, as +she took her tea. + +She was a handsome old lady--little, but had once been taller, for +she was more than seventy now. She wore a plain cap of muslin, +lying close to her face, and bordered a little way from the edge +with a broad black ribbon, which went round her face, and then, +turning at right angles, went round the back of her neck. Her gray +hair peeped a little way from under this cap. A clear but +short-sighted eye of a light hazel shone under a smooth thoughtful +forehead; a straight and well-elevated, but rather short nose, which +left the firm upper lip long and capable of expressing a world of +dignified offence, rose over a well-formed mouth, revealing more +moral than temperamental sweetness; while the chin was rather +deficient than otherwise, and took little share in indicating the +remarkable character possessed by the old lady. + +After gazing at Robert for some time, she took a piece of oat-cake +from a plate by her side, the only luxury in which she indulged, for +it was made with cream instead of water--it was very little she ate +of anything--and held it out to Robert in a hand white, soft, and +smooth, but with square finger tips, and squat though pearly nails. +'Ha'e, Robert,' she said; and Robert received it with a 'Thank you, +grannie'; but when he thought she did not see him, slipped it under +the table and into his pocket. She saw him well enough, however, +and although she would not condescend to ask him why he put it away +instead of eating it, the endeavour to discover what could have been +his reason for so doing cost her two hours of sleep that night. She +would always be at the bottom of a thing if reflection could reach +it, but she generally declined taking the most ordinary measures to +expedite the process. + +When Robert had finished his tea, instead of rising to get his books +and betake himself to his lessons, in regard to which his +grandmother had seldom any cause to complain, although she would +have considered herself guilty of high treason against the boy's +future if she had allowed herself once to acknowledge as much, he +drew his chair towards the fire, and said: + +'Grandmamma!' + +'He's gaein' to tell me something,' said Mrs. Falconer to herself. +'Will 't be aboot the puir barfut crater they ca' Shargar, or will +'t be aboot the piece he pat intil 's pooch?' + +'Weel, laddie?' she said aloud, willing to encourage him. + +'Is 't true that my gran'father was the blin' piper o' Portcloddie?' + +'Ay, laddie; true eneuch. Hoots, na! nae yer grandfather, but yer +father's grandfather, laddie--my husband's father.' + +'Hoo cam that aboot?' + +'Weel, ye see, he was oot i' the Forty-five; and efter the battle o' +Culloden, he had to rin for 't. He wasna wi' his ain clan at the +battle, for his father had broucht him to the Lawlands whan he was a +lad; but he played the pipes till a reg'ment raised by the Laird o' +Portcloddie. And for ooks (weeks) he had to hide amo' the rocks. +And they tuik a' his property frae him. It wasna muckle--a wheen +hooses, and a kailyard or twa, wi' a bit fairmy on the tap o' a +cauld hill near the sea-shore; but it was eneuch and to spare; and +whan they tuik it frae him, he had naething left i' the warl' but +his sons. Yer grandfather was born the verra day o' the battle, and +the verra day 'at the news cam, the mother deed. But yer great +grandfather wasna lang or he merried anither wife. He was sic a man +as ony woman micht hae been prood to merry. She was the dother +(daughter) o' an episcopalian minister, and she keepit a school in +Portcloddie. I saw him first mysel' whan I was aboot twenty--that +was jist the year afore I was merried. He was a gey (considerably) +auld man than, but as straucht as an ellwand, and jist pooerfu' +beyon' belief. His shackle-bane (wrist) was as thick as baith mine; +and years and years efter that, whan he tuik his son, my husband, +and his grandson, my Anerew--' + +'What ails ye, grannie? What for dinna ye gang on wi' the story?' + +After a somewhat lengthened pause, Mrs. Falconer resumed as if she +had not stopped at all. + +'Ane in ilka han', jist for the fun o' 't, he kneipit their heids +thegither, as gin they hed been twa carldoddies (stalks of +ribgrass). But maybe it was the lauchin' o' the twa lads, for they +thocht it unco fun. They were maist killed wi' lauchin'. But the +last time he did it, the puir auld man hostit (coughed) sair +efterhin, and had to gang and lie doon. He didna live lang efter +that. But it wasna that 'at killed him, ye ken.' + +'But hoo cam he to play the pipes?' + +'He likit the pipes. And yer grandfather, he tuik to the fiddle.' + +'But what for did they ca' him the blin' piper o' Portcloddie?' + +'Because he turned blin' lang afore his en' cam, and there was +naething ither he cud do. And he wad aye mak an honest baubee whan +he cud; for siller was fell scarce at that time o' day amo' the +Falconers. Sae he gaed throu the toon at five o'clock ilka mornin' +playin' his pipes, to lat them 'at war up ken they war up in time, +and them 'at warna, that it was time to rise. And syne he played +them again aboot aucht o'clock at nicht, to lat them ken 'at it was +time for dacent fowk to gang to their beds. Ye see, there wasna sae +mony clocks and watches by half than as there is noo.' + +'Was he a guid piper, grannie?' + +'What for speir ye that?' + +'Because I tauld that sunk, Lumley--' + +'Ca' naebody names, Robert. But what richt had ye to be speikin' to +a man like that?' + +'He spak to me first.' + +'Whaur saw ye him?' + +'At The Boar's Heid.' + +'And what richt had ye to gang stan'in' aboot? Ye oucht to ha' gane +in at ance.' + +'There was a half-dizzen o' fowk stan'in' aboot, and I bude +(behoved) to speik whan I was spoken till.' + +'But ye budena stop an' mak' ae fule mair.' + +'Isna that ca'in' names, grannie?' + +''Deed, laddie, I doobt ye hae me there. But what said the fallow +Lumley to ye?' + +'He cast up to me that my grandfather was naething but a blin' +piper.' + +'And what said ye?' + +'I daured him to say 'at he didna pipe weel.' + +'Weel dune, laddie! And ye micht say 't wi' a gude conscience, for +he wadna hae been piper till 's regiment at the battle o' Culloden +gin he hadna pipit weel. Yon's his kilt hingin' up i' the press i' +the garret. Ye'll hae to grow, Robert, my man, afore ye fill that.' + +'And whase was that blue coat wi' the bonny gowd buttons upo' 't?' +asked Robert, who thought he had discovered a new approach to an +impregnable hold, which he would gladly storm if he could. + +'Lat the coat sit. What has that to do wi' the kilt? A blue coat +and a tartan kilt gang na weel thegither.' + +'Excep' in an auld press whaur naebody sees them. Ye wadna care, +grannie, wad ye, gin I was to cut aff the bonnie buttons?' + +'Dinna lay a finger upo' them. Ye wad be gaein' playin' at pitch +and toss or ither sic ploys wi' them. Na, na, lat them sit.' + +'I wad only niffer them for bools (exchange them for marbles).' + +'I daur ye to touch the coat or onything 'ither that's i' that +press.' + +'Weel, weel, grannie. I s' gang and get my lessons for the morn.' + +'It's time, laddie. Ye hae been jabberin' ower muckle. Tell Betty +to come and tak' awa' the tay-things.' + +Robert went to the kitchen, got a couple of hot potatoes and a +candle, and carried them up-stairs to Shargar, who was fast asleep. +But the moment the light shone upon his face, he started up, with +his eyes, if not his senses, wide awake. + +'It wasna me, mither! I tell ye it wasna me!' + +And he covered his head with both arms, as if to defend it from a +shower of blows. + +'Haud yer tongue, Shargar. It's me.' + +But before Shargar could come to his senses, the light of the candle +falling upon the blue coat made the buttons flash confused +suspicions into his mind. + +'Mither, mither,' he said, 'ye hae gane ower far this time. There's +ower mony o' them, and they're no the safe colour. We'll be baith +hangt, as sure's there's a deevil in hell.' + +As he said thus, he went on trying to pick the buttons from the +coat, taking them for sovereigns, though how he could have seen a +sovereign at that time in Scotland I can only conjecture. But +Robert caught him by the shoulders, and shook him awake with no +gentle hands, upon which he began to rub his eyes, and mutter +sleepily: + +'Is that you, Bob? I hae been dreamin', I doobt.' + +'Gin ye dinna learn to dream quaieter, ye'll get you and me tu into +mair trouble nor I care to hae aboot ye, ye rascal. Haud the tongue +o' ye, and eat this tawtie, gin ye want onything mair. And here's a +bit o' reamy cakes tu ye. Ye winna get that in ilka hoose i' the +toon. It's my grannie's especial.' + +Robert felt relieved after this, for he had eaten all the cakes Miss +Napier had given him, and had had a pain in his conscience ever +since. + +'Hoo got ye a haud o' 't?' asked Shargar, evidently supposing he had +stolen it. + +'She gies me a bit noo and than.' + +'And ye didna eat it yersel'? Eh, Bob!' + +Shargar was somewhat overpowered at this fresh proof of Robert's +friendship. But Robert was still more ashamed of what he had not +done. + +He took the blue coat carefully from the bed, and hung it in its +place again, satisfied now, from the way his grannie had spoken, or, +rather, declined to speak, about it, that it had belonged to his +father. + +'Am I to rise?' asked Shargar, not understanding the action. + +'Na, na, lie still. Ye'll be warm eneuch wantin' thae sovereigns. +I'll lat ye oot i' the mornin' afore grannie's up. And ye maun +mak' the best o't efter that till it's dark again. We'll sattle a' +aboot it at the schuil the morn. Only we maun be circumspec', ye +ken.' + +'Ye cudna lay yer han's upo' a drap o' whusky, cud ye, Bob?' + +Robert stared in horror. A boy like that asking for whisky! and in +his grandmother's house, too! + +'Shargar,' he said solemnly, 'there's no a drap o' whusky i' this +hoose. It's awfu' to hear ye mention sic a thing. My grannie wad +smell the verra name o' 't a mile awa'. I doobt that's her fit upo' +the stair a'ready.' + +Robert crept to the door, and Shargar sat staring with horror, his +eyes looking from the gloom of the bed like those of a +half-strangled dog. But it was a false alarm, as Robert presently +returned to announce. + +'Gin ever ye sae muckle as mention whusky again, no to say drink ae +drap o' 't, you and me pairt company, and that I tell you, Shargar,' +said he, emphatically. + +'I'll never luik at it; I'll never mint at dreamin' o' 't,' answered +Shargar, coweringly. 'Gin she pits 't intil my moo', I'll spit it +oot. But gin ye strive wi' me, Bob, I'll cut my throat--I will; an' +that'll be seen and heard tell o'.' + +All this time, save during the alarm of Mrs. Falconer's approach, +when he sat with a mouthful of hot potato, unable to move his jaws +for terror, and the remnant arrested half-way in its progress from +his mouth after the bite--all this time Shargar had been devouring +the provisions Robert had brought him, as if he had not seen food +that day. As soon as they were finished, he begged for a drink of +water, which Robert managed to procure for him. He then left him +for the night, for his longer absence might have brought his +grandmother after him, who had perhaps only too good reasons for +being doubtful, if not suspicious, about boys in general, though +certainly not about Robert in particular. He carried with him his +books from the other garret-room where he kept them, and sat down at +the table by his grandmother, preparing his Latin and geography by +her lamp, while she sat knitting a white stocking with fingers as +rapid as thought, never looking at her work, but staring into the +fire, and seeing visions there which Robert would have given +everything he could call his own to see, and then would have given +his life to blot out of the world if he had seen them. Quietly the +evening passed, by the peaceful lamp and the cheerful fire, with the +Latin on the one side of the table, and the stocking on the other, +as if ripe and purified old age and hopeful unstained youth had been +the only extremes of humanity known to the world. But the bitter +wind was howling by fits in the chimney, and the offspring of a +nobleman and a gipsy lay asleep in the garret, covered with the +cloak of an old Highland rebel. + +At nine o'clock, Mrs. Falconer rang the bell for Betty, and they had +worship. Robert read a chapter, and his grandmother prayed an +extempore prayer, in which they that looked at the wine when it was +red in the cup, and they that worshipped the woman clothed in +scarlet and seated upon the seven hills, came in for a strange +mixture, in which the vengeance yielded only to the pity. + +'Lord, lead them to see the error of their ways,' she cried. 'Let +the rod of thy wrath awake the worm of their conscience that they +may know verily that there is a God that ruleth in the earth. Dinna +lat them gang to hell, O Lord, we beseech thee.' + +As soon as prayers were over, Robert had a tumbler of milk and some +more oat-cake, and was sent to bed; after which it was impossible +for him to hold any further communication with Shargar. For his +grandmother, little as one might suspect it who entered the parlour +in the daytime, always slept in that same room, in a bed closed in +with doors like those of a large press in the wall, while Robert +slept in a little closet, looking into a garden at the back of the +house, the door of which opened from the parlour close to the head +of his grandmother's bed. It was just large enough to hold a +good-sized bed with curtains, a chest of drawers, a bureau, a large +eight-day clock, and one chair, leaving in the centre about five +feet square for him to move about in. There was more room as well +as more comfort in the bed. He was never allowed a candle, for +light enough came through from the parlour, his grandmother thought; +so he was soon extended between the whitest of cold sheets, with his +knees up to his chin, and his thoughts following his lost father +over all spaces of the earth with which his geography-book had made +him acquainted. + +He was in the habit of leaving his closet and creeping through his +grandmother's room before she was awake--or at least before she had +given any signs to the small household that she was restored to +consciousness, and that the life of the house must proceed. He +therefore found no difficulty in liberating Shargar from his prison, +except what arose from the boy's own unwillingness to forsake his +comfortable quarters for the fierce encounter of the January blast +which awaited him. But Robert did not turn him out before the last +moment of safety had arrived; for, by the aid of signs known to +himself, he watched the progress of his grandmother's dressing--an +operation which did not consume much of the morning, scrupulous as +she was with regard to neatness and cleanliness--until Betty was +called in to give her careful assistance to the final disposition of +the mutch, when Shargar's exit could be delayed no longer. Then he +mounted to the foot of the second stair, and called in a keen +whisper, + +'Noo, Shargar, cut for the life o' ye.' + +And down came the poor fellow, with long gliding steps, ragged and +reluctant, and, without a word or a look, launched himself out into +the cold, and sped away he knew not whither. As he left the door, +the only suspicion of light was the dull and doubtful shimmer of the +snow that covered the street, keen particles of which were blown in +his face by the wind, which, having been up all night, had grown +very cold, and seemed delighted to find one unprotected human being +whom it might badger at its own bitter will. Outcast Shargar! +Where he spent the interval between Mrs. Falconer's door and that +of the school, I do not know. There was a report amongst his +school-fellows that he had been found by Scroggie, the fish-cadger, +lying at full length upon the back of his old horse, which, either +from compassion or indifference, had not cared to rise up under the +burden. They said likewise that, when accused by Scroggie of +housebreaking, though nothing had to be broken to get in, only a +string with a peculiar knot, on the invention of which the cadger +prided himself, to be undone, all that Shargar had to say in his +self-defence was, that he had a terrible sair wame, and that the +horse was warmer nor the stanes i' the yard; and he had dune him nae +ill, nae even drawn a hair frae his tail--which would have been a +difficult feat, seeing the horse's tail was as bare as his hoof. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +ROBERT TO THE RESCUE! + +That Shargar was a parish scholar--which means that the parish paid +his fees, although, indeed, they were hardly worth paying--made very +little difference to his position amongst his school-fellows. Nor +did the fact of his being ragged and dirty affect his social +reception to his discomfort. But the accumulated facts of the +oddity of his personal appearance, his supposed imbecility, and the +bad character borne by his mother, placed him in a very unenviable +relation to the tyrannical and vulgar-minded amongst them. +Concerning his person, he was long, and, as his name implied, lean, +with pale-red hair, reddish eyes, no visible eyebrows or eyelashes, +and very pale face--in fact, he was half-way to an Albino. His arms +and legs seemed of equal length, both exceedingly long. The +handsomeness of his mother appeared only in his nose and mouth, +which were regular and good, though expressionless; and the birth of +his father only in his small delicate hands and feet, of which any +girl who cared only for smallness, and heeded neither character nor +strength, might have been proud. His feet, however, were supposed +to be enormous, from the difficulty with which he dragged after him +the huge shoes in which in winter they were generally encased. + +The imbecility, like the large feet, was only imputed. He certainly +was not brilliant, but neither did he make a fool of himself in any +of the few branches of learning of which the parish-scholar came in +for a share. That which gained him the imputation was the fact that +his nature was without a particle of the aggressive, and all its +defensive of as purely negative a character as was possible. Had he +been a dog, he would never have thought of doing anything for his +own protection beyond turning up his four legs in silent appeal to +the mercy of the heavens. He was an absolute sepulchre in the +swallowing of oppression and ill-usage. It vanished in him. There +was no echo of complaint, no murmur of resentment from the hollows +of that soul. The blows that fell upon him resounded not, and no +one but God remembered them. + +His mother made her living as she herself best knew, with occasional +well-begrudged assistance from the parish. Her chief resource was +no doubt begging from house to house for the handful of oatmeal +which was the recognized, and, in the court of custom-taught +conscience, the legalized dole upon which every beggar had a claim; +and if she picked up at the same time a chicken, or a boy's rabbit, +or any other stray luxury, she was only following the general rule +of society, that your first duty is to take care of yourself. She +was generally regarded as a gipsy, but I doubt if she had any gipsy +blood in her veins. She was simply a tramper, with occasional fits +of localization. Her worst fault was the way she treated her son, +whom she starved apparently that she might continue able to beat +him. + +The particular occasion which led to the recognition of the growing +relation between Robert and Shargar was the following. Upon a +certain Saturday--some sidereal power inimical to boys must have +been in the ascendant--a Saturday of brilliant but intermittent +sunshine, the white clouds seen from the school windows indicating +by their rapid transit across those fields of vision that fresh +breezes friendly to kites, or draigons, as they were called at +Rothieden, were frolicking in the upper regions--nearly a dozen boys +were kept in for not being able to pay down from memory the usual +instalment of Shorter Catechism always due at the close of the week. +Amongst these boys were Robert and Shargar. Sky-revealing windows +and locked door were too painful; and in proportion as the feeling +of having nothing to do increased, the more uneasy did the active +element in the boys become, and the more ready to break out into +some abnormal manifestation. Everything--sun, wind, clouds--was +busy out of doors, and calling to them to come and join the fun; and +activity at the same moment excited and restrained naturally turns +to mischief. Most of them had already learned the obnoxious +task--one quarter of an hour was enough for that--and now what +should they do next? The eyes of three or four of the eldest of +them fell simultaneously upon Shargar. + +Robert was sitting plunged in one of his day-dreams, for he, too, +had learned his catechism, when he was roused from his reverie by a +question from a pale-faced little boy, who looked up to him as a +great authority. + +'What for 's 't ca'd the Shorter Carritchis, Bob?' + +''Cause it's no fully sae lang's the Bible,' answered Robert, +without giving the question the consideration due to it, and was +proceeding to turn the matter over in his mind, when the mental +process was arrested by a shout of laughter. The other boys had +tied Shargar's feet to the desk at which he sat--likewise his hands, +at full stretch; then, having attached about a dozen strings to as +many elf-locks of his pale-red hair, which was never cut or trimmed, +had tied them to various pegs in the wall behind him, so that the +poor fellow could not stir. They were now crushing up pieces of +waste-paper, not a few leaves of stray school-books being regarded +in that light, into bullets, dipping them in ink and aiming then at +Shargar's face. + +For some time Shargar did not utter a word; and Robert, although +somewhat indignant at the treatment he was receiving, felt as yet no +impulse to interfere, for success was doubtful. But, indeed, he was +not very easily roused to action of any kind; for he was as yet +mostly in the larva-condition of character, when everything is +transacted inside. But the fun grew more furious, and spot after +spot of ink gloomed upon Shargar's white face. Still Robert took no +notice, for they did not seem to be hurting him much. But when he +saw the tears stealing down his patient cheeks, making channels +through the ink which now nearly covered them, he could bear it no +longer. He took out his knife, and under pretence of joining in the +sport, drew near to Shargar, and with rapid hand cut the cords--all +but those that bound his feet, which were less easy to reach without +exposing himself defenceless. + +The boys of course turned upon Robert. But ere they came to more +than abusive words a diversion took place. + +Mrs. Innes, the school-master's wife--a stout, kind-hearted woman, +the fine condition of whose temperament was clearly the result of +her physical prosperity--appeared at the door which led to the +dwelling-house above, bearing in her hands a huge tureen of +potato-soup, for her motherly heart could not longer endure the +thought of dinnerless boys. Her husband being engaged at a parish +meeting, she had a chance of interfering with success. + +But ere Nancy, the servant, could follow with the spoons and plates, +Wattie Morrison had taken the tureen, and out of spite at Robert, +had emptied its contents on the head of Shargar, who was still tied +by the feet, with the words: 'Shargar, I anoint thee king over us, +and here is thy crown,' giving the tureen, as he said so, a push on +to his head, where it remained. + +Shargar did not move, and for one moment could not speak, but the +next he gave a shriek that made Robert think he was far worse +scalded than turned out to be the case. He darted to him in rage, +took the tureen from his head, and, his blood being fairly up now, +flung it with all his force at Morrison, and felled him to the +earth. At the same moment the master entered by the street door and +his wife by the house door, which was directly opposite. In the +middle of the room the prisoners surrounded the fallen +tyrant--Robert, with the red face of wrath, and Shargar, with a +complexion the mingled result of tears, ink, and soup, which latter +clothed him from head to foot besides, standing on the outskirts of +the group. I need not follow the story farther. Both Robert and +Morrison got a lickin'; and if Mr. Innes had been like some +school-masters of those times, Shargar would not have escaped his +share of the evil things going. + +>From that day Robert assumed the acknowledged position of Shargar's +defender. And if there was pride and a sense of propriety mingled +with his advocacy of Shargar's rights, nay, even if the relation was +not altogether free from some amount of show-off on Robert's part, I +cannot yet help thinking that it had its share in that development +of the character of Falconer which has chiefly attracted me to the +office of his biographer. There may have been in it the exercise of +some patronage; probably it was not pure from the pride of +beneficence; but at least it was a loving patronage and a vigorous +beneficence; and, under the reaction of these, the good which in +Robert's nature was as yet only in a state of solution, began to +crystallize into character. + +But the effect of the new relation was far more remarkable on +Shargar. As incapable of self-defence as ever, he was yet in a +moment roused to fury by any attack upon the person or the dignity +of Robert: so that, indeed, it became a new and favourite mode of +teasing Shargar to heap abuse, real or pretended, upon his friend. +>From the day when Robert thus espoused his part, Shargar was +Robert's dog. That very evening, when she went to take a parting +peep at the external before locking the door for the night, Betty +found him sitting upon the door-step, only, however, to send him +off, as she described it, 'wi' a flech1 in 's lug (a flea in his +ear).' For the character of the mother was always associated with +the boy, and avenged upon him. I must, however, allow that those +delicate, dirty fingers of his could not with safety be warranted +from occasional picking and stealing. + +At this period of my story, Robert himself was rather a +grotesque-looking animal, very tall and lanky, with especially long +arms, which excess of length they retained after he was full-grown. +In this respect Shargar and he were alike; but the long legs of +Shargar were unmatched in Robert, for at this time his body was +peculiarly long. He had large black eyes, deep sunk even then, and +a Roman nose, the size of which in a boy of his years looked +portentous. For the rest, he was dark-complexioned, with dark hair, +destined to grow darker still, with hands and feet well modelled, +but which would have made four feet and four hands such as +Shargar's. + +When his mind was not oppressed with the consideration of any +important metaphysical question, he learned his lessons well; when +such was present, the Latin grammar, with all its attendant +servilities, was driven from the presence of the lordly need. That +once satisfied in spite of pandies and imprisonments, he returned +with fresh zest, and, indeed, with some ephemeral ardour, to the +rules of syntax or prosody, though the latter, in the mode in which +it was then and there taught, was almost as useless as the task set +himself by a worthy lay-preacher in the neighbourhood--of learning +the first nine chapters of the first Book of the Chronicles, in +atonement for having, in an evil hour of freedom of spirit, ventured +to suggest that such lists of names, even although forming a portion +of Holy Writ, could scarcely be reckoned of equally divine authority +with St. Paul's Epistle to the Romans. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +THE ANGEL UNAWARES. + +Although Betty seemed to hold little communication with the outer +world, she yet contrived somehow or other to bring home what gossip +was going to the ears of her mistress, who had very few visitors; +for, while her neighbours held Mrs. Falconer in great and evident +respect, she was not the sort of person to sit down and have a news +with. There was a certain sedate self-contained dignity about her +which the common mind felt to be chilling and repellant; and from +any gossip of a personal nature--what Betty brought her always +excepted--she would turn away, generally with the words, 'Hoots! I +canna bide clashes.' + +On the evening following that of Shargar's introduction to Mrs. +Falconer's house, Betty came home from the butcher's--for it was +Saturday night, and she had gone to fetch the beef for their +Sunday's broth--with the news that the people next door, that is, +round the corner in the next street, had a visitor. + +The house in question had been built by Robert's father, and was, +compared with Mrs. Falconer's one-storey house, large and handsome. +Robert had been born, and had spent a few years of his life in it, +but could recall nothing of the facts of those early days. Some +time before the period at which my history commences it had passed +into other hands, and it was now quite strange to him. It had been +bought by a retired naval officer, who lived in it with his +wife--the only Englishwoman in the place, until the arrival, at The +Boar's Head, of the lady so much admired by Dooble Sanny. + +Robert was up-stairs when Betty emptied her news-bag, and so heard +nothing of this bit of gossip. He had just assured Shargar that as +soon as his grandmother was asleep he would look about for what he +could find, and carry it up to him in the garret. As yet he had +confined the expenditure out of Shargar's shilling to twopence. + +The household always retired early--earlier on Saturday night in +preparation for the Sabbath--and by ten o'clock grannie and Betty +were in bed. Robert, indeed, was in bed too; but he had lain down +in his clothes, waiting for such time as might afford reasonable +hope of his grandmother being asleep, when he might both ease +Shargar's hunger and get to sleep himself. Several times he got up, +resolved to make his attempt; but as often his courage failed and he +lay down again, sure that grannie could not be asleep yet. When the +clock beside him struck eleven, he could bear it no longer, and +finally rose to do his endeavour. + +Opening the door of the closet slowly and softly, he crept upon his +hands and knees into the middle of the parlour, feeling very much +like a thief, as, indeed, in a measure he was, though from a +blameless motive. But just as he had accomplished half the distance +to the door, he was arrested and fixed with terror; for a deep sigh +came from grannie's bed, followed by the voice of words. He thought +at first that she had heard him, but he soon found that he was +mistaken. Still, the fear of discovery held him there on all fours, +like a chained animal. A dull red gleam, faint and dull, from the +embers of the fire, was the sole light in the room. Everything so +common to his eyes in the daylight seemed now strange and eerie in +the dying coals, and at what was to the boy the unearthly hour of +the night. + +He felt that he ought not to listen to grannie, but terror made him +unable to move. + +'Och hone! och hone!' said grannie from the bed. 'I've a sair, sair +hert. I've a sair hert i' my breist, O Lord! thoo knowest. My ain +Anerew! To think o' my bairnie that I cairriet i' my ain body, that +sookit my breists, and leuch i' my face--to think o' 'im bein' a +reprobate! O Lord! cudna he be eleckit yet? Is there nae turnin' +o' thy decrees? Na, na; that wadna do at a'. But while there's +life there's houp. But wha kens whether he be alive or no? Naebody +can tell. Glaidly wad I luik upon 's deid face gin I cud believe +that his sowl wasna amang the lost. But eh! the torments o' that +place! and the reik that gangs up for ever an' ever, smorin' +(smothering) the stars! And my Anerew doon i' the hert o' 't +cryin'! And me no able to win till him! O Lord! I canna say thy +will be done. But dinna lay 't to my chairge; for gin ye was a +mither yersel' ye wadna pit him there. O Lord! I'm verra +ill-fashioned. I beg yer pardon. I'm near oot o' my min'. Forgie +me, O Lord! for I hardly ken what I'm sayin'. He was my ain babe, +my ain Anerew, and ye gae him to me yersel'. And noo he's for the +finger o' scorn to pint at; an ootcast an' a wan'erer frae his ain +country, an' daurna come within sicht o' 't for them 'at wad tak' +the law o' 'm. An' it's a' drink--drink an' ill company! He wad +hae dune weel eneuch gin they wad only hae latten him be. What for +maun men be aye drink-drinkin' at something or ither? I never want +it. Eh! gin I war as young as whan he was born, I wad be up an' +awa' this verra nicht to luik for him. But it's no use me tryin' +'t. O God! ance mair I pray thee to turn him frae the error o' 's +ways afore he goes hence an' isna more. And O dinna lat Robert gang +efter him, as he's like eneuch to do. Gie me grace to haud him +ticht, that he may be to the praise o' thy glory for ever an' ever. +Amen.' + +Whether it was that the weary woman here fell asleep, or that she +was too exhausted for further speech, Robert heard no more, though +he remained there frozen with horror for some minutes after his +grandmother had ceased. This, then, was the reason why she would +never speak about his father! She kept all her thoughts about him +for the silence of the night, and loneliness with the God who never +sleeps, but watches the wicked all through the dark. And his father +was one of the wicked! And God was against him! And when he died +he would go to hell! But he was not dead yet: Robert was sure of +that. And when he grew a man, he would go and seek him, and beg him +on his knees to repent and come back to God, who would forgive him +then, and take him to heaven when he died. And there he would be +good, and good people would love him. + +Something like this passed through the boy's mind ere he moved to +creep from the room, for his was one of those natures which are +active in the generation of hope. He had almost forgotten what he +came there for; and had it not been that he had promised Shargar, he +would have crept back to his bed and left him to bear his hunger as +best he could. But now, first his right hand, then his left knee, +like any other quadruped, he crawled to the door, rose only to his +knees to open it, took almost a minute to the operation, then +dropped and crawled again, till he had passed out, turned, and drawn +the door to, leaving it slightly ajar. Then it struck him awfully +that the same terrible passage must be gone through again. But he +rose to his feet, for he had no shoes on, and there was little +danger of making any noise, although it was pitch dark--he knew the +house so well. With gathering courage, he felt his way to the +kitchen, and there groped about; but he could find nothing beyond a +few quarters of oat-cake, which, with a mug of water, he proceeded +to carry up to Shargar in the garret. + +When he reached the kitchen door, he was struck with amazement and +for a moment with fresh fear. A light was shining into the transe +from the stair which went up at right angles from the end of it. He +knew it could not be grannie, and he heard Betty snoring in her own +den, which opened from the kitchen. He thought it must be Shargar +who had grown impatient; but how he had got hold of a light he could +not think. As soon as he turned the corner, however, the doubt was +changed into mystery. At the top of the broad low stair stood a +woman-form with a candle in her hand, gazing about her as if +wondering which way to go. The light fell full upon her face, the +beauty of which was such that, with her dress, which was +white--being, in fact, a nightgown--and her hair, which was hanging +loose about her shoulders and down to her waist, it led Robert at +once to the conclusion (his reasoning faculties already shaken by +the events of the night) that she was an angel come down to comfort +his grannie; and he kneeled involuntarily at the foot of the stair, +and gazed up at her, with the cakes in one hand, and the mug of +water in the other, like a meat-and-drink offering. Whether he had +closed his eyes or bowed his head, he could not say; but he became +suddenly aware that the angel had vanished--he knew not when, how, +or whither. This for a time confirmed his assurance that it was an +angel. And although he was undeceived before long, the impression +made upon him that night was never effaced. But, indeed, whatever +Falconer heard or saw was something more to him than it would have +been to anybody else. + +Elated, though awed, by the vision, he felt his way up the stair in +the new darkness, as if walking in a holy dream, trod as if upon +sacred ground as he crossed the landing where the angel had +stood--went up and up, and found Shargar wide awake with expectant +hunger. He, too, had caught a glimmer of the light. But Robert did +not tell him what he had seen. That was too sacred a subject to +enter upon with Shargar, and he was intent enough upon his supper +not to be inquisitive. + +Robert left him to finish it at his leisure, and returned to cross +his grandmother's room once more, half expecting to find the angel +standing by her bedside. But all was dark and still. Creeping back +as he had come, he heard her quiet, though deep, breathing, and his +mind was at ease about her for the night. What if the angel he had +surprised had only come to appear to grannie in her sleep? Why not? +There were such stories in the Bible, and grannie was certainly as +good as some of the people in the Bible that saw angels--Sarah, for +instance. And if the angels came to see grannie, why should they +not have some care over his father as well? It might be--who could +tell? + +It is perhaps necessary to explain Robert's vision. The angel was +the owner of the boxes he had seen at The Bear's Head. Looking +around her room before going to bed, she had seen a trap in the +floor near the wall, and raising it, had discovered a few steps of a +stair leading down to a door. Curiosity naturally led her to +examine it. The key was in the lock. It opened outwards, and there +she found herself, to her surprise, in the heart of another +dwelling, of lowlier aspect. She never saw Robert; for while he +approached with shoeless feet, she had been glancing through the +open door of the gable-room, and when he knelt, the light which she +held in her hand had, I presume, hidden him from her. He, on his +part, had not observed that the moveless door stood open at last. + +I have already said that the house adjoining had been built by +Robert's father. The lady's room was that which he had occupied +with his wife, and in it Robert had been born. The door, with its +trap-stair, was a natural invention for uniting the levels of the +two houses, and a desirable one in not a few of the forms which the +weather assumed in that region. When the larger house passed into +other hands, it had never entered the minds of the simple people who +occupied the contiguous dwellings, to build up the doorway between. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +A DISCOVERY. + +The friendship of Robert had gained Shargar the favourable notice of +others of the school-public. These were chiefly of those who came +from the country, ready to follow an example set them by a town boy. +When his desertion was known, moved both by their compassion for +him, and their respect for Robert, they began to give him some +portion of the dinner they brought with them; and never in his life +had Shargar fared so well as for the first week after he had been +cast upon the world. But in proportion as their interest faded with +the novelty, so their appetites reasserted former claims of use and +wont, and Shargar began once more to feel the pangs of hunger. For +all that Robert could manage to procure for him without attracting +the attention he was so anxious to avoid, was little more than +sufficient to keep his hunger alive, Shargar being gifted with a +great appetite, and Robert having no allowance of pocket-money from +his grandmother. The threepence he had been able to spend on him +were what remained of sixpence Mr. Innes had given him for an +exercise which he wrote in blank verse instead of in prose--an +achievement of which the school-master was proud, both from his +reverence for Milton, and from his inability to compose a metrical +line himself. And how and when he should ever possess another penny +was even unimaginable. Shargar's shilling was likewise spent. So +Robert could but go on pocketing instead of eating all that he +dared, watching anxiously for opportunity of evading the eyes of his +grandmother. On her dimness of sight, however, he depended too +confidently after all; for either she was not so blind as he thought +she was, or she made up for the defect of her vision by the keenness +of her observation. She saw enough to cause her considerable +annoyance, though it suggested nothing inconsistent with rectitude +on the part of the boy, further than that there was something +underhand going on. One supposition after another arose in the old +lady's brain, and one after another was dismissed as improbable. +First, she tried to persuade herself that he wanted to take the +provisions to school with him, and eat them there--a proceeding of +which she certainly did not approve, but for the reproof of which +she was unwilling to betray the loopholes of her eyes. Next she +concluded, for half a day, that he must have a pair of rabbits +hidden away in some nook or other--possibly in the little strip of +garden belonging to the house. And so conjecture followed +conjecture for a whole week, during which, strange to say, not even +Betty knew that Shargar slept in the house. For so careful and +watchful were the two boys, that although she could not help +suspecting something from the expression and behaviour of Robert, +what that something might be she could not imagine; nor had she and +her mistress as yet exchanged confidences on the subject. Her +observation coincided with that of her mistress as to the +disappearance of odds and ends of eatables--potatoes, cold porridge, +bits of oat-cake; and even, on one occasion, when Shargar happened +to be especially ravenous, a yellow, or cured and half-dried, +haddock, which the lad devoured raw, vanished from her domain. He +went to school in the morning smelling so strong in consequence, +that they told him he must have been passing the night in Scroggie's +cart, and not on his horse's back this time. + +The boys kept their secret well. + +One evening, towards the end of the week, Robert, after seeing +Shargar disposed of for the night, proceeded to carry out a project +which had grown in his brain within the last two days in consequence +of an occurrence with which his relation to Shargar had had +something to do. It was this: + +The housing of Shargar in the garret had led Robert to make a close +acquaintance with the place. He was familiar with all the outs and +ins of the little room which he considered his own, for that was a +civilized, being a plastered, ceiled, and comparatively well-lighted +little room, but not with the other, which was three times its size, +very badly lighted, and showing the naked couples from roof-tree to +floor. Besides, it contained no end of dark corners, with which his +childish imagination had associated undefined horrors, assuming now +one shape, now another. Also there were several closets in it, +constructed in the angles of the place, and several chests--two of +which he had ventured to peep into. But although he had found them +filled, not with bones, as he had expected, but one with papers, and +one with garments, he had yet dared to carry his researches no +further. One evening, however, when Betty was out, and he had got +hold of her candle, and gone up to keep Shargar company for a few +minutes, a sudden impulse seized him to have a peep into all the +closets. One of them he knew a little about, as containing, amongst +other things, his father's coat with the gilt buttons, and his +great-grandfather's kilt, as well as other garments useful to +Shargar: now he would see what was in the rest. He did not find +anything very interesting, however, till he arrived at the last. +Out of it he drew a long queer-shaped box into the light of Betty's +dip. + +'Luik here, Shargar!' he said under his breath, for they never dared +to speak aloud in these precincts--'luik here! What can there be in +this box? Is't a bairnie's coffin, duv ye think? Luik at it.' + +In this case Shargar, having roamed the country a good deal more +than Robert, and having been present at some merry-makings with his +mother, of which there were comparatively few in that country-side, +was better informed than his friend. + +'Eh! Bob, duvna ye ken what that is? I thocht ye kent a' thing. +That's a fiddle.' + +'That's buff an' styte (stuff and nonsense), Shargar. Do ye think I +dinna ken a fiddle whan I see ane, wi' its guts ootside o' 'ts wame, +an' the thoomacks to screw them up wi' an' gar't skirl?' + +'Buff an' styte yersel'!' cried Shargar, in indignation, from the +bed. 'Gie's a haud o' 't.' + +Robert handed him the case. Shargar undid the hooks in a moment, +and revealed the creature lying in its shell like a boiled bivalve. + +'I tellt ye sae!' he exclaimed triumphantly. 'Maybe ye'll lippen to +me (trust me) neist time.' + +'An' I tellt you,' retorted Robert, with an equivocation altogether +unworthy of his growing honesty. 'I was cocksure that cudna be a +fiddle. There's the fiddle i' the hert o' 't! Losh! I min' noo. +It maun be my grandfather's fiddle 'at I hae heard tell o'.' + +'No to ken a fiddle-case!' reflected Shargar, with as much of +contempt as it was possible for him to show. + +'I tell ye what, Shargar,' returned Robert, indignantly; 'ye may ken +the box o' a fiddle better nor I do, but de'il hae me gin I dinna +ken the fiddle itsel' raither better nor ye do in a fortnicht frae +this time. I s' tak' it to Dooble Sanny; he can play the fiddle +fine. An' I'll play 't too, or the de'il s' be in't.' + +'Eh, man, that 'll be gran'!' cried Shargar, incapable of jealousy. +'We can gang to a' the markets thegither and gaither baubees +(halfpence).' + +To this anticipation Robert returned no reply, for, hearing Betty +come in, he judged it time to restore the violin to its case, and +Betty's candle to the kitchen, lest she should invade the upper +regions in search of it. But that very night he managed to have an +interview with Dooble Sanny, the shoemaker, and it was arranged +between them that Robert should bring his violin on the evening at +which my story has now arrived. + +Whatever motive he had for seeking to commence the study of music, +it holds even in more important matters that, if the thing pursued +be good, there is a hope of the pursuit purifying the motive. And +Robert no sooner heard the fiddle utter a few mournful sounds in the +hands of the soutar, who was no contemptible performer, than he +longed to establish such a relation between himself and the strange +instrument, that, dumb and deaf as it had been to him hitherto, it +would respond to his touch also, and tell him the secrets of its +queerly-twisted skull, full of sweet sounds instead of brains. From +that moment he would be a musician for music's own sake, and forgot +utterly what had appeared to him, though I doubt if it was, the sole +motive of his desire to learn--namely, the necessity of retaining +his superiority over Shargar. + +What added considerably to the excitement of his feelings on the +occasion, was the expression of reverence, almost of awe, with which +the shoemaker took the instrument from its case, and the tenderness +with which he handled it. The fact was that he had not had a violin +in his hands for nearly a year, having been compelled to pawn his +own in order to alleviate the sickness brought on his wife by his +own ill-treatment of her, once that he came home drunk from a +wedding. It was strange to think that such dirty hands should be +able to bring such sounds out of the instrument the moment he got it +safely cuddled under his cheek. So dirty were they, that it was +said Dooble Sanny never required to carry any rosin with him for +fiddler's need, his own fingers having always enough upon them for +one bow at least. Yet the points of those fingers never lost the +delicacy of their touch. Some people thought this was in virtue of +their being washed only once a week--a custom Alexander justified on +the ground that, in a trade like his, it was of no use to wash +oftener, for he would be just as dirty again before night. + +The moment he began to play, the face of the soutar grew ecstatic. +He stopped at the very first note, notwithstanding, let fall his +arms, the one with the bow, the other with the violin, at his sides, +and said, with a deep-drawn respiration and lengthened utterance: + +'Eh!' + +Then after a pause, during which he stood motionless: + +'The crater maun be a Cry Moany! Hear till her!' he added, drawing +another long note. + +Then, after another pause: + +'She's a Straddle Vawrious at least! Hear till her. I never had +sic a combination o' timmer and catgut atween my cleuks (claws) +afore.' + +As to its being a Stradivarius, or even a Cremona at all, the +testimony of Dooble Sanny was not worth much on the point. But the +shoemaker's admiration roused in the boy's mind a reverence for the +individual instrument which he never lost. + +>From that day the two were friends. + +Suddenly the soutar started off at full speed in a strathspey, which +was soon lost in the wail of a Highland psalm-tune, giving place in +its turn to 'Sic a wife as Willie had!' And on he went without +pause, till Robert dared not stop any longer. The fiddle had +bewitched the fiddler. + +'Come as aften 's ye like, Robert, gin ye fess this leddy wi' ye,' +said the soutar. + +And he stroked the back of the violin tenderly with his open palm. + +'But wad ye hae ony objection to lat it lie aside ye, and lat me +come whan I can?' + +'Objection, laddie? I wad as sune objeck to lattin' my ain wife lie +aside me.' + +'Ay,' said Robert, seized with some anxiety about the violin as he +remembered the fate of the wife, 'but ye ken Elspet comes aff a' the +waur sometimes.' + +Softened by the proximity of the wonderful violin, and stung afresh +by the boy's words as his conscience had often stung him before, for +he loved his wife dearly save when the demon of drink possessed him, +the tears rose in Elshender's eyes. He held out the violin to +Robert, saying, with unsteady voice: + +'Hae, tak her awa'. I dinna deserve to hae sic a thing i' my hoose. +But hear me, Robert, and lat hearin' be believin'. I never was sae +drunk but I cud tune my fiddle. Mair by token, ance they fand me +lyin' o' my back i' the Corrie, an' the watter, they say, was ower +a' but the mou' o' me; but I was haudin' my fiddle up abune my heid, +and de'il a spark o' watter was upo' her.' + +'It's a pity yer wife wasna yer fiddle, than, Sanny,' said Robert, +with more presumption than wit. + +''Deed ye're i' the richt, there, Robert. Hae, tak' yer fiddle.' + +''Deed no,' returned Robert. 'I maun jist lippen (trust) to ye, +Sanders. I canna bide langer the nicht; but maybe ye'll tell me hoo +to haud her the neist time 'at I come--will ye?' + +'That I wull, Robert, come whan ye like. An' gin ye come o' ane 'at +cud play this fiddle as this fiddle deserves to be playt, ye'll do +me credit.' + +'Ye min' what that sumph Lumley said to me the ither nicht, Sanders, +aboot my grandfather?' + +'Ay, weel eneuch. A dish o' drucken havers!' + +'It was true eneuch aboot my great-grandfather, though.' + +'No! Was't railly?' + +'Ay. He was the best piper in 's regiment at Culloden. Gin they had +a' fouchten as he pipit, there wad hae been anither tale to tell. +And he was toon-piper forby, jist like you, Sanders, efter they +took frae him a' 'at he had.' + +'Na! heard ye ever the like o' that! Weel, wha wad hae thocht it? +Faith! we maun hae you fiddle as weel as yer lucky-daiddy +pipit.--But here's the King o' Bashan comin' efter his butes, an' +them no half dune yet!' exclaimed Dooble Sanny, settling in haste to +his awl and his lingel (Fr. ligneul). 'He'll be roarin' mair like a +bull o' the country than the king o' 't.' + +As Robert departed, Peter Ogg came in, and as he passed the window, +he heard the shoemaker averring: + +'I haena risen frae my stule sin' ane o'clock; but there's a sicht +to be dune to them, Mr. Ogg.' + +Indeed, Alexander ab Alexandro, as Mr. Innes facetiously styled him, +was in more ways than one worthy of the name of Dooble. There +seemed to be two natures in the man, which all his music had not yet +been able to blend. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +ANOTHER DISCOVERY IN THE GARRET. + +Little did Robert dream of the reception that awaited him at home. +Almost as soon as he had left the house, the following events began +to take place. + +The mistress's bell rang, and Betty 'gaed benn the hoose to see what +she cud be wantin',' whereupon a conversation ensued. + +'Wha was that at the door, Betty?' asked Mrs. Falconer; for Robert +had not shut the door so carefully as he ought, seeing that the +deafness of his grandmother was of much the same faculty as her +blindness. + +Had Robert not had a hold of Betty by the forelock of her years, he +would have been unable to steal any liberty at all. Still Betty had +a conscience, and although she would not offend Robert if she could +help it, yet she would not lie. + +''Deed, mem, I canna jist distinckly say 'at I heard the door,' she +answered. + +'Whaur's Robert?' was her next question. + +'He's generally up the stair aboot this hoor, mem--that is, whan +he's no i' the parlour at 's lessons.' + +'What gangs he sae muckle up the stair for, Betty, do ye ken? It's +something by ordinar' wi' 'm.' + +''Deed I dinna ken, mem. I never tuik it into my heid to gang +considerin' aboot it. He'll hae some ploy o' 's ain, nae doobt. +Laddies will be laddies, ye ken, mem.' + +'I doobt, Betty, ye'll be aidin' an' abettin'. An' it disna become +yer years, Betty.' + +'My years are no to fin' faut wi', mem. They're weel eneuch.' + +'That's naething to the pint, Betty. What's the laddie aboot?' + +'Do ye mean whan he gangs up the stair, mem?' + +'Ay. Ye ken weel eneuch what I mean.' + +'Weel, mem, I tell ye I dinna ken. An' ye never heard me tell ye a +lee sin' ever I was i' yer service, mem.' + +'Na, nae doonricht. Ye gang aboot it an' aboot it, an' at last ye +come sae near leein' that gin ye spak anither word, ye wad be at it; +and it jist fleys (frights) me frae speirin' ae ither question at +ye. An' that's hoo ye win oot o' 't. But noo 'at it's aboot my ain +oye (grandson), I'm no gaein' to tyne (lose) him to save a woman o' +your years, wha oucht to ken better; an sae I'll speir at ye, though +ye suld be driven to lee like Sawtan himsel'.--What's he aboot whan +he gangs up the stair? Noo!' + +'Weel, as sure's deith, I dinna ken. Ye drive me to sweirin', mem, +an' no to leein'.' + +'I carena. Hae ye no idea aboot it, than, Betty?' + +'Weel, mem, I think sometimes he canna be weel, and maun hae a tod +(fox) in 's stamack, or something o' that nater. For what he eats +is awfu'. An' I think whiles he jist gangs up the stair to eat at +'s ain wull.' + +'That jumps wi' my ain observations, Betty. Do ye think he micht +hae a rabbit, or maybe a pair o' them, in some boxie i' the garret, +noo?' + +'And what for no, gin he had, mem?' + +'What for no? Nesty stinkin' things! But that's no the pint. I +aye hae to haud ye to the pint, Betty. The pint is, whether he has +rabbits or no?' + +'Or guinea-pigs,' suggested Betty. + +'Weel.' + +'Or maybe a pup or twa. Or I kent a laddie ance 'at keepit a haill +faimily o' kittlins. Or maybe he micht hae a bit lammie. There was +an uncle o' min' ain--' + +'Haud yer tongue, Betty! Ye hae ower muckle to say for a' the sense +there's intil 't.' + +'Weel, mem, ye speirt questions at me.' + +'Weel, I hae had eneuch o' yer answers, Betty. Gang and tell Robert +to come here direckly.' + +Betty went, knowing perfectly that Robert had gone out, and returned +with the information. Her mistress searched her face with a keen +eye. + +'That maun hae been himsel' efter a' whan ye thocht ye hard the door +gang,' said Betty. + +'It's a strange thing that I suld hear him benn here wi' the door +steekit, an' your door open at the verra door-cheek o' the ither, +an' you no hear him, Betty. And me sae deif as weel!' + +''Deed, mem,' retorted Betty, losing her temper a little, 'I can be +as deif 's ither fowk mysel' whiles.' + +When Betty grew angry, Mrs. Falconer invariably grew calm, or, at +least, put her temper out of sight. She was silent now, and +continued silent till Betty moved to return to her kitchen, when she +said, in a tone of one who had just arrived at an important +resolution: + +'Betty, we'll jist awa' up the stair an' luik.' + +'Weel, mem, I hae nae objections.' + +'Nae objections! What for suld you or ony ither body hae ony +objections to me gaein' whaur I like i' my ain hoose? Umph!' +exclaimed Mrs. Falconer, turning and facing her maid. + +'In coorse, mem. I only meant I had nae objections to gang wi' ye.' + +'And what for suld you or ony ither woman that I paid twa pun' five +i' the half-year till, daur to hae objections to gaein' whaur I +wantit ye to gang i' my ain hoose?' + +'Hoot, mem! it was but a slip o' the tongue--naething mair.' + +'Slip me nae sic slips, or ye'll come by a fa' at last, I doobt, +Betty,' concluded Mrs. Falconer, in a mollified tone, as she turned +and led the way from the room. + +They got a candle in the kitchen and proceeded up-stairs, Mrs. +Falconer still leading, and Betty following. They did not even look +into the ga'le-room, not doubting that the dignity of the best +bed-room was in no danger of being violated even by Robert, but took +their way upwards to the room in which he kept his +school-books--almost the only articles of property which the boy +possessed. Here they found nothing suspicious. All was even in the +best possible order--not a very wonderful fact, seeing a few books +and a slate were the only things there besides the papers on the +shelves. + +What the feelings of Shargar must have been when he heard the steps +and voices, and saw the light approaching his place of refuge, we +will not change our point of view to inquire. He certainly was as +little to be envied at that moment as at any moment during the whole +of his existence. + +The first sense Mrs. Falconer made use of in the search after +possible animals lay in her nose. She kept snuffing constantly, +but, beyond the usual musty smell of neglected apartments, had as +yet discovered nothing. The moment she entered the upper garret, +however-- + +'There's an ill-faured smell here, Betty,' she said, believing that +they had at last found the trail of the mystery; 'but it's no like +the smell o' rabbits. Jist luik i' the nuik there ahin' the door.' + +'There's naething here,' responded Betty. + +'Roon the en' o' that kist there. I s' luik into the press.' + +As Betty rose from her search behind the chest and turned towards +her mistress, her eyes crossed the cavernous opening of the bed. +There, to her horror, she beheld a face like that of a galvanised +corpse staring at her from the darkness. Shargar was in a sitting +posture, paralysed with terror, waiting, like a fascinated bird, +till Mrs. Falconer and Betty should make the final spring upon him, +and do whatever was equivalent to devouring him upon the spot. He +had sat up to listen to the noise of their ascending footsteps, and +fear had so overmastered him, that he either could not, or forgot +that he could lie down and cover his head with some of the many +garments scattered around him. + +'I didna say whusky, did I?' he kept repeating to himself, in utter +imbecility of fear. + +'The Lord preserve 's!' exclaimed Betty, the moment she could speak; +for during the first few seconds, having caught the infection of +Shargar's expression, she stood equally paralysed. 'The Lord +preserve 's!' she repeated. + +'Ance is eneuch,' said Mrs. Falconer, sharply, turning round to see +what the cause of Betty's ejaculation might be. + +I have said that she was dim-sighted. The candle they had was +little better than a penny dip. The bed was darker than the rest of +the room. Shargar's face had none of the more distinctive +characteristics of manhood upon it. + +'Gude preserve 's!' exclaimed Mrs. Falconer in her turn: 'it's a +wumman.' + +Poor deluded Shargar, thinking himself safer under any form than +that which he actually bore, attempted no protest against the +mistake. But, indeed, he was incapable of speech. The two women +flew upon him to drag him out of bed. Then first recovering his +powers of motion, he sprung up in an agony of terror, and darted out +between them, overturning Betty in his course. + +'Ye rouch limmer!' cried Betty, from the floor. 'Ye lang-leggit +jaud!' she added, as she rose--and at the same moment Shargar banged +the street-door behind him in his terror--'I wat ye dinna carry yer +coats ower syde (too long)!' + +For Shargar, having discovered that the way to get the most warmth +from Robert's great-grandfather's kilt was to wear it in the manner +for which it had been fabricated, was in the habit of fastening it +round his waist before he got into bed; and the eye of Betty, as she +fell, had caught the swing of this portion of his attire. + +But poor Mrs. Falconer, with sunken head, walked out of the garret +in the silence of despair. She went slowly down the steep stair, +supporting herself against the wall, her round-toed shoes creaking +solemnly as she went, took refuge in the ga'le-room, and burst into +a violent fit of weeping. For such depravity she was not prepared. +What a terrible curse hung over her family! Surely they were all +reprobate from the womb, not one elected for salvation from the +guilt of Adam's fall, and therefore abandoned to Satan as his +natural prey, to be led captive of him at his will. She threw +herself on her knees at the side of the bed, and prayed +heart-brokenly. Betty heard her as she limped past the door on her +way back to her kitchen. + +Meantime Shargar had rushed across the next street on his bare feet +into the Crookit Wynd, terrifying poor old Kirstan Peerie, the +divisions betwixt the compartments of whose memory had broken down, +into the exclamation to her next neighbour, Tam Rhin, with whom she +was trying to gossip: + +'Eh, Tammas! that'll be ane o' the slauchtert at Culloden.' + +He never stopped till he reached his mother's deserted +abode--strange instinct! There he ran to earth like a hunted fox. +Rushing at the door, forgetful of everything but refuge, he found +it unlocked, and closing it behind him, stood panting like the hart +that has found the water-brooks. The owner had looked in one day to +see whether the place was worth repairing, for it was a mere +outhouse, and had forgotten to turn the key when he left it. Poor +Shargar! Was it more or less of a refuge that the mother that bore +him was not there either to curse or welcome his return? Less--if +we may judge from a remark he once made in my hearing many long +years after: + +'For, ye see,' he said, 'a mither's a mither, be she the verra +de'il.' + +Searching about in the dark, he found the one article unsold by the +landlord, a stool, with but two of its natural three legs. On this +he balanced himself and waited--simply for what Robert would do; for +his faith in Robert was unbounded, and he had no other hope on +earth. But Shargar was not miserable. In that wretched hovel, his +bare feet clasping the clay floor in constant search of a wavering +equilibrium, with pitch darkness around him, and incapable of the +simplest philosophical or religious reflection, he yet found life +good. For it had interest. Nay, more, it had hope. I doubt, +however, whether there is any interest at all without hope. + +While he sat there, Robert, thinking him snug in the garret, was +walking quietly home from the shoemaker's; and his first impulse on +entering was to run up and recount the particulars of his interview +with Alexander. Arrived in the dark garret, he called Shargar, as +usual, in a whisper--received no reply--thought he was +asleep--called louder (for he had had a penny from his grandmother +that day for bringing home two pails of water for Betty, and had +just spent it upon a loaf for him)--but no Shargar replied. +Thereupon he went to the bed to lay hold of him and shake him. But +his searching hands found no Shargar. Becoming alarmed, he ran +down-stairs to beg a light from Betty. + +When he reached the kitchen, he found Betty's nose as much in the +air as its construction would permit. For a hook-nosed animal, she +certainly was the most harmless and ovine creature in the world, but +this was a case in which feminine modesty was both concerned and +aggrieved. She showed her resentment no further, however, than by +simply returning no answer in syllable, or sound, or motion, to +Robert's request. She was washing up the tea-things, and went on +with her work as if she had been in absolute solitude, saving that +her countenance could hardly have kept up that expression of injured +dignity had such been the case. Robert plainly saw, to his great +concern, that his secret had been discovered in his absence, and +that Shargar had been expelled with contumely. But, with an +instinct of facing the worst at once which accompanied him through +life, he went straight to his grandmother's parlour. + +'Well, grandmamma,' he said, trying to speak as cheerfully as he +could. + +Grannie's prayers had softened her a little, else she would have +been as silent as Betty; for it was from her mistress that Betty had +learned this mode of torturing a criminal. So she was just able to +return his greeting in the words, 'Weel, Robert,' pronounced in a +finality of tone that indicated she had done her utmost, and had +nothing to add. + +'Here's a browst (brewage)!' thought Robert to himself; and, still +on the principle of flying at the first of mischief he saw--the best +mode of meeting it, no doubt--addressed his grandmother at once. +The effort necessary gave a tone of defiance to his words. + +'What for willna ye speik to me, grannie?' he said. 'I'm no a +haithen, nor yet a papist.' + +'Ye're waur nor baith in ane, Robert.' + +'Hoots! ye winna say baith, grannie,' returned Robert, who, even at +the age of fourteen, when once compelled to assert himself, assumed +a modest superiority. + +'Nane o' sic impidence!' retorted Mrs. Falconer. 'I wonner whaur ye +learn that. But it's nae wonner. Evil communications corrupt gude +mainners. Ye're a lost prodigal, Robert, like yer father afore ye. +I hae jist been sittin' here thinkin' wi' mysel' whether it wadna +be better for baith o' 's to lat ye gang an' reap the fruit o' yer +doin's at ance; for the hard ways is the best road for +transgressors. I'm no bund to keep ye.' + +'Weel, weel, I s' awa' to Shargar. Him and me 'ill haud on +thegither better nor you an' me, grannie. He's a puir cratur, but +he can stick till a body.' + +'What are ye haverin' aboot Shargar for, ye heepocreet loon? Ye'll +no gang to Shargar, I s' warran'! Ye'll be efter that vile limmer +that's turnt my honest hoose intil a sty this last fortnicht.' + +'Grannie, I dinna ken what ye mean.' + +'She kens, than. I sent her aff like ane o' Samson's foxes, wi' a +firebrand at her tail. It's a pity it wasna tied atween the twa o' +ye.' + +'Preserve 's, grannie! Is't possible ye hae ta'en Shargar for ane +o' wumman-kin'?' + +'I ken naething aboot Shargar, I tell ye. I ken that Betty an' me +tuik an ill-faured dame i' the bed i' the garret.' + +'Cud it be his mither?' thought Robert in bewilderment; but he +recovered himself in a moment, and answered, + +'Shargar may be a quean efter a', for onything 'at I ken to the +contrairy; but I aye tuik him for a loon. Faith, sic a quean as +he'd mak!' + +And careless to resist the ludicrousness of the idea, he burst into +a loud fit of laughter, which did more to reassure his grannie than +any amount of protestation could have done, however she pretended to +take offence at his ill-timed merriment. + +Seeing his grandmother staggered, Robert gathered courage to assume +the offensive. + +'But, granny! hoo ever Betty, no to say you, cud hae driven oot a +puir half-stervit cratur like Shargar, even supposin' he oucht to +hae been in coaties, and no in troosers--and the mither o' him run +awa' an' left him--it's mair nor I can unnerstan.' I misdoobt me +sair but he's gane and droont himsel'.' + +Robert knew well enough that Shargar would not drown himself without +at least bidding him good-bye; but he knew too that his grandmother +could be wrought upon. Her conscience was more tender than her +feelings; and this peculiarity occasioned part of the mutual +non-understanding rather than misunderstanding between her grandson +and herself. The first relation she bore to most that came near her +was one of severity and rebuke; but underneath her cold outside lay +a warm heart, to which conscience acted the part of a somewhat +capricious stoker, now quenching its heat with the cold water of +duty, now stirring it up with the poker of reproach, and ever +treating it as an inferior and a slave. But her conscience was, on +the whole, a better friend to her race than her heart; and, indeed, +the conscience is always a better friend than a heart whose motions +are undirected by it. From Falconer's account of her, however, I +cannot help thinking that she not unfrequently took refuge in +severity of tone and manner from the threatened ebullition of a +feeling which she could not otherwise control, and which she was +ashamed to manifest. Possibly conscience had spoken more and more +gently as its behests were more and more readily obeyed, until the +heart began to gather courage, and at last, as in many old people, +took the upper hand, which was outwardly inconvenient to one of Mrs. +Falconer's temperament. Hence, in doing the kindest thing in the +world, she would speak in a tone of command, even of rebuke, as if +she were compelling the performance of the most unpleasant duty in +the person who received the kindness. But the human heart is hard +to analyze, and, indeed, will not submit quietly to the operation, +however gently performed. Nor is the result at all easy to put into +words. It is best shown in actions. + +Again, it may appear rather strange that Robert should be able to +talk in such an easy manner to his grandmother, seeing he had been +guilty of concealment, if not of deception. But she had never been +so actively severe towards Robert as she had been towards her own +children. To him she was wonderfully gentle for her nature, and +sought to exercise the saving harshness which she still believed +necessary, solely in keeping from him every enjoyment of life which +the narrowest theories as to the rule and will of God could set down +as worldly. Frivolity, of which there was little in this sober boy, +was in her eyes a vice; loud laughter almost a crime; cards, and +novelles, as she called them, were such in her estimation, as to be +beyond my powers of characterization. Her commonest injunction was, +'Noo be douce,'--that is sober--uttered to the soberest boy she +could ever have known. But Robert was a large-hearted boy, else +this life would never have had to be written; and so, through all +this, his deepest nature came into unconscious contact with that of +his noble old grandmother. There was nothing small about either of +them. Hence Robert was not afraid of her. He had got more of her +nature in him than of her son's. She and his own mother had more +share in him than his father, though from him he inherited good +qualities likewise. + +He had concealed his doings with Shargar simply because he believed +they could not be done if his grandmother knew of his plans. Herein +he did her less than justice. But so unpleasant was concealment to +his nature, and so much did the dread of discovery press upon him, +that the moment he saw the thing had come out into the daylight of +her knowledge, such a reaction of relief took place as, operating +along with his deep natural humour and the comical circumstance of +the case, gave him an ease and freedom of communication which he had +never before enjoyed with her. Likewise there was a certain courage +in the boy which, if his own natural disposition had not been so +quiet that he felt the negations of her rule the less, might have +resulted in underhand doings of a very different kind, possibly, +from those of benevolence. + +He must have been a strange being to look at, I always think, at +this point of his development, with his huge nose, his black eyes, +his lanky figure, and his sober countenance, on which a smile was +rarely visible, but from which burst occasional guffaws of laughter. + +At the words 'droont himsel',' Mrs. Falconer started. + +'Rin, laddie, rin,' she said, 'an' fess him back direckly! Betty! +Betty! gang wi' Robert and help him to luik for Shargar. Ye auld, +blin', doited body, 'at says ye can see, and canna tell a lad frae a +lass!' + +'Na, na, grannie. I'm no gaein' oot wi' a dame like her trailin' at +my fut. She wad be a sair hinnerance to me. Gin Shargar be to be +gotten--that is, gin he be in life--I s' get him wantin' Betty. And +gin ye dinna ken him for the crater ye fand i' the garret, he maun +be sair changed sin' I left him there.' + +'Weel, weel, Robert, gang yer wa's. But gin ye be deceivin' me, may +the Lord--forgie ye, Robert, for sair ye'll need it.' + +'Nae fear o' that, grannie,' returned Robert, from the street door, +and vanished. + +Mrs. Falconer stalked--No, I will not use that word of the gait of a +woman like my friend's grandmother. 'Stately stept she butt the +hoose' to Betty. She felt strangely soft at the heart, Robert not +being yet proved a reprobate; but she was not therefore prepared to +drop one atom of the dignity of her relation to her servant. + +'Betty,' she said, 'ye hae made a mistak.' + +'What's that, mem?' returned Betty. + +'It wasna a lass ava; it was that crater Shargar.' + +'Ye said it was a lass yersel' first, mem.' + +'Ye ken weel eneuch that I'm short sichtit, an' hae been frae the +day o' my birth.' + +'I'm no auld eneuch to min' upo' that, mem,' returned Betty +revengefully, but in an undertone, as if she did not intend her +mistress to hear, And although she heard well enough, her mistress +adopted the subterfuge. 'But I'll sweir the crater I saw was in +cwytes (petticoats).' + +'Sweir not at all, Betty. Ye hae made a mistak ony gait.' + +'Wha says that, mem?' + +'Robert.' + +'Aweel, gin he be tellin' the trowth--' + +'Daur ye mint (insinuate) to me that a son o' mine wad tell onything +but the trowth?' + +'Na, na, mem. But gin that wasna a quean, ye canna deny but she +luikit unco like ane, and no a blate (bashful) ane eyther.' + +'Gin he was a loon, he wadna luik like a blate lass, ony gait, +Betty. And there ye're wrang.' + +'Weel, weel, mem, hae 't yer ain gait,' muttered Betty. + +'I wull hae 't my ain gait,' retorted her mistress, 'because it's +the richt gait, Betty. An' noo ye maun jist gang up the stair, an' +get the place cleant oot an' put in order.' + +'I wull do that, mem.' + +'Ay wull ye. An' luik weel aboot, Betty, you that can see sae weel, +in case there suld be ony cattle aboot; for he's nane o' the +cleanest, yon dame!' + +'I wull do that, mem.' + +'An' gang direckly, afore he comes back.' + +'Wha comes back?' + +'Robert, of course.' + +'What for that?' + +''Cause he's comin' wi' 'im.' + +'What he 's comin' wi' 'im?' + +'Ca' 't she, gin ye like. It's Shargar.' + +'Wha says that?' exclaimed Betty, sniffing and starting at once. + +'I say that. An' ye gang an' du what I tell ye, this minute.' + +Betty obeyed instantly; for the tone in which the last words were +spoken was one she was not accustomed to dispute. She only muttered +as she went, 'It 'll a' come upo' me as usual.' + +Betty's job was long ended before Robert returned. Never dreaming +that Shargar could have gone back to the old haunt, he had looked +for him everywhere before that occurred to him as a last chance. +Nor would he have found him even then, for he would not have +thought of his being inside the deserted house, had not Shargar +heard his footsteps in the street. + +He started up from his stool saying, 'That's Bob!' but was not sure +enough to go to the door: he might be mistaken; it might be the +landlord! He heard the feet stop and did not move; but when he +heard them begin to go away again, he rushed to the door, and bawled +on the chance at the top of his voice, 'Bob! Bob!' + +'Eh! ye crater!' said Robert, 'ir ye there efter a'? + +'Eh! Bob,' exclaimed Shargar, and burst into tears. 'I thocht ye +wad come efter me.' + +'Of coorse,' answered Robert, coolly. 'Come awa' hame.' + +'Whaur til?' asked Shargar in dismay. + +'Hame to yer ain bed at my grannie's.' + +'Na, na,' said Shargar, hurriedly, retreating within the door of the +hovel. 'Na, na, Bob, lad, I s' no du that. She's an awfu' wuman, +that grannie o' yours. I canna think hoo ye can bide wi' her. I'm +weel oot o' her grups, I can tell ye.' + +It required a good deal of persuasion, but at last Robert prevailed +upon Shargar to return. For was not Robert his tower of strength? +And if Robert was not frightened at his grannie, or at Betty, why +should he be? At length they entered Mrs. Falconer's parlour, +Robert dragging in Shargar after him, having failed altogether in +encouraging him to enter after a more dignified fashion. + +It must be remembered that although Shargar was still kilted, he was +not the less trowsered, such as the trowsers were. It makes my +heart ache to think of those trowsers--not believing trowsers +essential to blessedness either, but knowing the superiority of the +old Roman costume of the kilt. + +No sooner had Mrs. Falconer cast her eyes upon him than she could +not but be convinced of the truth of Robert's averment. + +'Here he is, grannie; and gin ye bena saitisfeed yet--' + +'Haud yer tongue, laddie. Ye hae gi'en me nae cause to doobt yer +word.' + +Indeed, during Robert's absence, his grandmother had had leisure to +perceive of what an absurd folly she had been guilty. She had also +had time to make up her mind as to her duty with regard to Shargar; +and the more she thought about it, the more she admired the conduct +of her grandson, and the better she saw that it would be right to +follow his example. No doubt she was the more inclined to this +benevolence that she had as it were received her grandson back from +the jaws of death. + +When the two lads entered, from her arm-chair Mrs. Falconer examined +Shargar from head to foot with the eye of a queen on her throne, and +a countenance immovable in stern gentleness, till Shargar would +gladly have sunk into the shelter of the voluminous kilt from the +gaze of those quiet hazel eyes. + +At length she spoke: + +'Robert, tak him awa'.' + +'Whaur'll I tak him till, grannie?' + +'Tak him up to the garret. Betty 'ill ha' ta'en a tub o' het water +up there 'gen this time, and ye maun see that he washes himsel' frae +heid to fut, or he s' no bide an 'oor i' my hoose. Gang awa' an' +see till 't this minute.' + +But she detained them yet awhile with various directions in regard +of cleansing, for the carrying out of which Robert was only too glad +to give his word. She dismissed them at last, and Shargar by and by +found himself in bed, clean, and, for the first time in his life, +between a pair of linen sheets--not altogether to his satisfaction, +for mere order and comfort were substituted for adventure and +success. + +But greater trials awaited him. In the morning he was visited by +Brodie, the tailor, and Elshender, the shoemaker, both of whom he +held in awe as his superiors in the social scale, and by them +handled and measured from head to feet, the latter included; after +which he had to lie in bed for three days, till his clothes came +home; for Betty had carefully committed every article of his former +dress to the kitchen fire, not without a sense of pollution to the +bottom of her kettle. Nor would he have got them for double the +time, had not Robert haunted the tailor, as well as the soutar, like +an evil conscience, till they had finished them. Thus grievous was +Shargar's introduction to the comforts of respectability. Nor did +he like it much better when he was dressed, and able to go about; +for not only was he uncomfortable in his new clothes, which, after +the very easy fit of the old ones, felt like a suit of plate-armour, +but he was liable to be sent for at any moment by the awful +sovereignty in whose dominions he found himself, and which, of +course, proceeded to instruct him not merely in his own religious +duties, but in the religious theories of his ancestors, if, indeed, +Shargar's ancestors ever had any. And now the Shorter Catechism +seemed likely to be changed into the Longer Catechism; for he had it +Sundays as we'll as Saturdays, besides Alleine's Alarm to the +Unconverted, Baxter's Saint's Rest, Erskine's Gospel Sonnets, and +other books of a like kind. Nor was it any relief to Shargar that +the gloom was broken by the incomparable Pilgrim's Progress and the +Holy War, for he cared for none of these things. Indeed, so dreary +did he find it all, that his love to Robert was never put to such a +severe test. But for that, he would have run for it. Twenty times +a day was he so tempted. + +At school, though it was better, yet it was bad. For he was ten +times as much laughed at for his new clothes, though they were of +the plainest, as he had been for his old rags. Still he bore all +the pangs of unwelcome advancement without a grumble, for the sake +of his friend alone, whose dog he remained as much as ever. But his +past life of cold and neglect, and hunger and blows, and +homelessness and rags, began to glimmer as in the distance of a +vaporous sunset, and the loveless freedom he had then enjoyed gave +it a bloom as of summer-roses. + +I wonder whether there may not have been in some unknown corner of +the old lady's mind this lingering remnant of paganism, that, in +reclaiming the outcast from the error of his ways, she was making an +offering acceptable to that God whom her mere prayers could not move +to look with favour upon her prodigal son Andrew. Nor from her own +acknowledged religious belief as a background would it have stuck so +fiery off either. Indeed, it might have been a partial corrective +of some yet more dreadful articles of her creed,--which she held, be +it remembered, because she could not help it. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +PRIVATE INTERVIEWS. + +The winter passed slowly away. Robert and Shargar went to school +together, and learned their lessons together at Mrs. Falconer's +table. Shargar soon learned to behave with tolerable propriety; was +obedient, as far as eye-service went; looked as queer as ever; did +what he pleased, which was nowise very wicked, the moment he was out +of the old lady's sight; was well fed and well cared for; and when +he was asked how he was, gave the invariable answer: 'Middlin'.' He +was not very happy. + +There was little communication in words between the two boys, for +the one had not much to say, and the pondering fits of the other +grew rather than relaxed in frequency and intensity. Yet amongst +chance acquaintances in the town Robert had the character of a wag, +of which he was totally unaware himself. Indeed, although he had +more than the ordinary share of humour, I suspect it was not so much +his fun as his earnest that got him the character; for he would say +such altogether unheard-of and strange things, that the only way +they were capable of accounting for him was as a humorist. + +'Eh!' he said once to Elshender, during a pause common to a +thunder-storm and a lesson on the violin 'eh! wadna ye like to be up +in that clood wi' a spaud, turnin' ower the divots and catchin' the +flashes lyin' aneath them like lang reid fiery worms?' + +'Ay, man, but gin ye luik up to the cloods that gait, ye'll never be +muckle o' a fiddler.' + +This was merely an outbreak of that insolence of advice so often +shown to the young from no vantage-ground but that of age and +faithlessness, reminding one of the 'jigging fool' who interfered +between Brutus and Cassius on the sole ground that he had seen more +years than they. As if ever a fiddler that did not look up to the +clouds would be anything but a catgut-scraper! Even Elshender's +fiddle was the one angel that held back the heavy curtain of his +gross nature, and let the sky shine through. He ought to have been +set fiddling every Sunday morning, and from his fiddling dragged +straight to church. It was the only thing man could have done for +his conversion, for then his heart was open, But I fear the prayers +would have closed it before the sermon came. He should rather have +been compelled to take his fiddle to church with him, and have a +gentle scrape at it in the pauses of the service; only there are no +such pauses in the service, alas! And Dooble Sanny, though not too +religious to get drunk occasionally, was a great deal too religious +to play his fiddle on the Sabbath: he would not willingly anger the +powers above; but it was sometimes a sore temptation, especially +after he got possession of old Mr. Falconer's wonderful instrument. + +'Hoots, man!' he would say to Robert; 'dinna han'le, her as gin she +war an egg-box. Tak haud o' her as gin she war a leevin' crater. +Ye maun jist straik her canny, an' wile the music oot o' her; for +she's like ither women: gin ye be rouch wi' her, ye winna get a word +oot o' her. An' dinna han'le her that gait. She canna bide to be +contred an' pu'd this gait and that gait.--Come to me, my bonny +leddy. Ye'll tell me yer story, winna ye, my dauty (pet)?' + +And with every gesture as if he were humouring a shy and invalid +girl, he would, as he said, wile the music out of her in sobs and +wailing, till the instrument, gathering courage in his embrace, grew +gently merry in its confidence, and broke at last into airy +laughter. He always spoke, and apparently thought, of his violin as +a woman, just as a sailor does of his craft. But there was nothing +about him, except his love for music and its instruments, to suggest +other than a most uncivilized nature. That which was fine in him +was constantly checked and held down by the gross; the merely animal +overpowered the spiritual; and it was only upon occasion that his +heavenly companion, the violin, could raise him a few feet above the +mire and the clay. She never succeeded in setting his feet on a +rock; while, on the contrary, he often dragged her with him into the +mire of questionable company and circumstances. Worthy Mr. Falconer +would have been horrified to see his umquhile modest companion in +such society as that into which she was now introduced at times. +But nevertheless the soutar was a good and patient teacher; and +although it took Robert rather more than a fortnight to redeem his +pledge to Shargar, he did make progress. It could not, however, be +rapid, seeing that an hour at a time, two evenings in the week, was +all that he could give to the violin. Even with this moderation, +the risk of his absence exciting his grandmother's suspicion and +inquiry was far from small. + +And now, were those really faded old memories of his grandfather and +his merry kindness, all so different from the solemn benevolence of +his grandmother, which seemed to revive in his bosom with the +revivification of the violin? The instrument had surely laid up a +story in its hollow breast, had been dreaming over it all the time +it lay hidden away in the closet, and was now telling out its dreams +about the old times in the ear of the listening boy. To him also it +began to assume something of that mystery and life which had such a +softening, and, for the moment at least, elevating influence on his +master. + +At length the love of the violin had grown upon him so, that he +could not but cast about how he might enjoy more of its company. It +would not do, for many reasons, to go oftener to the shoemaker's, +especially now that the days were getting longer. Nor was that what +he wanted. He wanted opportunity for practice. He wanted to be +alone with the creature, to see if she would not say something more +to him than she had ever said yet. Wafts and odours of melodies +began to steal upon him ere he was aware in the half lights between +sleeping and waking: if he could only entice them to creep out of +the violin, and once 'bless his humble ears' with the bodily hearing +of them! Perhaps he might--who could tell? But how? But where? + +There was a building in Rothieden not old, yet so deserted that its +very history seemed to have come to a standstill, and the dust that +filled it to have fallen from the plumes of passing centuries. It +was the property of Mrs. Falconer, left her by her husband. Trade +had gradually ebbed away from the town till the thread-factory stood +unoccupied, with all its machinery rusting and mouldering, just as +the work-people had risen and left it one hot, midsummer day, when +they were told that their services were no longer required. Some of +the thread even remained upon the spools, and in the hollows of some +of the sockets the oil had as yet dried only into a paste; although +to Robert the desertion of the place appeared immemorial. It stood +at a furlong's distance from the house, on the outskirt of the town. +There was a large, neglected garden behind it, with some good +fruit-trees, and plenty of the bushes which boys love for the sake +of their berries. After grannie's jam-pots were properly filled, +the remnant of these, a gleaning far greater than the gathering, was +at the disposal of Robert, and, philosopher although in some measure +he was already, he appreciated the privilege. Haunting this garden +in the previous summer, he had for the first time made acquaintance +with the interior of the deserted factory. The door to the road was +always kept locked, and the key of it lay in one of grannie's +drawers; but he had then discovered a back entrance less securely +fastened, and with a strange mingling of fear and curiosity had from +time to time extended his rambles over what seemed to him the huge +desolation of the place. Half of it was well built of stone and +lime, but of the other half the upper part was built of wood, which +now showed signs of considerable decay. One room opened into +another through the length of the place, revealing a vista of +machines, standing with an air of the last folding of the wings of +silence over them, and the sense of a deeper and deeper sinking into +the soundless abyss. But their activity was not so far vanished but +that by degrees Robert came to fancy that he had some time or other +seen a woman seated at each of those silent powers, whose single +hand set the whole frame in motion, with its numberless spindles and +spools rapidly revolving--a vague mystery of endless threads in +orderly complication, out of which came some desired, to him +unknown, result, so that the whole place was full of a bewildering +tumult of work, every little reel contributing its share, as the +water-drops clashing together make the roar of a tempest. Now all +was still as the church on a week-day, still as the school on a +Saturday afternoon. Nay, the silence seemed to have settled down +like the dust, and grown old and thick, so dead and old that the +ghost of the ancient noise had arisen to haunt the place. + +Thither would Robert carry his violin, and there would he woo her. + +'I'm thinkin' I maun tak her wi' me the nicht, Sanders,' he said, +holding the fiddle lovingly to his bosom, after he had finished his +next lesson. + +The shoemaker looked blank. + +'Ye're no gaein' to desert me, are ye?' + +'Na, weel I wat!' returned Robert. 'But I want to try her at hame. +I maun get used till her a bittie, ye ken, afore I can du onything +wi' her.' + +'I wiss ye had na brought her here ava. What I am to du wantin' +her!' + +'What for dinna ye get yer ain back?' + +'I haena the siller, man. And, forbye, I doobt I wadna be that sair +content wi' her noo gin I had her. I used to think her gran'. But +I'm clean oot o' conceit o' her. That bonnie leddy's ta'en 't clean +oot o' me.' + +'But ye canna hae her aye, ye ken, Sanders. She's no mine. She's +my grannie's, ye ken.' + +'What's the use o' her to her? She pits nae vailue upon her. Eh, +man, gin she wad gie her to me, I wad haud her i' the best o' shune +a' the lave o' her days.' + +'That wadna be muckle, Sanders, for she hasna had a new pair sin' +ever I mind.' + +'But I wad haud Betty in shune as weel.' + +'Betty pays for her ain shune, I reckon.' + +'Weel, I wad haud you in shune, and yer bairns, and yer bairns' +bairns,' cried the soutar, with enthusiasm. + +'Hoot, toot, man! Lang or that ye'll be fiddlin' i' the new +Jeroozlem.' + +'Eh, man!' said Alexander, looking up--he had just cracked the +roset-ends off his hands, for he had the upper leather of a boot in +the grasp of the clams, and his right hand hung arrested on its +blind way to the awl--'duv ye think there'll be fiddles there? I +thocht they war a' hairps, a thing 'at I never saw, but it canna be +up till a fiddle.' + +'I dinna ken,' answered Robert; 'but ye suld mak a pint o' seein' +for yersel'.' + +'Gin I thoucht there wad be fiddles there, faith I wad hae a try. +It wadna be muckle o' a Jeroozlem to me wantin' my fiddle. But gin +there be fiddles, I daursay they'll be gran' anes. I daursay they +wad gi' me a new ane--I mean ane as auld as Noah's 'at he played i' +the ark whan the de'il cam' in by to hearken. I wad fain hae a try. +Ye ken a' aboot it wi' that grannie o' yours: hoo's a body to +begin?' + +'By giein' up the drink, man.' + +'Ay--ay--ay--I reckon ye're richt. Weel, I'll think aboot it whan +ance I'm throu wi' this job. That'll be neist ook, or thereabouts, +or aiblins twa days efter. I'll hae some leiser than.' + +Before he had finished speaking he had caught up his awl and begun +to work vigorously, boring his holes as if the nerves of feeling +were continued to the point of the tool, inserting the bristles that +served him for needles with a delicacy worthy of soft-skinned +fingers, drawing through the rosined threads with a whisk, and +untwining them with a crack from the leather that guarded his hands. + +'Gude nicht to ye,' said Robert, with the fiddle-case under his arm. + +The shoemaker looked up, with his hands bound in his threads. + +'Ye're no gaein' to tak her frae me the nicht?' + +'Ay am I, but I'll fess her back again. I'm no gaein' to Jericho +wi' her.' + +'Gang to Hecklebirnie wi' her, and that's three mile ayont hell.' + +'Na; we maun win farther nor that. There canna, be muckle fiddlin' +there.' + +'Weel, tak her to the new Jeroozlem. I s' gang doon to Lucky +Leary's, and fill mysel' roarin' fou, an' it'll be a' your wyte +(blame).' + +'I doobt ye'll get the straiks (blows) though. Or maybe ye think +Bell 'ill tak them for ye.' + +Dooble Sanny caught up a huge boot, the sole of which was filled +with broad-headed nails as thick as they could be driven, and, in a +rage, threw it at Robert as he darted out. Through its clang +against the door-cheek, the shoemaker heard a cry from the +instrument. He cast everything from him and sprang after Robert. +But Robert was down the wynd like a long-legged grayhound, and +Elshender could only follow like a fierce mastiff. It was love and +grief, though, and apprehension and remorse, not vengeance, that +winged his heels. He soon saw that pursuit was vain. + +'Robert! Robert!' he cried; 'I canna win up wi' ye. Stop, for +God's sake! Is she hurtit?' + +Robert stopped at once. + +'Ye hae made a bonny leddy o' her--a lameter (cripple) I doobt, like +yer wife,' he answered, with indignation. + +'Dinna be aye flingin' a man's fau'ts in 's face. It jist maks him +'at he canna, bide himsel' or you eyther. Lat's see the bonny +crater.' + +Robert complied, for he too was anxious. They were now standing in +the space in front of Shargar's old abode, and there was no one to +be seen. Elshender took the box, opened it carefully, and peeped in +with a face of great apprehension. + +'I thocht that was a'!' he said with some satisfaction. 'I kent the +string whan I heard it. But we'll sune get a new thairm till her,' +he added, in a tone of sorrowful commiseration and condolence, as he +took the violin from the case, tenderly as if it had been a hurt +child. + +One touch of the bow, drawing out a goul of grief, satisfied him +that she was uninjured. Next a hurried inspection showed him that +there was enough of the catgut twisted round the peg to make up for +the part that was broken off. In a moment he had fastened it to the +tail-piece, tightened and tuned it. Forthwith he took the bow from +the case-lid, and in jubilant guise he expatiated upon the wrong he +had done his bonny leddy, till the doors and windows around were +crowded with heads peering through the dark to see whence the sounds +came, and a little child toddled across from one of the lowliest +houses with a ha'penny for the fiddler. Gladly would Robert have +restored it with interest, but, alas! there was no interest in his +bank, for not a ha'penny had he in the world. The incident recalled +Sandy to Rothieden and its cares. He restored the violin to its +case, and while Robert was fearing he would take it under his arm +and walk away with it, handed it back with a humble sigh and a +'Praise be thankit;' then, without another word, turned and went to +his lonely stool and home 'untreasured of its mistress.' Robert +went home too, and stole like a thief to his room. + +The next day was a Saturday, which, indeed, was the real old +Sabbath, or at least the half of it, to the schoolboys of Rothieden. +Even Robert's grannie was Jew enough, or rather Christian enough, +to respect this remnant of the fourth commandment--divine antidote +to the rest of the godless money-making and soul-saving week--and he +had the half-day to himself. So as soon as he had had his dinner, +he managed to give Shargar the slip, left him to the inroads of a +desolate despondency, and stole away to the old factory-garden. The +key of that he had managed to purloin from the kitchen where it +hung; nor was there much danger of its absence being discovered, +seeing that in winter no one thought of the garden. The smuggling +of the violin out of the house was the 'dearest danger'--the more so +that he would not run the risk of carrying her out unprotected, and +it was altogether a bulky venture with the case. But by spying and +speeding he managed it, and soon found himself safe within the high +walls of the garden. + +It was early spring. There had been a heavy fall of sleet in the +morning, and now the wind blew gustfully about the place. The +neglected trees shook showers upon him as he passed under them, +trampling down the rank growth of the grass-walks. The long twigs +of the wall-trees, which had never been nailed up, or had been torn +down by the snow and the blasts of winter, went trailing away in the +moan of the fitful wind, and swung back as it sunk to a sigh. The +currant and gooseberry bushes, bare and leafless, and 'shivering all +for cold,' neither reminded him of the feasts of the past summer, +nor gave him any hope for the next. He strode careless through it +all to gain the door at the bottom. It yielded to a push, and the +long grass streamed in over the threshold as he entered. He mounted +by a broad stair in the main part of the house, passing the silent +clock in one of its corners, now expiating in motionlessness the +false accusations it had brought against the work-people, and turned +into the chaos of machinery. + +I fear that my readers will expect, from the minuteness with which I +recount these particulars, that, after all, I am going to describe a +rendezvous with a lady, or a ghost at least. I will not plead in +excuse that I, too, have been infected with Sandy's mode of +regarding her, but I plead that in the mind of Robert the proceeding +was involved in something of that awe and mystery with which a youth +approaches the woman he loves. He had not yet arrived at the period +when the feminine assumes its paramount influence, combining in +itself all that music, colour, form, odour, can suggest, with +something infinitely higher and more divine; but he had begun to be +haunted with some vague aspirations towards the infinite, of which +his attempts on the violin were the outcome. And now that he was to +be alone, for the first time, with this wonderful realizer of dreams +and awakener of visions, to do with her as he would, to hint by +gentle touches at the thoughts that were fluttering in his soul, and +listen for her voice that by the echoes in which she strove to +respond he might know that she understood him, it was no wonder if +he felt an ethereal foretaste of the expectation that haunts the +approach of souls. + +But I am not even going to describe his first tête-à-tête with his +violin. Perhaps he returned from it somewhat disappointed. +Probably he found her coy, unready to acknowledge his demands on +her attention. But not the less willingly did he return with her to +the solitude of the ruinous factory. On every safe occasion, +becoming more and more frequent as the days grew longer, he repaired +thither, and every time returned more capable of drawing the +coherence of melody from that matrix of sweet sounds. + +At length the people about began to say that the factory was +haunted; that the ghost of old Mr. Falconer, unable to repose while +neglect was ruining the precious results of his industry, visited +the place night after night, and solaced his disappointment by +renewing on his favourite violin strains not yet forgotten by him in +his grave, and remembered well by those who had been in his service, +not a few of whom lived in the neighbourhood of the forsaken +building. + +One gusty afternoon, like the first, but late in the spring, Robert +repaired as usual to this his secret haunt. He had played for some +time, and now, from a sudden pause of impulse, had ceased, and begun +to look around him. The only light came from two long pale cracks +in the rain-clouds of the west. The wind was blowing through the +broken windows, which stretched away on either hand. A dreary, +windy gloom, therefore, pervaded the desolate place; and in the +dusk, and their settled order, the machines looked multitudinous. +An eerie sense of discomfort came over him as he gazed, and he +lifted his violin to dispel the strange unpleasant feeling that grew +upon him. But at the first long stroke across the strings, an awful +sound arose in the further room; a sound that made him all but drop +the bow, and cling to his violin. It went on. It was the old, all +but forgotten whirr of bobbins, mingled with the gentle groans of +the revolving horizontal wheel, but magnified in the silence of the +place, and the echoing imagination of the boy, into something +preternaturally awful. Yielding for a moment to the growth of +goose-skin, and the insurrection of hair, he recovered himself by a +violent effort, and walked to the door that connected the two +compartments. Was it more or less fearful that the jenny was not +going of itself? that the figure of an old woman sat solemnly +turning and turning the hand-wheel? Not without calling in the jury +of his senses, however, would he yield to the special plea of his +imagination, but went nearer, half expecting to find that the mutch, +with its big flapping borders, glimmering white in the gloom across +many a machine, surrounded the face of a skull. But he was soon +satisfied that it was only a blind woman everybody knew--so old that +she had become childish. She had heard the reports of the factory +being haunted, and groping about with her half-withered brain full +of them, had found the garden and the back door open, and had +climbed to the first-floor by a farther stair, well known to her +when she used to work that very machine. She had seated herself +instinctively, according to ancient wont, and had set it in motion +once more. + +Yielding to an impulse of experiment, Robert began to play again. +Thereupon her disordered ideas broke out in words. And Robert soon +began to feel that it could hardly be more ghastly to look upon a +ghost than to be taken for one. + +'Ay, ay, sir,' said the old woman, in a tone of commiseration, 'it +maun be sair to bide. I dinna wonner 'at ye canna lie still. But +what gars ye gang daunerin' aboot this place? It's no yours ony +langer. Ye ken whan fowk's deid, they tyne the grip (loose hold). +Ye suld gang hame to yer wife. She micht say a word to quaiet yer +auld banes, for she's a douce an' a wice woman--the mistress.' + +Then followed a pause. There was a horror about the old woman's +voice, already half dissolved by death, in the desolate place, that +almost took from Robert the power of motion. But his violin sent +forth an accidental twang, and that set her going again. + +'Ye was aye a douce honest gentleman yersel', an' I dinna wonner ye +canna bide it. But I wad hae thoucht glory micht hae hauden ye in. +But yer ain son! Eh ay! And a braw lad and a bonnie! It's a sod +thing he bude to gang the wrang gait; and it's no wonner, as I say, +that ye lea' the worms to come an' luik efter him. I doobt--I doobt +it winna be to you he'll gang at the lang last. There winna be room +for him aside ye in Awbrahawm's boasom. And syne to behave sae ill +to that winsome wife o' his! I dinna wonner 'at ye maun be up! Eh +na! But, sir, sin ye are up, I wish ye wad speyk to John Thamson no +to tak aff the day 'at I was awa' last ook, for 'deed I was verra +unweel, and bude to keep my bed.' + +Robert was beginning to feel uneasy as to how he should get rid of +her, when she rose, and saying, 'Ay, ay, I ken it's sax o'clock,' +went out as she had come in. Robert followed, and saw her safe out +of the garden, but did not return to the factory. + +So his father had behaved ill to his mother too! + +'But what for hearken to the havers o' a dottled auld wife?' he said +to himself, pondering as he walked home. + +Old Janet told a strange story of how she had seen the ghost, and +had had a long talk with him, and of what he said, and of how he +groaned and played the fiddle between. And finding that the report +had reached his grandmother's ears, Robert thought it prudent, much +to his discontent, to intermit his visits to the factory. Mrs. +Falconer, of course, received the rumour with indignant scorn, and +peremptorily refused to allow any examination of the premises. + +But how have the violin by him and not hear her speak? One evening +the longing after her voice grow upon him till he could resist it no +longer. He shut the door of his garret-room, and, with Shargar by +him, took her out and began to play softly, gently--oh so softly, so +gently! Shargar was enraptured. Robert went on playing. + +Suddenly the door opened, and his grannie stood awfully revealed +before them. Betty had heard the violin, and had flown to the +parlour in the belief that, unable to get any one to heed him at the +factory, the ghost had taken Janet's advice, and come home. But his +wife smiled a smile of contempt, went with Betty to the +kitchen--over which Robert's room lay--heard the sounds, put off her +creaking shoes, stole up-stairs on her soft white lambswool +stockings, and caught the pair. The violin was seized, put in its +case, and carried off; and Mrs. Falconer rejoiced to think she had +broken a gin set by Satan for the unwary feet of her poor Robert. +Little she knew the wonder of that violin--how it had kept the soul +of her husband alive! Little she knew how dangerous it is to shut +an open door, with ever so narrow a peep into the eternal, in the +face of a son of Adam! And little she knew how determinedly and +restlessly a nature like Robert's would search for another, to open +one possibly which she might consider ten times more dangerous than +that which she had closed. + +When Alexander heard of the affair, he was at first overwhelmed with +the misfortune; but gathering a little heart at last, he set to +'working,' as he said himself, 'like a verra deevil'; and as he was +the best shoemaker in the town, and for the time abstained utterly +from whisky, and all sorts of drink but well-water, he soon managed +to save the money necessary, and redeem the old fiddle. But whether +it was from fancy, or habit, or what, even Robert's inexperienced +ear could not accommodate itself, save under protest, to the +instrument which once his teacher had considered all but perfect; +and it needed the master's finest touch to make its tone other than +painful to the sense of the neophyte. + +No one can estimate too highly the value of such a resource to a man +like the shoemaker, or a boy like Robert. Whatever it be that keeps +the finer faculties of the mind awake, wonder alive, and the +interest above mere eating and drinking, money-making and +money-saving; whatever it be that gives gladness, or sorrow, or +hope--this, be it violin, pencil, pen, or, highest of all, the love +of woman, is simply a divine gift of holy influence for the +salvation of that being to whom it comes, for the lifting of him out +of the mire and up on the rock. For it keeps a way open for the +entrance of deeper, holier, grander influences, emanating from the +same riches of the Godhead. And though many have genius that have +no grace, they will only be so much the worse, so much the nearer to +the brute, if you take from them that which corresponds to Dooble +Sanny's fiddle. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +ROBERT'S PLAN OF SALVATION. + +For some time after the loss of his friend, Robert went loitering +and mooning about, quite neglecting the lessons to which he had not, +it must be confessed, paid much attention for many weeks. Even when +seated at his grannie's table, he could do no more than fix his eyes +on his book: to learn was impossible; it was even disgusting to him. +But his was a nature which, foiled in one direction, must, +absolutely helpless against its own vitality, straightway send out +its searching roots in another. Of all forces, that of growth is +the one irresistible, for it is the creating power of God, the law +of life and of being. Therefore no accumulation of refusals, and +checks, and turnings, and forbiddings, from all the good old +grannies in the world, could have prevented Robert from striking +root downward, and bearing fruit upward, though, as in all higher +natures, the fruit was a long way off yet. But his soul was only +sad and hungry. He was not unhappy, for he had been guilty of +nothing that weighed on his conscience. He had been doing many +things of late, it is true, without asking leave of his grandmother, +but wherever prayer is felt to be of no avail, there cannot be the +sense of obligation save on compulsion. Even direct disobedience in +such case will generally leave little soreness, except the thing +forbidden should be in its own nature wrong, and then, indeed, 'Don +Worm, the conscience,' may begin to bite. But Robert felt nothing +immoral in playing upon his grandfather's violin, nor even in taking +liberties with a piece of lumber for which nobody cared but possibly +the dead; therefore he was not unhappy, only much disappointed, very +empty, and somewhat gloomy. There was nothing to look forward to +now, no secret full of riches and endless in hope--in short, no +violin. + +To feel the full force of his loss, my reader must remember that +around the childhood of Robert, which he was fast leaving behind +him, there had gathered no tenderness--none at least by him +recognizable as such. All the women he came in contact with were +his grandmother and Betty. He had no recollection of having ever +been kissed. From the darkness and negation of such an +embryo-existence, his nature had been unconsciously striving to +escape--struggling to get from below ground into the sunlit +air--sighing after a freedom he could not have defined, the freedom +that comes, not of independence, but of love--not of lawlessness, +but of the perfection of law. Of this beauty of life, with its +wonder and its deepness, this unknown glory, his fiddle had been the +type. It had been the ark that held, if not the tables of the +covenant, yet the golden pot of angel's food, and the rod that +budded in death. And now that it was gone, the gloomier aspect of +things began to lay hold upon him; his soul turned itself away from +the sun, and entered into the shadow of the under-world. Like the +white-horsed twins of lake Regillus, like Phoebe, the queen of skyey +plain and earthly forest, every boy and girl, every man and woman, +that lives at all, has to divide many a year between Tartarus and +Olympus. + +For now arose within him, not without ultimate good, the evil +phantasms of a theology which would explain all God's doings by low +conceptions, low I mean for humanity even, of right, and law, and +justice, then only taking refuge in the fact of the incapacity of +the human understanding when its own inventions are impugned as +undivine. In such a system, hell is invariably the deepest truth, +and the love of God is not so deep as hell. Hence, as foundations +must be laid in the deepest, the system is founded in hell, and the +first article in the creed that Robert Falconer learned was, 'I +believe in hell.' Practically, I mean, it was so; else how should +it be that as often as a thought of religious duty arose in his +mind, it appeared in the form of escaping hell, of fleeing from the +wrath to come? For his very nature was hell, being not born in sin +and brought forth in iniquity, but born sin and brought forth +iniquity. And yet God made him. He must believe that. And he must +believe, too, that God was just, awfully just, punishing with +fearful pains those who did not go through a certain process of mind +which it was utterly impossible they should go through without a +help which he would give to some, and withhold from others, the +reason of the difference not being such, to say the least of it, as +to come within the reach of the persons concerned. And this God +they said was love. It was logically absurd, of course, yet, thank +God, they did say that God was love; and many of them succeeded in +believing it, too, and in ordering their ways as if the first +article of their creed had been 'I believe in God'; whence, in +truth, we are bound to say it was the first in power and reality, if +not in order; for what are we to say a man believes, if not what he +acts upon? Still the former article was the one they brought +chiefly to bear upon their children. This mortar, probably they +thought, threw the shell straighter than any of the other +field-pieces of the church-militant. Hence it was even in +justification of God himself that a party arose to say that a man +could believe without the help of God at all, and after believing +only began to receive God's help--a heresy all but as dreary and +barren as the former. No one dreamed of saying--at least such a +glad word of prophecy never reached Rothieden--that, while nobody +can do without the help of the Father any more than a new-born babe +could of itself live and grow to a man, yet that in the giving of +that help the very fatherhood of the Father finds its one gladsome +labour; that for that the Lord came; for that the world was made; +for that we were born into it; for that God lives and loves like the +most loving man or woman on earth, only infinitely more, and in +other ways and kinds besides, which we cannot understand; and that +therefore to be a man is the soul of eternal jubilation. + +Robert consequently began to take fits of soul-saving, a most +rational exercise, worldly wise and prudent--right too on the +principles he had received, but not in the least Christian in its +nature, or even God-fearing. His imagination began to busy itself +in representing the dire consequences of not entering into the one +refuge of faith. He made many frantic efforts to believe that he +believed; took to keeping the Sabbath very carefully--that is, by +going to church three times, and to Sunday-school as well; by never +walking a step save to or from church; by never saying a word upon +any subject unconnected with religion, chiefly theoretical; by never +reading any but religious books; by never whistling; by never +thinking of his lost fiddle, and so on--all the time feeling that +God was ready to pounce upon him if he failed once; till again and +again the intensity of his efforts utterly defeated their object by +destroying for the time the desire to prosecute them with the power +to will them. But through the horrible vapours of these vain +endeavours, which denied God altogether as the maker of the world, +and the former of his soul and heart and brain, and sought to +worship him as a capricious demon, there broke a little light, a +little soothing, soft twilight, from the dim windows of such +literature as came in his way. Besides The Pilgrim's Progress there +were several books which shone moon-like on his darkness, and lifted +something of the weight of that Egyptian gloom off his spirit. One +of these, strange to say, was Defoe's Religious Courtship, and one, +Young's Night Thoughts. But there was another which deserves +particular notice, inasmuch as it did far more than merely interest +or amuse him, raising a deep question in his mind, and one worthy to +be asked. This book was the translation of Klopstock's Messiah, to +which I have already referred. It was not one of his grandmother's +books, but had probably belonged to his father: he had found it in +his little garret-room. But as often as she saw him reading it, she +seemed rather pleased, he thought. As to the book itself, its +florid expatiation could neither offend nor injure a boy like +Robert, while its representation of our Lord was to him a wonderful +relief from that given in the pulpit, and in all the religious books +he knew. But the point for the sake of which I refer to it in +particular is this: Amongst the rebel angels who are of the actors +in the story, one of the principal is a cherub who repents of making +his choice with Satan, mourns over his apostasy, haunts unseen the +steps of our Saviour, wheels lamenting about the cross, and would +gladly return to his lost duties in heaven, if only he might--a +doubt which I believe is left unsolved in the volume, and naturally +enough remained unsolved in Robert's mind:--Would poor Abaddon be +forgiven and taken home again? For although naturally, that is, to +judge by his own instincts, there could be no question of his +forgiveness, according to what he had been taught there could be no +question of his perdition. Having no one to talk to, he divided +himself and went to buffets on the subject, siding, of course, with +the better half of himself which supported the merciful view of the +matter; for all his efforts at keeping the Sabbath, had in his own +honest judgment failed so entirely, that he had no ground for +believing himself one of the elect. Had he succeeded in persuading +himself that he was, there is no saying to what lengths of +indifference about others the chosen prig might have advanced by +this time. + +He made one attempt to open the subject with Shargar. + +'Shargar, what think ye?' he said suddenly, one day. 'Gin a de'il +war to repent, wad God forgie him?' + +'There's no sayin' what fowk wad du till ance they're tried,' +returned Shargar, cautiously. + +Robert did not care to resume the question with one who so +circumspectly refused to take a metaphysical or a priori view of the +matter. + +He made an attempt with his grandmother. + +One Sunday, his thoughts, after trying for a time to revolve in due +orbit around the mind of the Rev. Hugh Maccleary, as projected in a +sermon which he had botched up out of a commentary, failed at last +and flew off into what the said gentleman would have pronounced +'very dangerous speculation, seeing no man is to go beyond what is +written in the Bible, which contains not only the truth, but the +whole truth, and nothing but the truth, for this time and for all +future time--both here and in the world to come.' Some such +sentence, at least, was in his sermon that day, and the preacher no +doubt supposed St. Matthew, not St. Matthew Henry, accountable for +its origination. In the Limbo into which Robert's then spirit flew, +it had been sorely exercised about the substitution of the +sufferings of Christ for those which humanity must else have endured +while ages rolled on--mere ripples on the ocean of eternity. + +'Noo, be douce,' said Mrs. Falconer, solemnly, as Robert, a trifle +lighter at heart from the result of his cogitations than usual, sat +down to dinner: he had happened to smile across the table to +Shargar. And he was douce, and smiled no more. + +They ate their broth, or, more properly, supped it, with horn +spoons, in absolute silence; after which Mrs. Falconer put a large +piece of meat on the plate of each, with the same formula: + +'Hae. Ye s' get nae mair.' + +The allowance was ample in the extreme, bearing a relation to her +words similar to that which her practice bore to her theology. A +piece of cheese, because it was the Sabbath, followed, and dinner +was over. + +When the table had been cleared by Betty, they drew their chairs to +the fire, and Robert had to read to his grandmother, while Shargar +sat listening. He had not read long, however, before he looked up +from his Bible and began the following conversation:-- + +'Wasna it an ill trick o' Joseph, gran'mither, to put that cup, an' +a siller ane tu, into the mou' o' Benjamin's seck?' + +'What for that, laddie? He wanted to gar them come back again, ye +ken.' + +'But he needna hae gane aboot it in sic a playactor-like gait. He +needna hae latten them awa' ohn tellt (without telling) them that he +was their brither.' + +'They had behaved verra ill till him.' + +'He used to clype (tell tales) upo' them, though.' + +'Laddie, tak ye care what ye say aboot Joseph, for he was a teep o' +Christ.' + +'Hoo was that, gran'mither?' + +'They sellt him to the Ishmeleets for siller, as Judas did him.' + +'Did he beir the sins o' them 'at sellt him?' + +'Ye may say, in a mainner, 'at he did; for he was sair afflickit +afore he wan up to be the King's richt han'; an' syne he keepit a +hantle o' ill aff o' 's brithren.' + +'Sae, gran'mither, ither fowk nor Christ micht suffer for the sins +o' their neebors?' + +'Ay, laddie, mony a ane has to do that. But no to mak atonement, ye +ken. Naething but the sufferin' o' the spotless cud du that. The +Lord wadna be saitisfeet wi' less nor that. It maun be the innocent +to suffer for the guilty.' + +'I unnerstan' that,' said Robert, who had heard it so often that he +had not yet thought of trying to understand it. 'But gin we gang to +the gude place, we'll be a' innocent, willna we, grannie?' + +'Ay, that we will--washed spotless, and pure, and clean, and dressed +i' the weddin' garment, and set doon at the table wi' him and wi' +his Father. That's them 'at believes in him, ye ken.' + +'Of coorse, grannie.--Weel, ye see, I hae been thinkin' o' a plan +for maist han' toomin' (almost emptying) hell.' + +'What's i' the bairn's heid noo? Troth, ye're no blate, meddlin' +wi' sic subjecks, laddie!' + +'I didna want to say onything to vex ye, grannie. I s' gang on wi' +the chapter.' + +'Ow, say awa'. Ye sanna say muckle 'at's wrang afore I cry haud,' +said Mrs. Falconer, curious to know what had been moving in the +boy's mind, but watching him like a cat, ready to spring upon the +first visible hair of the old Adam. + +And Robert, recalling the outbreak of terrible grief which he had +heard on that memorable night, really thought that his project would +bring comfort to a mind burdened with such care, and went on with +the exposition of his plan. + +'A' them 'at sits doon to the supper o' the Lamb 'll sit there +because Christ suffert the punishment due to their sins--winna they, +grannie?' + +'Doobtless, laddie.' + +'But it'll he some sair upo' them to sit there aitin' an' drinkin' +an' talkin' awa', an' enjoyin' themsel's, whan ilka noo an' than +there'll come a sough o' wailin' up frae the ill place, an' a smell +o' burnin' ill to bide.' + +'What put that i' yer heid, laddie? There's no rizzon to think 'at +hell's sae near haven as a' that. The Lord forbid it!' + +'Weel, but, grannie, they'll ken 't a' the same, whether they smell +'t or no. An' I canna help thinkin' that the farrer awa' I thoucht +they war, the waur I wad like to think upo' them. 'Deed it wad be +waur.' + +'What are ye drivin' at, laddie? I canna unnerstan' ye,' said Mrs. +Falconer, feeling very uncomfortable, and yet curious, almost +anxious, to hear what would come next. 'I trust we winna hae to +think muckle--' + +But here, I presume, the thought of the added desolation of her +Andrew if she, too, were to forget him, as well as his Father in +heaven, checked the flow of her words. She paused, and Robert took +up his parable and went on, first with yet another question. + +'Duv ye think, grannie, that a body wad be allooed to speik a word +i' public, like, there--at the lang table, like, I mean?' + +'What for no, gin it was dune wi' moedesty, and for a guid rizzon? +But railly, laddie, I doobt ye're haverin' a'thegither. Ye hard +naething like that, I'm sure, the day, frae Mr. Maccleary.' + +'Na, na; he said naething aboot it. But maybe I'll gang and speir +at him, though.' + +'What aboot?' + +'What I'm gaein' to tell ye, grannie.' + +'Weel, tell awa', and hae dune wi' 't. I'm growin' tired o' 't.' + +It was something else than tired she was growing. + +'Weel, I'm gaein' to try a' that I can to win in there.' + +'I houp ye will. Strive and pray. Resist the deevil. Walk in the +licht. Lippen not to yersel', but trust in Christ and his +salvation.' + +'Ay, ay, grannie.--Weel--' + +'Are ye no dune yet?' + +'Na. I'm but jist beginnin'.' + +'Beginnin', are ye? Humph!' + +'Weel, gin I win in there, the verra first nicht I sit doon wi' the +lave o' them, I'm gaein' to rise up an' say--that is, gin the +Maister, at the heid o' the table, disna bid me sit doon--an' say: +"Brithers an' sisters, the haill o' ye, hearken to me for ae minute; +an', O Lord! gin I say wrang, jist tak the speech frae me, and I'll +sit doon dumb an' rebukit. We're a' here by grace and no by merit, +save his, as ye a' ken better nor I can tell ye, for ye hae been +langer here nor me. But it's jist ruggin' an' rivin' at my hert to +think o' them 'at's doon there. Maybe ye can hear them. I canna. +Noo, we hae nae merit, an' they hae nae merit, an' what for are we +here and them there? But we're washed clean and innocent noo; and +noo, whan there's no wyte lying upo' oursel's, it seems to me that +we micht beir some o' the sins o' them 'at hae ower mony. I call +upo' ilk ane o' ye 'at has a frien' or a neebor down yonner, to rise +up an' taste nor bite nor sup mair till we gang up a'thegither to +the fut o' the throne, and pray the Lord to lat's gang and du as the +Maister did afore 's, and beir their griefs, and cairry their +sorrows doon in hell there; gin it maybe that they may repent and +get remission o' their sins, an' come up here wi' us at the lang +last, and sit doon wi' 's at this table, a' throuw the merits o' oor +Saviour Jesus Christ, at the heid o' the table there. Amen."' + +Half ashamed of his long speech, half overcome by the feelings +fighting within him, and altogether bewildered, Robert burst out +crying like a baby, and ran out of the room--up to his own place of +meditation, where he threw himself on the floor. Shargar, who had +made neither head nor tail of it all, as he said afterwards, sat +staring at Mrs. Falconer. She rose, and going into Robert's little +bedroom, closed the door, and what she did there is not far to seek. + +When she came out, she rang the bell for tea, and sent Shargar to +look for Robert. When he appeared, she was so gentle to him that it +woke quite a new sensation in him. But after tea was over, she +said: + +'Noo, Robert, lat's hae nae mair o' this. Ye ken as weel 's I du +that them 'at gangs there their doom is fixed, and noething can +alter 't. An' we're not to alloo oor ain fancies to cairry 's ayont +the Scripter. We hae oor ain salvation to work oot wi' fear an' +trimlin'. We hae naething to do wi' what's hidden. Luik ye till 't +'at ye win in yersel'. That's eneuch for you to min'.--Shargar, ye +can gang to the kirk. Robert's to bide wi' me the nicht.' + +Mrs. Falconer very rarely went to church, for she could not hear a +word, and found it irksome. + +When Robert and she were alone together, + +'Laddie,' she said, 'be ye waure o' judgin' the Almichty. What +luiks to you a' wrang may be a' richt. But it's true eneuch 'at we +dinna ken a'thing; an' he's no deid yet--I dinna believe 'at he +is--and he'll maybe win in yet.' + +Here her voice failed her. And Robert had nothing to say now. He +had said all his say before. + +'Pray, Robert, pray for yer father, laddie,' she resumed; 'for we +hae muckle rizzon to be anxious aboot 'im. Pray while there's life +an' houp. Gie the Lord no rist. Pray till 'im day an' nicht, as I +du, that he wad lead 'im to see the error o' his ways, an' turn to +the Lord, wha's ready to pardon. Gin yer mother had lived, I wad +hae had mair houp, I confess, for she was a braw leddy and a bonny, +and that sweet-tongued! She cud hae wiled a maukin frae its lair +wi' her bonnie Hielan' speech. I never likit to hear nane o' them +speyk the Erse (Irish, that is, Gaelic), it was aye sae gloggie and +baneless; and I cudna unnerstan' ae word o' 't. Nae mair cud yer +father--hoot! yer gran'father, I mean--though his father cud speyk +it weel. But to hear yer mother--mamma, as ye used to ca' her aye, +efter the new fashion--to hear her speyk English, that was sweet to +the ear; for the braid Scotch she kent as little o' as I do o' the +Erse. It was hert's care aboot him that shortent her days. And a' +that'll be laid upo' him. He'll hae 't a' to beir an' accoont for. +Och hone! Och hone! Eh! Robert, my man, be a guid lad, an' serve +the Lord wi' a' yer hert, an' sowl, an' stren'th, an' min'; for gin +ye gang wrang, yer ain father 'll hae to beir naebody kens hoo +muckle o' the wyte o' 't, for he's dune naething to bring ye up i' +the way ye suld gang, an' haud ye oot o' the ill gait. For the sake +o' yer puir father, haud ye to the richt road. It may spare him a +pang or twa i' the ill place. Eh, gin the Lord wad only tak me, and +lat him gang!' + +Involuntarily and unconsciously the mother's love was adopting the +hope which she had denounced in her grandson. And Robert saw it, +but he was never the man when I knew him to push a victory. He said +nothing. Only a tear or two at the memory of the wayworn man, his +recollection of whose visit I have already recorded, rolled down his +cheeks. He was at such a distance from him!--such an impassable +gulf yawned between them!--that was the grief! Not the gulf of +death, nor the gulf that divides hell from heaven, but the gulf of +abjuration by the good because of his evil ways. His grandmother, +herself weeping fast and silently, with scarce altered countenance, +took her neatly-folded handkerchief from her pocket, and wiped her +grandson's fresh cheeks, then wiped her own withered face; and from +that moment Robert knew that he loved her. + +Then followed the Sabbath-evening prayer that she always offered +with the boy, whichever he was, who kept her company. They knelt +down together, side by side, in a certain corner of the room, the +same, I doubt not, in which she knelt at her private devotions, +before going to bed. There she uttered a long extempore prayer, +rapid in speech, full of divinity and Scripture-phrases, but not the +less earnest and simple, for it flowed from a heart of faith. Then +Robert had to pray after her, loud in her ear, that she might hear +him thoroughly, so that he often felt as if he were praying to her, +and not to God at all. + +She had begun to teach him to pray so early that the custom reached +beyond the confines of his memory. At first he had had to repeat +the words after her; but soon she made him construct his own +utterances, now and then giving him a suggestion in the form of a +petition when he seemed likely to break down, or putting a phrase +into what she considered more suitable language. But all such +assistance she had given up long ago. + +On the present occasion, after she had ended her petitions with +those for Jews and pagans, and especially for the 'Pop' o' Rom',' in +whom with a rare liberality she took the kindest interest, always +praying God to give him a good wife, though she knew perfectly well +the marriage-creed of the priesthood, for her faith in the hearer of +prayer scorned every theory but that in which she had herself been +born and bred, she turned to Robert with the usual 'Noo, Robert!' +and Robert began. But after he had gone on for some time with the +ordinary phrases, he turned all at once into a new track, and +instead of praying in general terms for 'those that would not walk +in the right way,' said, + +'O Lord! save my father,' and there paused. + +'If it be thy will,' suggested his grandmother. + +But Robert continued silent. His grandmother repeated the +subjunctive clause. + +'I'm tryin', grandmother,' said Robert, 'but I canna say 't. I +daurna say an if aboot it. It wad be like giein' in till 's +damnation. We maun hae him saved, grannie!' + +'Laddie! laddie! haud yer tongue!' said Mrs. Falconer, in a tone of +distressed awe. 'O Lord, forgie 'im. He's young and disna ken +better yet. He canna unnerstan' thy ways, nor, for that maitter, +can I preten' to unnerstan' them mysel'. But thoo art a' licht, and +in thee is no darkness at all. And thy licht comes into oor blin' +een, and mak's them blinner yet. But, O Lord, gin it wad please +thee to hear oor prayer...eh! hoo we wad praise thee! And my Andrew +wad praise thee mair nor ninety and nine o' them 'at need nae +repentance.' + +A long pause followed. And then the only words that would come +were: 'For Christ's sake. Amen.' + +When she said that God was light, instead of concluding therefrom +that he could not do the deeds of darkness, she was driven, from a +faith in the teaching of Jonathan Edwards as implicit as that of +'any lay papist of Loretto,' to doubt whether the deeds of darkness +were not after all deeds of light, or at least to conclude that +their character depended not on their own nature, but on who did +them. + +They rose from their knees, and Mrs. Falconer sat down by her fire, +with her feet on her little wooden stool, and began, as was her wont +in that household twilight, ere the lamp was lighted, to review her +past life, and follow her lost son through all conditions and +circumstances to her imaginable. And when the world to come arose +before her, clad in all the glories which her fancy, chilled by +education and years, could supply, it was but to vanish in the gloom +of the remembrance of him with whom she dared not hope to share its +blessedness. This at least was how Falconer afterwards interpreted +the sudden changes from gladness to gloom which he saw at such times +on her countenance. + +But while such a small portion of the universe of thought was +enlightened by the glowworm lamp of the theories she had been +taught, she was not limited for light to that feeble source. While +she walked on her way, the moon, unseen herself behind the clouds, +was illuminating the whole landscape so gently and evenly, that the +glowworm being the only visible point of radiance, to it she +attributed all the light. But she felt bound to go on believing as +she had been taught; for sometimes the most original mind has the +strongest sense of law upon it, and will, in default of a better, +obey a beggarly one--only till the higher law that swallows it up +manifests itself. Obedience was as essential an element of her +creed as of that of any purest-minded monk; neither being +sufficiently impressed with this: that, while obedience is the law +of the kingdom, it is of considerable importance that that which is +obeyed should be in very truth the will of God. It is one thing, and +a good thing, to do for God's sake that which is not his will: it is +another thing, and altogether a better thing--how much better, no +words can tell--to do for God's sake that which is his will. Mrs. +Falconer's submission and obedience led her to accept as the will of +God, lest she should be guilty of opposition to him, that which it +was anything but giving him honour to accept as such. Therefore her +love to God was too like the love of the slave or the dog; too +little like the love of the child, with whose obedience the Father +cannot be satisfied until he cares for his reason as the highest +form of his will. True, the child who most faithfully desires to +know the inward will or reason of the Father, will be the most ready +to obey without it; only for this obedience it is essential that the +apparent command at least be such as he can suppose attributable to +the Father. Of his own self he is bound to judge what is right, as +the Lord said. Had Abraham doubted whether it was in any case right +to slay his son, he would have been justified in doubting whether +God really required it of him, and would have been bound to delay +action until the arrival of more light. True, the will of God can +never be other than good; but I doubt if any man can ever be sure +that a thing is the will of God, save by seeing into its nature and +character, and beholding its goodness. Whatever God does must be +right, but are we sure that we know what he does? That which men +say he does may be very wrong indeed. + +This burden she in her turn laid upon Robert--not unkindly, but as +needful for his training towards well-being. Her way with him was +shaped after that which she recognized as God's way with her. 'Speir +nae questons, but gang an' du as ye're tellt.' And it was anything +but a bad lesson for the boy. It was one of the best he could have +had--that of authority. It is a grand thing to obey without asking +questions, so long as there is nothing evil in what is commanded. +Only grannie concealed her reasons without reason; and God makes no +secrets. Hence she seemed more stern and less sympathetic than she +really was. + +She sat with her feet on the little wooden stool, and Robert sat +beside her staring into the fire, till they heard the outer door +open, and Shargar and Betty come in from church. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +ROBERT'S MOTHER. + +Early on the following morning, while Mrs. Falconer, Robert, and +Shargar were at breakfast, Mr. Lammie came. He had delayed +communicating the intelligence he had received till he should be +more certain of its truth. Older than Andrew, he had been a great +friend of his father, and likewise of some of Mrs. Falconer's own +family. Therefore he was received with a kindly welcome. But there +was a cloud on his brow which in a moment revealed that his errand +was not a pleasant one. + +'I haena seen ye for a lang time, Mr. Lammie. Gae butt the hoose, +lads. Or I'm thinkin' it maun be schule-time. Sit ye doon, Mr. +Lammie, and lat's hear yer news.' + +'I cam frae Aberdeen last nicht, Mistress Faukner,' he began. + +'Ye haena been hame sin' syne?' she rejoined. + +'Na. I sleepit at The Boar's Heid.' + +'What for did ye that? What gart ye be at that expense, whan ye +kent I had a bed i' the ga'le-room?' + +'Weel, ye see, they're auld frien's o' mine, and I like to gang to +them whan I'm i' the gait o' 't.' + +'Weel, they're a fine faimily, the Miss Napers. And, I wat, sin' +they maun sell drink, they du 't wi' discretion. That's weel kent.' + +Possibly Mr. Lammie, remembering what then occurred, may have +thought the discretion a little in excess of the drink, but he had +other matters to occupy him now. For a few moments both were +silent. + +'There's been some ill news, they tell me, Mrs. Faukner,' he said at +length, when the silence had grown painful. + +'Humph!' returned the old lady, her face becoming stony with the +effort to suppress all emotion. 'Nae aboot Anerew?' + +''Deed is 't, mem. An' ill news, I'm sorry to say.' + +'Is he ta'en?' + +'Ay is he--by a jyler that winna tyne the grup.' + +'He's no deid, John Lammie? Dinna say 't.' + +'I maun say 't, Mrs. Faukner. I had it frae Dr. Anderson, yer ain +cousin. He hintit at it afore, but his last letter leaves nae room +to doobt upo' the subjeck. I'm unco sorry to be the beirer o' sic +ill news, Mrs. Faukner, but I had nae chice.' + +'Ohone! Ohone! the day o' grace is by at last! My puir Anerew!' +exclaimed Mrs. Falconer, and sat dumb thereafter. + +Mr. Lammie tried to comfort her with some of the usual comfortless +commonplaces. She neither wept nor replied, but sat with stony face +staring into her lap, till, seeing that she was as one that heareth +not, he rose and left her alone with her grief. A few minutes after +he was gone, she rang the bell, and told Betty in her usual voice to +send Robert to her. + +'He's gane to the schule, mem.' + +'Rin efter him, an' tell him to come hame.' + +When Robert appeared, wondering what his grandmother could want with +him, she said: + +'Close the door, Robert. I canna lat ye gang to the schule the day. +We maun lea' him oot noo.' + +'Lea' wha oot, grannie?' + +'Him, him--Anerew. Yer father, laddie. I think my hert 'll brak.' + +'Lea' him oot o' what, grannie? I dinna unnerstan' ye.' + +'Lea' him oot o' oor prayers, laddie, and I canna bide it.' + +'What for that?' + +'He's deid.' + +'Are ye sure?' + +'Ay, ower sure--ower sure, laddie.' + +'Weel, I dinna believe 't.' + +'What for that?' + +''Cause I winna believe 't. I'm no bund to believe 't, am I?' + +'What's the gude o' that? What for no believe 't? Dr. Anderson's +sent hame word o' 't to John Lammie. Och hone! och hone!' + +'I tell ye I winna believe 't, grannie, 'cep' God himsel' tells me. +As lang 's I dinna believe 'at he's deid, I can keep him i' my +prayers. I'm no gaein' to lea' him oot, I tell ye, grannie.' + +'Weel, laddie, I canna argue wi' ye. I hae nae hert til 't. I +doobt I maun greit! Come awa'.' + +She took him by the hand and rose, then let him go again, saying, + +'Sneck the door, laddie.' + +Robert bolted the door, and his grandmother again taking his hand, +led him to the usual corner. There they knelt down together, and +the old woman's prayer was one great and bitter cry for submission +to the divine will. She rose a little strengthened, if not +comforted, saying, + +'Ye maun pray yer lane, laddie. But oh be a guid lad, for ye're a' +that I hae left; and gin ye gang wrang tu, ye'll bring doon my gray +hairs wi' sorrow to the grave. They're gray eneuch, and they're +near eneuch to the grave, but gin ye turn oot weel, I'll maybe haud +up my heid a bit yet. But O Anerew! my son! my son! Would God I +had died for thee!' + +And the words of her brother in grief, the king of Israel, opened +the floodgates of her heart, and she wept. Robert left her weeping, +and closed the door quietly as if his dead father had been lying in +the room. + +He took his way up to his own garret, closed that door too, and sat +down upon the floor, with his back against the empty bedstead. + +There were no more castles to build now. It was all very well to +say that he would not believe the news and would pray for his +father, but he did believe them--enough at least to spoil the +praying. His favourite employment, seated there, had hitherto been +to imagine how he would grow a great man, and set out to seek his +father, and find him, and stand by him, and be his son and servant. +Oh! to have the man stroke his head and pat his cheek, and love +him! One moment he imagined himself his indignant defender, the +next he would be climbing on his knee, as if he were still a little +child, and laying his head on his shoulder. For he had had no +fondling his life long, and his heart yearned for it. But all this +was gone now. A dreary time lay before him, with nobody to please, +nobody to serve; with nobody to praise him. Grannie never praised +him. She must have thought praise something wicked. And his father +was in misery, for ever and ever! Only somehow that thought was not +quite thinkable. It was more the vanishing of hope from his own +life than a sense of his father's fate that oppressed him. + +He cast his eyes, as in a hungry despair, around the empty room--or, +rather, I should have said, in that faintness which makes food at +once essential and loathsome; for despair has no proper hunger in +it. The room seemed as empty as his life. There was nothing for +his eyes to rest upon but those bundles and bundles of dust-browned +papers on the shelves before him. What were they all about? He +understood that they were his father's: now that he was dead, it +would be no sacrilege to look at them. Nobody cared about them. He +would see at least what they were. It would be something to do in +this dreariness. + +Bills and receipts, and everything ephemeral--to feel the interest +of which, a man must be a poet indeed--was all that met his view. +Bundle after bundle he tried, with no better success. But as he +drew near the middle of the second shelf, upon which they lay +several rows deep, he saw something dark behind, hurriedly displaced +the packets between, and drew forth a small workbox. His heart beat +like that of the prince in the fairy-tale, when he comes to the door +of the Sleeping Beauty. This at least must have been hers. It was +a common little thing, probably a childish possession, and kept to +hold trifles worth more than they looked to be. He opened it with +bated breath. The first thing he saw was a half-finished reel of +cotton--a pirn, he called it. Beside it was a gold thimble. He +lifted the tray. A lovely face in miniature, with dark hair and +blue eyes, lay looking earnestly upward. At the lid of this coffin +those eyes had looked for so many years! The picture was set all +round with pearls in an oval ring. How Robert knew them to be +pearls he could not tell, for he did not know that he had ever seen +any pearls before, but he knew they were pearls, and that pearls had +something to do with the New Jerusalem. But the sadness of it all +at length overpowered him, and he burst out crying. For it was +awfully sad that his mother's portrait should be in his own mother's +box. + +He took a bit of red tape off a bundle of the papers, put it through +the eye of the setting, and hung the picture round his neck, inside +his clothes, for grannie must not see it. She would take that away +as she had taken his fiddle. He had a nameless something now for +which he had been longing for years. + +Looking again in the box, he found a little bit of paper, +discoloured with antiquity, as it seemed to him, though it was not +so old as himself. Unfolding it he found written upon it a +well-known hymn, and at the bottom of the hymn, the words: 'O Lord! +my heart is very sore.'--The treasure upon Robert's bosom was no +longer the symbol of a mother's love, but of a woman's sadness, +which he could not reach to comfort. In that hour, the boy made a +great stride towards manhood. Doubtless his mother's grief had been +the same as grannie's--the fear that she would lose her husband for +ever. The hourly fresh griefs from neglect and wrong did not occur +to him; only the never never more. He looked no farther, took the +portrait from his neck and replaced it with the paper, put the box +back, and walled it up in solitude once more with the dusty bundles. +Then he went down to his grandmother, sadder and more desolate than +ever. + +He found her seated in her usual place. Her New Testament, a +large-print octavo, lay on the table beside her unopened; for where +within those boards could she find comfort for a grief like hers? +That it was the will of God might well comfort any suffering of her +own, but would it comfort Andrew? and if there was no comfort for +Andrew, how was Andrew's mother to be comforted? + +Yet God had given his first-born to save his brethren: how could he +be pleased that she should dry her tears and be comforted? True, +some awful unknown force of a necessity with which God could not +cope came in to explain it; but this did not make God more kind, for +he knew it all every time he made a man; nor man less sorrowful, for +God would have his very mother forget him, or, worse still, remember +him and be happy. + +'Read a chapter till me, laddie,' she said. + +Robert opened and read till he came to the words: 'I pray not for +the world.' + +'He was o' the world,' said the old woman; 'and gin Christ wadna +pray for him, what for suld I?' + +Already, so soon after her son's death, would her theology begin to +harden her heart. The strife which results from believing that the +higher love demands the suppression of the lower, is the most +fearful of all discords, the absolute love slaying love--the house +divided against itself; one moment all given up for the will of Him, +the next the human tenderness rushing back in a flood. Mrs. +Falconer burst into a very agony of weeping. From that day, for +many years, the name of her lost Andrew never passed her lips in the +hearing of her grandson, and certainly in that of no one else. + +But in a few weeks she was more cheerful. It is one of the +mysteries of humanity that mothers in her circumstances, and holding +her creed, do regain not merely the faculty of going on with the +business of life, but, in most cases, even cheerfulness. The +infinite Truth, the Love of the universe, supports them beyond their +consciousness, coming to them like sleep from the roots of their +being, and having nothing to do with their opinions or beliefs. And +hence spring those comforting subterfuges of hope to which they all +fly. Not being able to trust the Father entirely, they yet say: +'Who can tell what took place at the last moment? Who can tell +whether God did not please to grant them saving faith at the +eleventh hour?'--that so they might pass from the very gates of +hell, the only place for which their life had fitted them, into the +bosom of love and purity! This God could do for all: this for the +son beloved of his mother perhaps he might do! + +O rebellious mother heart! dearer to God than that which beats +laboriously solemn under Genevan gown or Lutheran surplice! if thou +wouldst read by thine own large light, instead of the glimmer from +the phosphorescent brains of theologians, thou mightst even be able +to understand such a simple word as that of the Saviour, when, +wishing his disciples to know that he had a nearer regard for them +as his brethren in holier danger, than those who had not yet +partaken of his light, and therefore praying for them not merely as +human beings, but as the human beings they were, he said to his +Father in their hearing: 'I pray not for the world, but for +them,'--not for the world now, but for them--a meaningless +utterance, if he never prayed for the world; a word of small +meaning, if it was not his very wont and custom to pray for the +world--for men as men. Lord Christ! not alone from the pains of +hell, or of conscience--not alone from the outer darkness of self +and all that is mean and poor and low, do we fly to thee; but from +the anger that arises within us at the wretched words spoken in thy +name, at the degradation of thee and of thy Father in the mouths of +those that claim especially to have found thee, do we seek thy feet. +Pray thou for them also, for they know not what they do. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +MARY ST. JOHN. + +After this, day followed day in calm, dull progress. Robert did not +care for the games through which his school-fellows forgot the +little they had to forget, and had therefore few in any sense his +companions. So he passed his time out of school in the society of +his grandmother and Shargar, except that spent in the garret, and +the few hours a week occupied by the lessons of the shoemaker. For +he went on, though half-heartedly, with those lessons, given now +upon Sandy's redeemed violin which he called his old wife, and made +a little progress even, as we sometimes do when we least think it. + +He took more and more to brooding in the garret; and as more +questions presented themselves for solution, he became more anxious +to arrive at the solution, and more uneasy as he failed in +satisfying himself that he had arrived at it; so that his brain, +which needed quiet for the true formation of its substance, as a +cooling liquefaction or an evaporating solution for the just +formation of its crystals, became in danger of settling into an +abnormal arrangement of the cellular deposits. + +I believe that even the new-born infant is, in some of his moods, +already grappling with the deepest metaphysical problems, in forms +infinitely too rudimental for the understanding of the grown +philosopher--as far, in fact, removed from his ken on the one side, +that of intelligential beginning, the germinal subjective, as his +abstrusest speculations are from the final solutions of absolute +entity on the other. If this be the case, it is no wonder that at +Robert's age the deepest questions of his coming manhood should be +in active operation, although so surrounded with the yoke of common +belief and the shell of accredited authority, that the embryo faith, +which in minds like his always takes the form of doubt, could not be +defined any more than its existence could be disproved. I have +given a hint at the tendency of his mind already, in the fact that +one of the most definite inquiries to which he had yet turned his +thoughts was, whether God would have mercy upon a repentant devil. +An ordinary puzzle had been--if his father were to marry again, and +it should turn out after all that his mother was not dead, what was +his father to do? But this was over now. A third was, why, when he +came out of church, sunshine always made him miserable, and he felt +better able to be good when it rained or snowed hard. I might +mention the inquiry whether it was not possible somehow to elude the +omniscience of God; but that is a common question with thoughtful +children, and indicates little that is characteristic of the +individual. That he puzzled himself about the perpetual motion may +pass for little likewise; but one thing which is worth mentioning, +for indeed it caused him considerable distress, was, that in reading +the Paradise Lost he could not help sympathizing with Satan, and +feeling--I do not say thinking--that the Almighty was pompous, +scarcely reasonable, and somewhat revengeful. + +He was recognized amongst his school-fellows as remarkable for his +love of fair-play; so much so, that he was their constant referee. +Add to this that, notwithstanding his sympathy with Satan, he +almost invariably sided with his master, in regard of any angry +reflection or seditious movement, and even when unjustly punished +himself, the occasional result of a certain backwardness in +self-defence, never showed any resentment--a most improbable +statement, I admit, but nevertheless true--and I think the rest of +his character may be left to the gradual dawn of its historical +manifestation. + +He had long ere this discovered who the angel was that had appeared +to him at the top of the stair upon that memorable night; but he +could hardly yet say that he had seen her; for, except one dim +glimpse he had had of her at the window as he passed in the street, +she had not appeared to him save in the vision of that night. +During the whole winter she scarcely left the house, partly from +the state of her health, affected by the sudden change to a northern +climate, partly from the attention required by her aunt, to aid in +nursing whom she had left the warmer south. Indeed, it was only to +return the visits of a few of Mrs. Forsyth's chosen, that she had +crossed the threshold at all; and those visits were paid at a time +when all such half-grown inhabitants as Robert were gathered under +the leathery wing of Mr. Innes. + +But long before the winter was over, Rothieden had discovered that +the stranger, the English lady, Mary St. John, outlandish, almost +heathenish as her lovely name sounded in its ears, had a power as +altogether strange and new as her name. For she was not only an +admirable performer on the pianoforte, but such a simple enthusiast +in music, that the man must have had no music or little heart in him +in whom her playing did not move all that there was of the deepest. + +Occasionally there would be quite a small crowd gathered at night by +the window of Mrs. Forsyth's drawing-room, which was on the +ground-floor, listening to music such as had never before been heard +in Rothieden. More than once, when Robert had not found Sandy +Elshender at home on the lesson-night, and had gone to seek him, he +had discovered him lying in wait, like a fowler, to catch the sweet +sounds that flew from the opened cage of her instrument. He leaned +against the wall with his ear laid over the edge, and as near the +window as he dared to put it, his rough face, gnarled and blotched, +and hirsute with the stubble of neglected beard--his whole ursine +face transfigured by the passage of the sweet sounds through his +chaotic brain, which they swept like the wind of God, when of old it +moved on the face of the waters that clothed the void and formless +world. + +'Haud yer tongue!' he would say in a hoarse whisper, when Robert +sought to attract his attention; 'haud yer tongue, man, and hearken. +Gin yon bonny leddy 'at yer grannie keeps lockit up i' the aumry +war to tak to the piano, that's jist hoo she wad play. Lord, man! +pit yer sowl i' yer lugs, an' hearken.' + +The soutar was all wrong in this; for if old Mr. Falconer's violin +had taken woman-shape, it would have been that of a slight, worn, +swarthy creature, with wild black eyes, great and restless, a voice +like a bird's, and thin fingers that clawed the music out of the +wires like the quills of the old harpsichord; not that of Mary St. +John, who was tall, and could not help being stately, was large and +well-fashioned, as full of repose as Handel's music, with a +contralto voice to make you weep, and eyes that would have seemed +but for their maidenliness to be always ready to fold you in their +lucid gray depths. + +Robert stared at the soutar, doubting at first whether he had not +been drinking. But the intoxication of music produces such a +different expression from that of drink, that Robert saw at once +that if he had indeed been drinking, at least the music had got +above the drink. As long as the playing went on, Elshender was not +to be moved from the window. + +But to many of the people of Rothieden the music did not recommend +the musician; for every sort of music, except the most unmusical of +psalm-singing, was in their minds of a piece with 'dancin' an' +play-actin', an' ither warldly vainities an' abominations.' And +Robert, being as yet more capable of melody than harmony, grudged to +lose a lesson on Sandy's 'auld wife o' a fiddle' for any amount of +Miss St. John's playing. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +ERIC ERICSON. + +One gusty evening--it was of the last day in March--Robert well +remembered both the date and the day--a bleak wind was driving up +the long street of the town, and Robert was standing looking out of +one of the windows in the gable-room. The evening was closing into +night. He hardly knew how he came to he there, but when he thought +about it he found it was play-Wednesday, and that he had been all +the half-holiday trying one thing after another to interest himself +withhal, but in vain. He knew nothing about east winds; but not the +less did this dreary wind of the dreary March world prove itself +upon his soul. For such a wind has a shadow wind along with it, +that blows in the minds of men. There was nothing genial, no growth +in it. It killed, and killed most dogmatically. But it is an ill +wind that blows nobody good. Even an east wind must bear some +blessing on its ugly wings. And as Robert looked down from the +gable, the wind was blowing up the street before it half-a-dozen +footfaring students from Aberdeen, on their way home at the close of +the session, probably to the farm-labours of the spring. + +This was a glad sight, as that of the returning storks in Denmark. +Robert knew where they would put up, sought his cap, and went out. +His grandmother never objected to his going to see Miss Napier; it +was in her house that the weary men would this night rest. + +It was not without reason that Lord Rothie had teased his hostess +about receiving foot-passengers, for to such it was her invariable +custom to make some civil excuse, sending Meg or Peggy to show them +over the way to the hostelry next in rank, a proceeding recognized +by the inferior hostess as both just and friendly, for the good +woman never thought of measuring The Star against The Boar's Head. +More than one comical story had been the result of this law of The +Boar's Head, unalterable almost as that of the Medes and Persians. +I say almost, for to one class of the footfaring community the +official ice about the hearts of the three women did thaw, yielding +passage to a full river of hospitality and generosity; and that was +the class to which these wayfarers belonged. + +Well may Scotland rejoice in her universities, for whatever may be +said against their system--I have no complaint to make--they are +divine in their freedom: men who follow the plough in the spring and +reap the harvest in the autumn, may, and often do, frequent their +sacred precincts when the winter comes--so fierce, yet so +welcome--so severe, yet so blessed--opening for them the doors to +yet harder toil and yet poorer fare. I fear, however, that of such +there will be fewer and fewer, seeing one class which supplied a +portion of them has almost vanished from the country--that class +which was its truest, simplest, and noblest strength--that class +which at one time rendered it something far other than ridicule to +say that Scotland was pre-eminently a God-fearing nation--I mean the +class of cottars. + +Of this class were some of the footfaring company. But there were +others of more means than the men of this lowly origin, who either +could not afford to travel by the expensive coaches, or could find +none to accommodate them. Possibly some preferred to walk. However +this may have been, the various groups which at the beginning and +close of the session passed through Rothieden weary and footsore, +were sure of a hearty welcome at The Boar's Head. And much the men +needed it. Some of them would have walked between one and two +hundred miles before completing their journey. + +Robert made a circuit, and, fleet of foot, was in Miss Napier's +parlour before the travellers made their appearance on the square. +When they knocked at the door, Miss Letty herself went and opened +it. + +'Can ye tak 's in, mem?' was on the lips of their spokesman, but +Miss Letty had the first word. + +'Come in, come in, gentlemen. This is the first o' ye, and ye're +the mair welcome. It's like seein' the first o' the swallows. An' +sic a day as ye hae had for yer lang traivel!' she went on, leading +the way to her sister's parlour, and followed by all the students, +of whom the one that came hindmost was the most remarkable of the +group--at the same time the most weary and downcast. + +Miss Napier gave them a similar welcome, shaking hands with every +one of them. She knew them all but the last. To him she +involuntarily showed a more formal respect, partly from his +appearance, and partly that she had never seen him before. The +whisky-bottle was brought out, and all partook, save still the last. +Miss Lizzie went to order their supper. + +'Noo, gentlemen,' said Miss Letty, 'wad ony o' ye like to gang an' +change yer hose, and pit on a pair o' slippers?' + +Several declined, saying they would wait until they had had their +supper; the roads had been quite dry, &c., &c. One said he would, +and another said his feet were blistered. + +'Hoot awa'!'2 exclaimed Miss Letty.--'Here, Peggy!' she cried, going +to the door; 'tak a pail o' het watter up to the chackit room. Jist +ye gang up, Mr. Cameron, and Peggy 'll see to yer feet.--Noo, sir, +will ye gang to yer room an' mak yersel' comfortable?--jist as gin +ye war at hame, for sae ye are.' + +She addressed the stranger thus. He replied in a low indifferent +tone, + +'No, thank you; I must be off again directly.' + +He was from Caithness, and talked no Scotch. + +''Deed, sir, ye'll do naething o' the kin'. Here ye s' bide, tho' I +suld lock the door.' + +'Come, come, Ericson, none o' your nonsense!' said one of his +fellows. 'Ye ken yer feet are sae blistered ye can hardly put ane by +the ither.--It was a' we cud du, mem, to get him alang the last +mile.' + +'That s' be my business, than,' concluded Miss Letty. + +She left the room, and returning in a few minutes, said, as a matter +of course, but with authority, + +'Mr. Ericson, ye maun come wi' me.' + +Then she hesitated a little. Was it maidenliness in the waning +woman of five-and-forty? It was, I believe; for how can a woman +always remember how old she is? If ever there was a young soul in +God's world, it was Letty Napier. And the young man was tall and +stately as a Scandinavian chief, with a look of command, tempered +with patient endurance, in his eagle face, for he was more like an +eagle than any other creature, and in his countenance signs of +suffering. Miss Letty seeing this, was moved, and her heart +swelled, and she grew conscious and shy, and turning to Robert, +said, + +'Come up the stair wi' 's, Robert; I may want ye.' + +Robert jumped to his feet. His heart too had been yearning towards +the stranger. + +As if yielding to the inevitable, Ericson rose and followed Miss +Letty. But when they had reached the room, and the door was shut +behind them, and Miss Letty pointed to a chair beside which stood a +little wooden tub full of hot water, saying, 'Sit ye doon there, Mr. +Ericson,' he drew himself up, all but his graciously-bowed head, and +said, + +'Ma'am, I must tell you that I followed the rest in here from the +very stupidity of weariness. I have not a shilling in my pocket.' + +'God bless me!' said Miss Letty--and God did bless her, I am +sure--'we maun see to the feet first. What wad ye du wi' a shillin' +gin ye had it? Wad ye clap ane upo' ilka blister?' + +Ericson burst out laughing, and sat down. But still he hesitated. + +'Aff wi' yer shune, sir. Duv ye think I can wash yer feet throu +ben' leather?' said Miss Letty, not disdaining to advance her +fingers to a shoe-tie. + +'But I'm ashamed. My stockings are all in holes.' + +'Weel, ye s' get a clean pair to put on the morn, an' I'll darn them +'at ye hae on, gin they be worth darnin', afore ye gang--an' what +are ye sae camstairie (unmanageable) for? A body wad think ye had a +clo'en fit in ilk ane o' thae bits o' shune o' yours. I winna +promise to please yer mither wi' my darnin' though.' + +'I have no mother to find fault with it,' said Ericson. + +'Weel, a sister's waur.' + +'I have no sister, either.' + +This was too much for Miss Letty. She could keep up the bravado of +humour no longer. She fairly burst out crying. In a moment more +the shoes and stockings were off, and the blisters in the hot water. +Miss Letty's tears dropped into the tub, and the salt in them did +not hurt the feet with which she busied herself, more than was +necessary, to hide them. + +But no sooner had she recovered herself than she resumed her former +tone. + +'A shillin'! said ye? An' a' thae greedy gleds (kites) o' +professors to pay, that live upo' the verra blude and banes o' +sair-vroucht students! Hoo cud ye hae a shillin' ower? Troth, it's +nae wonner ye haena ane left. An' a' the merchan's there jist +leevin' upo' ye! Lord hae a care o' 's! sic bonnie feet!--Wi' +blisters I mean. I never saw sic a sicht o' raw puddin's in my +life. Ye're no fit to come doon the stair again.' + +All the time she was tenderly washing and bathing the weary feet. +When she had dressed them and tied them up, she took the tub of +water and carried it away, but turned at the door. + +'Ye'll jist mak up yer min' to bide a twa three days,' she said; +'for thae feet cudna bide to be carried, no to say to carry a weicht +like you. There's naebody to luik for ye, ye ken. An' ye're no to +come doon the nicht. I'll sen' up yer supper. And Robert there 'll +bide and keep ye company.' + +She vanished; and a moment after, Peggy appeared with a +salamander--that is a huge poker, ending not in a point, but a +red-hot ace of spades--which she thrust between the bars of the +grate, into the heart of a nest of brushwood. Presently a cheerful +fire illuminated the room. + +Ericson was seated on one chair, with his feet on another, his head +sunk on his bosom, and his eyes thinking. There was something about +him almost as powerfully attractive to Robert as it had been to Miss +Letty. So he sat gazing at him, and longing for a chance of doing +something for him. He had reverence already, and some love, but he +had never felt at all as he felt towards this man. Nor was it as +the Chinese puzzlers called Scotch metaphysicians, might have +represented it--a combination of love and reverence. It was the +recognition of the eternal brotherhood between him and one nobler +than himself--hence a lovely eager worship. + +Seeing Ericson look about him as if he wanted something, Robert +started to his feet. + +'Is there onything ye want, Mr. Ericson?' he said, with service +standing in his eyes. + +'A small bundle I think I brought up with me,' replied the youth. + +It was not there. Robert rushed down-stairs, and returned with +it--a nightshirt and a hairbrush or so, tied up in a blue cotton +handkerchief. This was all that Robert was able to do for Ericson +that evening. + +He went home and dreamed about him. He called at The Boar's Head +the next morning before going to school, but Ericson was not yet up. +When he called again as soon as morning school was over, he found +that they had persuaded him to keep his bed, but Miss Letty took him +up to his room. He looked better, was pleased to see Robert, and +spoke to him kindly. Twice yet Robert called to inquire after him +that day, and once more he saw him, for he took his tea up to him. + +The next day Ericson was much better, received Robert with a smile, +and went out with him for a stroll, for all his companions were +gone, and of some students who had arrived since he did not know +any. Robert took him to his grandmother, who received him with +stately kindness. Then they went out again, and passed the windows +of Captain Forsyth's house. Mary St. John was playing. They stood +for a moment, almost involuntarily, to listen. She ceased. + +'That's the music of the spheres,' said Ericson, in a low voice, as +they moved on. + +'Will you tell me what that means?' asked Robert. 'I've come upon 't +ower an' ower in Milton.' + +Thereupon Ericson explained to him what Pythagoras had taught about +the stars moving in their great orbits with sounds of awful harmony, +too grandly loud for the human organ to vibrate in response to their +music--hence unheard of men. And Ericson spoke as if he believed +it. But after he had spoken, his face grew sadder than ever; and, +as if to change the subject, he said, abruptly, + +'What a fine old lady your grandmother is, Robert!' + +'Is she?' returned Robert. + +'I don't mean to say she's like Miss Letty,' said Ericson. 'She's an +angel!' + +A long pause followed. Robert's thoughts went roaming in their +usual haunts. + +'Do you think, Mr. Ericson,' he said, at length, taking up the old +question still floating unanswered in his mind, 'do you think if a +devil was to repent God would forgive him?' + +Ericson turned and looked at him. Their eyes met. The youth +wondered at the boy. He had recognized in him a younger brother, +one who had begun to ask questions, calling them out into the deaf +and dumb abyss of the universe. + +'If God was as good as I would like him to be, the devils themselves +would repent,' he said, turning away. + +Then he turned again, and looking down upon Robert like a sorrowful +eagle from a crag over its harried nest, said, + +'If I only knew that God was as good as--that woman, I should die +content.' + +Robert heard words of blasphemy from the mouth of an angel, but his +respect for Ericson compelled a reply. + +'What woman, Mr. Ericson?' he asked. + +'I mean Miss Letty, of course.' + +'But surely ye dinna think God's nae as guid as she is? Surely he's +as good as he can be. He is good, ye ken.' + +'Oh, yes. They say so. And then they tell you something about him +that isn't good, and go on calling him good all the same. But +calling anybody good doesn't make him good, you know.' + +'Then ye dinna believe 'at God is good, Mr. Ericson?' said Robert, +choking with a strange mingling of horror and hope. + +'I didn't say that, my boy. But to know that God was good, and +fair, and kind--heartily, I mean, not half-ways, and with ifs and +buts--my boy, there would be nothing left to be miserable about.' + +In a momentary flash of thought, Robert wondered whether this might +not be his old friend, the repentant angel, sent to earth as a man, +that he might have a share in the redemption, and work out his own +salvation. And from this very moment the thoughts about God that +had hitherto been moving in formless solution in his mind began +slowly to crystallize. + +The next day, Eric Ericson, not without a piece in ae pouch and +money in another, took his way home, if home it could be called +where neither father, mother, brother, nor sister awaited his +return. For a season Robert saw him no more. + +As often as his name was mentioned, Miss Letty's eyes would grow +hazy, and as often she would make some comical remark. + +'Puir fallow!' she would say, 'he was ower lang-leggit for this +warld.' + +Or again: + +'Ay, he was a braw chield. But he canna live. His feet's ower +sma'.' + +Or yet again: + +'Saw ye ever sic a gowk, to mak sic a wark aboot sittin' doon an' +haein' his feet washed, as gin that cost a body onything!' + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +MR. LAMMIE'S FARM. + +One of the first warm mornings in the beginning of summer, the boy +woke early, and lay awake, as was his custom, thinking. The sun, in +all the indescribable purity of its morning light, had kindled a +spot of brilliance just about where his grannie's head must be lying +asleep in its sad thoughts, on the opposite side of the partition. + +He lay looking at the light. There came a gentle tapping at his +window. A long streamer of honeysuckle, not yet in blossom, but +alive with the life of the summer, was blown by the air of the +morning against his window-pane, as if calling him to get up and +look out. He did get up and look out. + +But he started back in such haste that he fell against the side of +his bed. Within a few yards of his window, bending over a bush, was +the loveliest face he had ever seen--the only face, in fact, he had +ever yet felt to be beautiful. For the window looked directly into +the garden of the next house: its honeysuckle tapped at his window, +its sweet-peas grew against his window-sill. It was the face of the +angel of that night; but how different when illuminated by the +morning sun from then, when lighted up by a chamber-candle! The +first thought that came to him was the half-ludicrous, all-fantastic +idea of the shoemaker about his grandfather's violin being a woman. +A vaguest dream-vision of her having escaped from his grandmother's +aumrie (store-closet), and wandering free amidst the wind and among +the flowers, crossed his mind before he had recovered sufficiently +from his surprise to prevent Fancy from cutting any more of those +too ridiculous capers in which she indulged at will in sleep, and as +often besides as she can get away from the spectacles of old Grannie +Judgment. + +But the music of her revelation was not that of the violin; and +Robert vaguely felt this, though he searched no further for a +fitting instrument to represent her. If he had heard the organ +indeed!--but he knew no instrument save the violin: the piano he had +only heard through the window. For a few moments her face brooded +over the bush, and her long, finely-modelled fingers travelled about +it as if they were creating a flower upon it--probably they were +assisting the birth or blowing of some beauty--and then she raised +herself with a lingering look, and vanished from the field of the +window. + +But ever after this, when the evening grew dark, Robert would steal +out of the house, leaving his book open by his grannie's lamp, that +its patient expansion might seem to say, 'He will come back +presently,' and dart round the corner with quick quiet step, to hear +if Miss St. John was playing. If she was not, he would return to +the Sabbath stillness of the parlour, where his grandmother sat +meditating or reading, and Shargar sat brooding over the freedom of +the old days ere Mrs. Falconer had begun to reclaim him. There he +would seat himself once more at his book--to rise again ere another +hour had gone by, and hearken yet again at her window whether the +stream might not be flowing now. If he found her at her instrument +he would stand listening in earnest delight, until the fear of being +missed drove him in: this secret too might be discovered, and this +enchantress too sent, by the decree of his grandmother, into the +limbo of vanities. Thus strangely did his evening life oscillate +between the two peaceful negations of grannie's parlour and the +vital gladness of the unknown lady's window. And skilfully did he +manage his retreats and returns, curtailing his absences with such +moderation that, for a long time, they awoke no suspicion in the +mind of his grandmother. + +I suspect myself that the old lady thought he had gone to his +prayers in the garret. And I believe she thought that he was +praying for his dead father; with which most papistical, and, +therefore, most unchristian observance, she yet dared not interfere, +because she expected Robert to defend himself triumphantly with the +simple assertion that he did not believe his father was dead. +Possibly the mother was not sorry that her poor son should be +prayed for, in case he might be alive after all, though she could no +longer do so herself--not merely dared not, but persuaded herself +that she would not. Robert, however, was convinced enough, and +hopeless enough, by this time, and had even less temptation to break +the twentieth commandment by praying for the dead, than his +grandmother had; for with all his imaginative outgoings after his +father, his love to him was as yet, compared to that father's +mother's, 'as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine.' + +Shargar would glance up at him with a queer look as he came in from +these excursions, drop his head over his task again, look busy and +miserable, and all would glide on as before. + +When the first really summer weather came, Mr. Lammie one day paid +Mrs. Falconer a second visit. He had not been able to get over the +remembrance of the desolation in which he had left her. But he +could do nothing for her, he thought, till it was warm weather. He +was accompanied by his daughter, a woman approaching the further +verge of youth, bulky and florid, and as full of tenderness as her +large frame could hold. After much, and, for a long time, +apparently useless persuasion, they at last believed they had +prevailed upon her to pay them a visit for a fortnight. But she had +only retreated within another of her defences. + +'I canna leave thae twa laddies alane. They wad be up to a' +mischeef.' + +'There's Betty to luik efter them,' suggested Miss Lammie. + +'Betty!' returned Mrs. Falconer, with scorn. 'Betty's naething but a +bairn hersel'--muckler and waur faured (worse favoured).' + +'But what for shouldna ye fess the lads wi' ye?' suggested Mr. +Lammie. + +'I hae no richt to burden you wi' them.' + +'Weel, I hae aften wonnert what gart ye burden yersel' wi' that +Shargar, as I understan' they ca' him,' said Mr. Lammie. + +'Jist naething but a bit o' greed,' returned the old lady, with the +nearest approach to a smile that had shown itself upon her face +since Mr. Lammie's last visit. + +'I dinna understan' that, Mistress Faukner,' said Miss Lammie. + +'I'm sae sure o' haein' 't back again, ye ken,--wi' interest,' +returned Mrs. Falconer. + +'Hoo's that? His father winna con ye ony thanks for haudin' him in +life.' + +'He that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord, ye ken, Miss +Lammie.' + +'Atweel, gin ye like to lippen to that bank, nae doobt ae way or +anither it'll gang to yer accoont,' said Miss Lammie. + +'It wad ill become us, ony gait,' said her father, 'nae to gie him +shelter for your sake, Mrs. Faukner, no to mention ither names, sin' +it's yer wull to mak the puir lad ane o' the family.--They say his +ain mither's run awa' an' left him.' + +''Deed she's dune that.' + +'Can ye mak onything o' 'im?' + +'He's douce eneuch. An' Robert says he does nae that ill at the +schuil.' + +'Weel, jist fess him wi' ye. We'll hae some place or ither to put +him intil, gin it suld be only a shak'-doon upo' the flure.' + +'Na, na. There's the schuilin'--what's to be dune wi' that?' + +'They can gang i' the mornin', and get their denner wi' Betty here; +and syne come hame to their fower-hoors (four o'clock tea) whan the +schule's ower i' the efternune. 'Deed, mem, ye maun jist come for +the sake o' the auld frien'ship atween the faimilies.' + +'Weel, gin it maun be sae, it maun be sae,' yielded Mrs. Falconer, +with a sigh. + +She had not left her own house for a single night for ten years. +Nor is it likely she would have now given in, for immovableness was +one of the most marked of her characteristics, had she not been so +broken by mental suffering, that she did not care much about +anything, least of all about herself. + +Innumerable were the instructions in propriety of behaviour which +she gave the boys in prospect of this visit. The probability being +that they would behave just as well as at home, these instructions +were considerably unnecessary, for Mrs. Falconer was a strict +enforcer of all social rules. Scarcely less unnecessary were the +directions she gave as to the conduct of Betty, who received them +all in erect submission, with her hands under her apron. She ought +to have been a young girl instead of an elderly woman, if there was +any propriety in the way her mistress spoke to her. It proved at +least her own belief in the description she had given of her to Miss +Lammie. + +'Noo, Betty, ye maun be dooce. An' dinna stan' at the door i' the +gloamin'. An' dinna stan' claikin' an' jawin' wi' the ither lasses +whan ye gang to the wall for watter. An' whan ye gang intil a chop, +dinna hae them sayin' ahint yer back, as sune's yer oot again, +"She's her ain mistress by way o'," or sic like. An' min' ye hae +worship wi' yersel', whan I'm nae here to hae 't wi' ye. Ye can +come benn to the parlour gin ye like. An' there's my muckle +Testament. And dinna gie the lads a' thing they want. Gie them +plenty to ait, but no ower muckle. Fowk suld aye lea' aff wi' an +eppiteet.' + +Mr. Lammie brought his gig at last, and took grannie away to +Bodyfauld. When the boys returned from school at the dinner-hour, +it was to exult in a freedom which Robert had never imagined before. +But even he could not know what a relief it was to Shargar to eat +without the awfully calm eyes of Mrs. Falconer watching, as it +seemed to him, the progress of every mouthful down that capacious +throat of his. The old lady would have been shocked to learn how +the imagination of the ill-mothered lad interpreted her care over +him, but she would not have been surprised to know that the two were +merry in her absence. She knew that, in some of her own moods, it +would be a relief to think that that awful eye of God was not upon +her. But she little thought that even in the lawless proceedings +about to follow, her Robert, who now felt such a relief in her +absence, would be walking straight on, though blindly, towards a +sunrise of faith, in which he would know that for the eye of his God +to turn away from him for one moment would be the horror of the +outer darkness. + +Merriment, however, was not in Robert's thoughts, and still less was +mischief. For the latter, whatever his grandmother might think, he +had no capacity. The world was already too serious, and was soon to +be too beautiful for mischief. After that, it would be too sad, and +then, finally, until death, too solemn glad. The moment he heard of +his grandmother's intended visit, one wild hope and desire and +intent had arisen within him. + +When Betty came to the parlour door to lay the cloth for their +dinner, she found it locked. + +'Open the door!' she cried, but cried in vain. From impatience she +passed to passion; but it was of no avail: there came no more +response than from the shrine of the deaf Baal. For to the boys it +was an opportunity not at any risk to be lost. Dull Betty never +suspected what they were about. They were ranging the place like +two tiger-cats whose whelps had been carried off in their +absence--questing, with nose to earth and tail in air, for the scent +of their enemy. My simile has carried me too far: it was only a +dead old gentleman's violin that a couple of boys was after--but +with what eagerness, and, on the part of Robert, what alternations +of hope and fear! And Shargar was always the reflex of Robert, so +far as Shargar could reflect Robert. Sometimes Robert would stop, +stand still in the middle of the room, cast a mathematical glance of +survey over its cubic contents, and then dart off in another +inwardly suggested direction of search. Shargar, on the other hand, +appeared to rummage blindly without a notion of casting the +illumination of thought upon the field of search. Yet to him fell +the success. When hope was growing dim, after an hour and a half of +vain endeavour, a scream of utter discordance heralded the +resurrection of the lady of harmony. Taught by his experience of +his wild mother's habits to guess at those of douce Mrs. Falconer, +Shargar had found the instrument in her bed at the foot, between the +feathers and the mattress. For one happy moment Shargar was the +benefactor, and Robert the grateful recipient of favour. Nor, I do +believe, was this thread of the still thickening cable that bound +them ever forgotten: broken it could not be. + +Robert drew the recovered treasure from its concealment, opened the +case with trembling eagerness, and was stooping, with one hand on +the neck of the violin, and the other on the bow, to lift them from +it, when Shargar stopped him. + +His success had given him such dignity, that for once he dared to +act from himself. + +'Betty 'll hear ye,' he said. + +'What care I for Betty? She daurna tell. I ken hoo to manage her.' + +'But wadna 't be better 'at she didna ken?' + +'She's sure to fin' oot whan she mak's the bed. She turns 't ower +and ower jist like a muckle tyke (dog) worryin' a rottan (rat).' + +'De'il a bit o' her s' be a hair wiser! Ye dinna play tunes upo' +the boxie, man.' + +Robert caught at the idea. He lifted the 'bonny leddy' from her +coffin; and while he was absorbed in the contemplation of her risen +beauty, Shargar laid his hands on Boston's Four-fold State, the +torment of his life on the Sunday evenings which it was his turn to +spend with Mrs. Falconer, and threw it as an offering to the powers +of Hades into the case, which he then buried carefully, with the +feather-bed for mould, the blankets for sod, and the counterpane +studiously arranged for stone, over it. He took heed, however, not +to let Robert know of the substitution of Boston for the fiddle, +because he knew Robert could not tell a lie. Therefore, when he +murmured over the volume some of its own words which he had read the +preceding Sunday, it was in a quite inaudible whisper: 'Now is it +good for nothing but to cumber the ground, and furnish fuel for +Tophet.' + +Robert must now hide the violin better than his grannie had done, +while at the same time it was a more delicate necessity, seeing it +had lost its shell, and he shrunk from putting her in the power of +the shoemaker again. It cost him much trouble to fix on the place +that was least unsuitable. First he put it into the well of the +clock-case, but instantly bethought him what the awful consequence +would be if one of the weights should fall from the gradual decay of +its cord. He had heard of such a thing happening. Then he would +put it into his own place of dreams and meditations. But what if +Betty should take a fancy to change her bed? or some friend of his +grannie's should come to spend the night? How would the bonny leddy +like it? What a risk she would run! If he put her under the bed, +the mice would get at her strings--nay, perhaps, knaw a hole right +through her beautiful body. On the top of the clock, the brass +eagle with outspread wings might scratch her, and there was not +space to conceal her. At length he concluded--wrapped her in a +piece of paper, and placed her on the top of the chintz tester of +his bed, where there was just room between it and the ceiling: that +would serve till he bore her to some better sanctuary. In the +meantime she was safe, and the boy was the blessedest boy in +creation. + +These things done, they were just in the humour to have a lark with +Betty. So they unbolted the door, rang the bell, and when Betty +appeared, red-faced and wrathful, asked her very gravely and +politely whether they were not going to have some dinner before they +went back to school: they had now but twenty minutes left. Betty +was so dumfoundered with their impudence that she could not say a +word. She did make haste with the dinner, though, and revealed her +indignation only in her manner of putting the things on the table. +As the boys left her, Robert contented himself with the single +hint: + +'Betty, Bodyfauld 's i' the perris o' Kettledrum. Min' ye that.' + +Betty glowered and said nothing. + +But the delight of the walk of three miles over hill and dale and +moor and farm to Mr. Lammie's! The boys, if not as wild as +colts--that is, as wild as most boys would have been--were only the +more deeply excited. That first summer walk, with a goal before +them, in all the freshness of the perfecting year, was something +which to remember in after days was to Falconer nothing short of +ecstasy. The westering sun threw long shadows before them as they +trudged away eastward, lightly laden with the books needful for the +morrow's lessons. Once beyond the immediate purlieus of the town +and the various plots of land occupied by its inhabitants, they +crossed a small river, and entered upon a region of little hills, +some covered to the top with trees, chiefly larch, others +cultivated, and some bearing only heather, now nursing in secret its +purple flame for the outburst of the autumn. The road wound +between, now swampy and worn into deep ruts, now sandy and broken +with large stones. Down to its edge would come the dwarfed oak, or +the mountain ash, or the silver birch, single and small, but lovely +and fresh; and now green fields, fenced with walls of earth as green +as themselves, or of stones overgrown with moss, would stretch away +on both sides, sprinkled with busily-feeding cattle. Now they would +pass through a farm-steading, perfumed with the breath of cows, and +the odour of burning peat--so fragrant! though not yet so grateful +to the inner sense as it would be when encountered in after years +and in foreign lands. For the smell of burning and the smell of +earth are the deepest underlying sensuous bonds of the earth's +unity, and the common brotherhood of them that dwell thereon. Now +the scent of the larches would steal from the hill, or the wind +would waft the odour of the white clover, beloved of his +grandmother, to Robert's nostrils, and he would turn aside to pull +her a handful. Then they clomb a high ridge, on the top of which +spread a moorland, dreary and desolate, brightened by nothing save +'the canna's hoary beard' waving in the wind, and making it look +even more desolate from the sympathy they felt with the forsaken +grass. This crossed, they descended between young plantations of +firs and rowan-trees and birches, till they reached a warm house on +the side of the slope, with farm-offices and ricks of corn and hay +all about it, the front overgrown with roses and honeysuckle, and a +white-flowering plant unseen of their eyes hitherto, and therefore +full of mystery. From the open kitchen door came the smell of +something good. But beyond all to Robert was the welcome of Miss +Lammie, whose small fat hand closed upon his like a very +love-pudding, after partaking of which even his grandmother's +stately reception, followed immediately by the words 'Noo be dooce,' +could not chill the warmth in his bosom. + +I know but one writer whose pen would have been able worthily to set +forth the delights of the first few days at Bodyfauld--Jean Paul. +Nor would he have disdained to make the gladness of a country +school-boy the theme of that pen. Indeed, often has he done so. If +the writer has any higher purpose than the amusement of other boys, +he will find the life of a country boy richer for his ends than that +of a town boy. For example, he has a deeper sense of the marvel of +Nature, a tenderer feeling of her feminality. I do not mean that +the other cannot develop this sense, but it is generally feeble, and +there is consequently less chance of its surviving. As far as my +experience goes, town girls and country boys love Nature most. I +have known town girls love her as passionately as country boys. +Town boys have too many books and pictures. They see Nature in +mirrors--invaluable privilege after they know herself, not before. +They have greater opportunity of observing human nature; but here +also the books are too many and various. They are cleverer than +country boys, but they are less profound; their observation may be +quicker; their perception is shallower. They know better what to do +on an emergency; they know worse how to order their ways. Of +course, in this, as in a thousand other matters, Nature will burst +out laughing in the face of the would-be philosopher, and bringing +forward her town boy, will say, 'Look here!' For the town boys are +Nature's boys after all, at least so long as doctrines of +self-preservation and ambition have not turned them from children of +the kingdom into dirt-worms. But I must stop, for I am getting up +to the neck in a bog of discrimination. As if I did not know the +nobility of some townspeople, compared with the worldliness of some +country folk. I give it up. We are all good and all bad. God mend +all. Nothing will do for Jew or Gentile, Frenchman or Englishman, +Negro or Circassian, town boy or country boy, but the kingdom of +heaven which is within him, and must come thence to the outside of +him. + +To a boy like Robert the changes of every day, from country to town +with the gay morning, from town to country with the sober +evening--for country as Rothieden might be to Edinburgh, much more +was Bodyfauld country to Rothieden--were a source of boundless +delight. Instead of houses, he saw the horizon; instead of streets +or walled gardens, he roamed over fields bathed in sunlight and +wind. Here it was good to get up before the sun, for then he could +see the sun get up. And of all things those evening shadows +lengthening out over the grassy wildernesses--for fields of a very +moderate size appeared such to an imagination ever ready at the +smallest hint to ascend its solemn throne--were a deepening marvel. +Town to country is what a ceiling is to a cælum. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +ADVENTURES. + +Grannie's first action every evening, the moment the boys entered +the room, was to glance up at the clock, that she might see whether +they had arrived in reasonable time. This was not pleasant, because +it admonished Robert how impossible it was for him to have a lesson +on his own violin so long as the visit to Bodyfauld lasted. If they +had only been allowed to sleep at Rothieden, what a universe of +freedom would have been theirs! As it was, he had but two hours to +himself, pared at both ends, in the middle of the day. Dooble Sanny +might have given him a lesson at that time, but he did not dare to +carry his instrument through the streets of Rothieden, for the +proceeding would be certain to come to his grandmother's ears. +Several days passed indeed before he made up his mind as to how he +was to reap any immediate benefit from the recovery of the violin. +For after he had made up his mind to run the risk of successive +mid-day solos in the old factory--he was not prepared to carry the +instrument through the streets, or be seen entering the place with +it. + +But the factory lay at the opposite corner of a quadrangle of +gardens, the largest of which belonged to itself; and the corner of +this garden touched the corner of Captain Forsyth's, which had +formerly belonged to Andrew Falconer: he had had a door made in the +walls at the point of junction, so that he could go from his house +to his business across his own property: if this door were not +locked, and Robert could pass without offence, what a north-west +passage it would be for him! The little garden belonging to his +grandmother's house had only a slight wooden fence to divide it from +the other, and even in this fence there was a little gate: he would +only have to run along Captain Forsyth's top walk to reach the door. +The blessed thought came to him as he lay in bed at Bodyfauld: he +would attempt the passage the very next day. + +With his violin in its paper under his arm, he sped like a hare from +gate to door, found it not even latched, only pushed to and rusted +into such rest as it was dangerous to the hinges to disturb. He +opened it, however, without any accident, and passed through; then +closing it behind him, took his way more leisurely through the +tangled grass of his grandmother's property. When he reached the +factory, he judged it prudent to search out a more secret nook, one +more full of silence, that is, whence the sounds would be less +certain to reach the ears of the passers by, and came upon a small +room, near the top, which had been the manager's bedroom, and which, +as he judged from what seemed the signs of ancient occupation, a +cloak hanging on the wall, and the ashes of a fire lying in the +grate, nobody had entered for years: it was the safest place in the +world. He undid his instrument carefully, tuned its strings +tenderly, and soon found that his former facility, such as it was, +had not ebbed away beyond recovery. Hastening back as he came, he +was just in time for his dinner, and narrowly escaped encountering +Betty in the transe. He had been tempted to leave the instrument, +but no one could tell what might happen, and to doubt would be to be +miserable with anxiety. + +He did the same for several days without interruption--not, however, +without observation. When, returning from his fourth visit, he +opened the door between the gardens, he started back in dismay, for +there stood the beautiful lady. + +Robert hesitated for a moment whether to fly or speak. He was a +Lowland country boy, and therefore rude of speech, but he was three +parts a Celt, and those who know the address of the Irish or of the +Highlanders, know how much that involves as to manners and bearing. +He advanced the next instant and spoke. + +'I beg yer pardon, mem. I thoucht naebody wad see me. I haena dune +nae ill.' + +'I had not the least suspicion of it, I assure you,' returned Miss +St. John. 'But, tell me, what makes you go through here always at +the same hour with the same parcel under your arm?' + +'Ye winna tell naebody--will ye, mem, gin I tell you?' + +Miss St. John, amused, and interested besides in the contrast +between the boy's oddly noble face and good bearing on the one hand, +and on the other the drawl of his bluntly articulated speech and the +coarseness of his tone, both seeming to her in the extreme of +provincialism, promised; and Robert, entranced by all the qualities +of her voice and speech, and nothing disenchanted by the nearer view +of her lovely face, confided in her at once. + +'Ye see, mem,' he said, 'I cam' upo' my grandfather's fiddle. But +my grandmither thinks the fiddle's no gude. And sae she tuik and +she hed it. But I faun't it again. An' I daurna play i' the hoose, +though my grannie's i' the country, for Betty hearin' me and tellin' +her. And sae I gang to the auld fact'ry there. It belangs to my +grannie, and sae does the yaird (garden). An' this hoose and yaird +was ance my father's, and sae he had that door throu, they tell me. +An' I thocht gin it suld be open, it wad be a fine thing for me, to +haud fowk ohn seen me. But it was verra ill-bred to you, mem, I +ken, to come throu your yaird ohn speirt leave. I beg yer pardon, +mem, an' I'll jist gang back, and roon' by the ro'd. This is my +fiddle I hae aneath my airm. We bude to pit back the case o' 't +whaur it was afore, i' my grannie's bed, to haud her ohn kent 'at +she had tint the grup o' 't.' + +Certainly Miss St. John could not have understood the half of the +words Robert used, but she understood his story notwithstanding. +Herself an enthusiast in music, her sympathies were at once engaged +for the awkward boy who was thus trying to steal an entrance into +the fairy halls of sound. But she forbore any further allusion to +the violin for the present, and contented herself with assuring +Robert that he was heartily welcome to go through the garden as +often as he pleased. She accompanied her words with a smile that +made Robert feel not only that she was the most beautiful of all +princesses in fairy-tales, but that she had presented him with +something beyond price in the most self-denying manner. He took off +his cap, thanked her with much heartiness, if not with much polish, +and hastened to the gate of his grandmother's little garden. A few +years later such an encounter might have spoiled his dinner: I have +to record no such evil result of the adventure. + +With Miss St. John, music was the highest form of human expression, +as must often be the case with those whose feeling is much in +advance of their thought, and to whom, therefore, may be called +mental sensation is the highest known condition. Music to such is +poetry in solution, and generates that infinite atmosphere, common +to both musician and poet, which the latter fills with shining +worlds.--But if my reader wishes to follow out for himself the idea +herein suggested, he must be careful to make no confusion between +those who feel musically or think poetically, and the musician or +the poet. One who can only play the music of others, however +exquisitely, is not a musician, any more than one who can read verse +to the satisfaction, or even expound it to the enlightenment of the +poet himself, is therefore a poet.--When Miss St. John would worship +God, it was in music that she found the chariot of fire in which to +ascend heavenward. Hence music was the divine thing in the world +for her; and to find any one loving music humbly and faithfully was +to find a brother or sister believer. But she had been so often +disappointed in her expectations from those she took to be such, +that of late she had become less sanguine. Still there was +something about this boy that roused once more her musical hopes; +and, however she may have restrained herself from the full +indulgence of them, certain it is that the next day, when she saw +Robert pass, this time leisurely, along the top of the garden, she +put on her bonnet and shawl, and, allowing him time to reach his +den, followed him, in the hope of finding out whether or not he +could play. I do not know what proficiency the boy had attained, +very likely not much, for a man can feel the music of his own bow, +or of his own lines, long before any one else can discover it. He +had already made a path, not exactly worn one, but trampled one, +through the neglected grass, and Miss St. John had no difficulty in +finding his entrance to the factory. + +She felt a little eerie, as Robert would have called it, when she +passed into the waste silent place; for besides the wasteness and +the silence, motionless machines have a look of death about them, at +least when they bear such signs of disuse as those that filled these +rooms. Hearing no violin, she waited for a while in the +ground-floor of the building; but still hearing nothing, she +ascended to the first floor. Here, likewise, all was silence. She +hesitated, but at length ventured up the next stair, beginning, +however, to feel a little troubled as well as eerie, the silence was +so obstinately persistent. Was it possible that there was no violin +in that brown paper? But that boy could not be a liar. Passing +shelves piled-up with stores of old thread, she still went on, led +by a curiosity stronger than her gathering fear. At last she came +to a little room, the door of which was open, and there she saw +Robert lying on the floor with his head in a pool of blood. + +Now Mary St. John was both brave and kind; and, therefore, though +not insensible to the fact that she too must be in danger where +violence had been used to a boy, she set about assisting him at +once. His face was deathlike, but she did not think he was dead. +She drew him out into the passage, for the room was close, and did +all she could to recover him; but for some time he did not even +breathe. At last his lips moved, and he murmured, + +'Sandy, Sandy, ye've broken my bonnie leddy.' + +Then he opened his eyes, and seeing a face to dream about bending in +kind consternation over him, closed them again with a smile and a +sigh, as if to prolong his dream. + +The blood now came fast into his forsaken cheeks, and began to flow +again from the wound in his head. The lady bound it up with her +handkerchief. After a little he rose, though with difficulty, and +stared wildly about him, saying, with imperfect articulation, +'Father! father!' Then he looked at Miss St. John with a kind of +dazed inquiry in his eyes, tried several times to speak, and could +not. + +'Can you walk at all?' asked Miss St. John, supporting him, for she +was anxious to leave the place. + +'Yes, mem, weel eneuch,' he answered. + +'Come along, then. I will help you home.' + +'Na, na,' he said, as if he had just recalled something. 'Dinna min' +me. Rin hame, mem, or he'll see ye!' + +'Who will see me?' + +Robert stared more wildly, put his hand to his head, and made no +reply. She half led, half supported him down the stair, as far as +the first landing, when he cried out in a tone of anguish, + +'My bonny leddy!' + +'What is it?' asked Miss St. John, thinking he meant her. + +'My fiddle! my fiddle! She 'll be a' in bits,' he answered, and +turned to go up again. + +'Sit down here,' said Miss St. John, 'and I'll fetch it.' + +Though not without some tremor, she darted back to the room. Then +she turned faint for the first time, but determinedly supporting +herself, she looked about, saw a brown-paper parcel on a shelf, took +it, and hurried out with a shudder. + +Robert stood leaning against the wall. He stretched out his hands +eagerly. + +'Gie me her. Gie me her.' + +'You had better let me carry it. You are not able.' + +'Na, na, mem. Ye dinna ken hoo easy she is to hurt.' + +'Oh, yes, I do!' returned Miss St. John, smiling, and Robert could +not withstand the smile. + +'Weel, tak care o' her, as ye wad o' yer ain sel', mem,' he said, +yielding. + +He was now much better, and before he had been two minutes in the +open air, insisted that he was quite well. When they reached +Captain Forsyth's garden he again held out his hands for his violin. + +'No, no,' said his new friend. 'You wouldn't have Betty see you like +that, would you?' + +'No, mem; but I'll put in the fiddle at my ain window, and she sanna +hae a chance o' seein' 't,' answered Robert, not understanding her; +for though he felt a good deal of pain, he had no idea what a +dreadful appearance he presented. + +'Don't you know that you have a wound on your head?' asked Miss St. +John. + +'Na! hev I?' said Robert, putting up his hand. 'But I maun +gang--there's nae help for 't,' he added.--'Gin I cud only win to my +ain room ohn Betty seen me!--Eh! mem, I hae blaudit (spoiled) a' yer +bonny goon. That's a sair vex.' + +'Never mind it,' returned Miss St. John, smiling. 'It is of no +consequence. But you must come with me. I must see what I can do +for your head. Poor boy!' + +'Eh, mem! but ye are kin'! Gin ye speik like that ye'll gar me +greit. Naebody ever spak' to me like that afore. Maybe ye kent my +mamma. Ye're sae like her.' + +This word mamma was the only remnant of her that lingered in his +speech. Had she lived he would have spoken very differently. They +were now walking towards the house. + +'No, I did not know your mamma. Is she dead?' + +'Lang syne, mem. And sae they tell me is yours.' + +'Yes; and my father too. Your father is alive, I hope?' + +Robert made no answer. Miss St. John turned. + +The boy had a strange look, and seemed struggling with something in +his throat. She thought he was going to faint again, and hurried +him into the drawing-room. Her aunt had not yet left her room, and +her uncle was out. + +'Sit down,' she said--so kindly--and Robert sat down on the edge of +a chair. Then she left the room, but presently returned with a +little brandy. 'There,' she said, offering the glass, 'that will do +you good.' + +'What is 't, mem?' + +'Brandy. There's water in it, of course.' + +'I daurna touch 't. Grannie cudna bide me to touch 't,' + +So determined was he, that Miss St. John was forced to yield. +Perhaps she wondered that the boy who would deceive his grandmother +about a violin should be so immovable in regarding her pleasure in +the matter of a needful medicine. But in this fact I begin to see +the very Falconer of my manhood's worship. + +'Eh, mem! gin ye wad play something upo' her,' he resumed, pointing +to the piano, which, although he had never seen one before, he at +once recognized, by some hidden mental operation, as the source of +the sweet sounds heard at the window, 'it wad du me mair guid than a +haill bottle o' brandy, or whusky either.' + +'How do you know that?' asked Miss St. John, proceeding to sponge +the wound. + +''Cause mony's the time I hae stud oot there i' the street, +hearkenin'. Dooble Sanny says 'at ye play jist as gin ye war my +gran'father's fiddle hersel', turned into the bonniest cratur ever +God made.' + +'How did you get such a terrible cut?' + +She had removed the hair, and found that the injury was severe. + +The boy was silent. She glanced round in his face. He was staring +as if he saw nothing, heard nothing. She would try again. + +'Did you fall? Or how did you cut your head?' + +'Yes, yes, mem, I fell,' he answered, hastily, with an air of +relief, and possibly with some tone of gratitude for the suggestion +of a true answer. + +'What made you fall?' + +Utter silence again. She felt a kind of turn--I do not know another +word to express what I mean: the boy must have fits, and either +could not tell, or was ashamed to tell, what had befallen him. +Thereafter she too was silent, and Robert thought she was offended. +Possibly he felt a change in the touch of her fingers. + +'Mem, I wad like to tell ye,' he said, 'but I daurna.' + +'Oh! never mind,' she returned kindly. + +'Wad ye promise nae to tell naebody?' + +'I don't want to know,' she answered, confirmed in her suspicion, +and at the same time ashamed of the alteration of feeling which the +discovery had occasioned. + +An uncomfortable silence followed, broken by Robert. + +'Gin ye binna pleased wi' me, mem,' he said, 'I canna bide ye to +gang on wi' siccan a job 's that.' + +How Miss St. John could have understood him, I cannot think; but she +did. + +'Oh! very well,' she answered, smiling. 'Just as you please. +Perhaps you had better take this piece of plaster to Betty, and ask +her to finish the dressing for you.' + +Robert took the plaster mechanically, and, sick at heart and +speechless, rose to go, forgetting even his bonny leddy in his +grief. + +'You had better take your violin with you,' said Miss St. John, +urged to the cruel experiment by a strong desire to see what the +strange boy would do. + +He turned. The tears were streaming down his odd face. They went +to her heart, and she was bitterly ashamed of herself. + +'Come along. Do sit down again. I only wanted to see what you +would do. I am very sorry,' she said, in a tone of kindness such as +Robert had never imagined. + +He sat down instantly, saying, + +'Eh, mem! it's sair to bide;' meaning, no doubt, the conflict +between his inclination to tell her all, and his duty to be silent. + +The dressing was soon finished, his hair combed down over it, and +Robert looking once more respectable. + +'Now, I think that will do,' said his nurse. + +'Eh, thank ye, mem!' answered Robert, rising. 'Whan I'm able to play +upo' the fiddle as weel 's ye play upo' the piana, I'll come and +play at yer window ilka nicht, as lang 's ye like to hearken.' + +She smiled, and he was satisfied. He did not dare again ask her to +play to him. But she said of herself, 'Now I will play something to +you, if you like,' and he resumed his seat devoutly. + +When she had finished a lovely little air, which sounded to Robert +like the touch of her hands, and her breath on his forehead, she +looked round, and was satisfied, from the rapt expression of the +boy's countenance, that at least he had plenty of musical +sensibility. As if despoiled of volition, he stood motionless till +she said, + +'Now you had better go, or Betty will miss you.' + +Then he made her a bow in which awkwardness and grace were curiously +mingled, and taking up his precious parcel, and holding it to his +bosom as if it had been a child for whom he felt an access of +tenderness, he slowly left the room and the house. + +Not even to Shargar did he communicate his adventure. And he went +no more to the deserted factory to play there. Fate had again +interposed between him and his bonny leddy. + +When he reached Bodyfauld he fancied his grandmother's eyes more +watchful of him than usual, and he strove the more to resist the +weariness, and even faintness, that urged him to go to bed. Whether +he was able to hide as well a certain trouble that clouded his +spirit I doubt. His wound he did manage to keep a secret, thanks to +the care of Miss St. John, who had dressed it with court-plaster. + +When he woke the next morning, it was with the consciousness of +having seen something strange the night before, and only when he +found that he was not in his own room at his grandmother's, was he +convinced that it must have been a dream and no vision. For in the +night, he had awaked there as he thought, and the moon was shining +with such clearness, that although it did not shine into his room, +he could see the face of the clock, and that the hands were both +together at the top. Close by the clock stood the bureau, with its +end against the partition forming the head of his grannie's bed. + +All at once he saw a tall man, in a blue coat and bright buttons, +about to open the lid of the bureau. The same moment he saw a +little elderly man in a brown coat and a brown wig, by his side, who +sought to remove his hand from the lock. Next appeared a huge +stalwart figure, in shabby old tartans, and laid his hand on the +head of each. But the wonder widened and grew; for now came a +stately Highlander with his broadsword by his side, and an eagle's +feather in his bonnet, who laid his hand on the other Highlander's +arm. + +When Robert looked in the direction whence this last had appeared, +the head of his grannie's bed had vanished, and a wild hill-side, +covered with stones and heather, sloped away into the distance. +Over it passed man after man, each with an ancestral air, while on +the gray sea to the left, galleys covered with Norsemen tore up the +white foam, and dashed one after the other up to the strand. How +long he gazed, he did not know, but when he withdrew his eyes from +the extended scene, there stood the figure of his father, still +trying to open the lid of the bureau, his grandfather resisting him, +the blind piper with his hand on the head of both, and the stately +chief with his hand on the piper's arm. Then a mist of +forgetfulness gathered over the whole, till at last he awoke and +found himself in the little wooden chamber at Bodyfauld, and not in +the visioned room. Doubtless his loss of blood the day before had +something to do with the dream or vision, whichever the reader may +choose to consider it. He rose, and after a good breakfast, found +himself very little the worse, and forgot all about his dream, till +a circumstance which took place not long after recalled it vividly +to his mind. + +The enchantment of Bodyfauld soon wore off. The boys had no time to +enter into the full enjoyment of country ways, because of those +weary lessons, over the getting of which Mrs. Falconer kept as +strict a watch as ever; while to Robert the evening journey, his +violin and Miss St. John left at Rothieden, grew more than tame. +The return was almost as happy an event to him as the first going. +Now he could resume his lessons with the soutar. + +With Shargar it was otherwise. The freedom for so much longer from +Mrs. Falconer's eyes was in itself so much of a positive pleasure, +that the walk twice a day, the fresh air, and the scents and sounds +of the country, only came in as supplementary. But I do not believe +the boy even then had so much happiness as when he was beaten and +starved by his own mother. And Robert, growing more and more +absorbed in his own thoughts and pursuits, paid him less and less +attention as the weeks went on, till Shargar at length judged it for +a time an evil day on which he first had slept under old Ronald +Falconer's kilt. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +NATURE PUTS IN A CLAIM. + +Before the day of return arrived, Robert had taken care to remove +the violin from his bedroom, and carry it once more to its old +retreat in Shargar's garret. The very first evening, however, that +grannie again spent in her own arm-chair, he hied from the house as +soon as it grew dusk, and made his way with his brown-paper parcel +to Sandy Elshender's. + +Entering the narrow passage from which his shop door opened, and +hearing him hammering away at a sole, he stood and unfolded his +treasure, then drew a low sigh from her with his bow, and awaited +the result. He heard the lap-stone fall thundering on the floor, +and, like a spider from his cavern, Dooble Sanny appeared in the +door, with the bend-leather in one hand, and the hammer in the +other. + +'Lordsake, man! hae ye gotten her again? Gie's a grup o' her!' he +cried, dropping leather and hammer. + +'Na, na,' returned Robert, retreating towards the outer door. 'Ye +maun sweir upo' her that, whan I want her, I sall hae her ohn demur, +or I sanna lat ye lay roset upo' her.' + +'I swear 't, Robert; I sweir 't upo' her,' said the soutar +hurriedly, stretching out both his hands as if to receive some human +being into his embrace. + +Robert placed the violin in those grimy hands. A look of heavenly +delight dawned over the hirsute and dirt-besmeared countenance, +which drooped into tenderness as he drew the bow across the +instrument, and wiled from her a thin wail as of sorrow at their +long separation. He then retreated into his den, and was soon sunk +in a trance, deaf to everything but the violin, from which no +entreaties of Robert, who longed for a lesson, could rouse him; so +that he had to go home grievously disappointed, and unrewarded for +the risk he had run in venturing the stolen visit. + +Next time, however, he fared better; and he contrived so well that, +from the middle of June to the end of August, he had two lessons a +week, mostly upon the afternoons of holidays. For these his master +thought himself well paid by the use of the instrument between. And +Robert made great progress. + +Occasionally he saw Miss St. John in the garden, and once or twice +met her in the town; but her desire to find in him a pupil had been +greatly quenched by her unfortunate conjecture as to the cause of +his accident. She had, however, gone so far as to mention the +subject to her aunt, who assured her that old Mrs. Falconer would as +soon consent to his being taught gambling as music. The idea, +therefore, passed away; and beyond a kind word or two when she met +him, there was no further communication between them. But Robert +would often dream of waking from a swoon, and finding his head lying +on her lap, and her lovely face bending over him full of kindness +and concern. + +By the way, Robert cared nothing for poetry. Virgil was too +troublesome to be enjoyed; and in English he had met with nothing +but the dried leaves and gum-flowers of the last century. Miss +Letty once lent him The Lady of the Lake; but before he had read the +first canto through, his grandmother laid her hands upon it, and, +without saying a word, dropped it behind a loose skirting-board in +the pantry, where the mice soon made it a ruin sad to behold. For +Miss Letty, having heard from the woful Robert of its strange +disappearance, and guessing its cause, applied to Mrs. Falconer for +the volume; who forthwith, the tongs aiding, extracted it from its +hole, and, without shade of embarrassment, held it up like a drowned +kitten before the eyes of Miss Letty, intending thereby, no doubt, +to impress her with the fate of all seducing spirits that should +attempt an entrance into her kingdom: Miss Letty only burst into +merry laughter over its fate. So the lode of poetry failed for the +present from Robert's life. Nor did it matter much; for had he not +his violin? + +I have, I think, already indicated that his grandfather had been a +linen manufacturer. Although that trade had ceased, his family had +still retained the bleachery belonging to it, commonly called the +bleachfield, devoting it now to the service of those large calico +manufactures which had ruined the trade in linen, and to the +whitening of such yarn as the country housewives still spun at home, +and the webs they got woven of it in private looms. To Robert and +Shargar it was a wondrous pleasure when the pile of linen which the +week had accumulated at the office under the ga'le-room, was on +Saturday heaped high upon the base of a broad-wheeled cart, to get +up on it and be carried to the said bleachfield, which lay along the +bank of the river. Soft laid and high-borne, gazing into the blue +sky, they traversed the streets in a holiday triumph; and although, +once arrived, the manager did not fail to get some labour out of +them, yet the store of amusement was endless. The great wheel, +which drove the whole machinery; the plash-mill, or, more properly, +wauk-mill--a word Robert derived from the resemblance of the mallets +to two huge feet, and of their motion to walking--with the water +plashing and squirting from the blows of their heels; the beatles +thundering in arpeggio upon the huge cylinder round which the white +cloth was wound--each was haunted in its turn and season. The +pleasure of the water itself was inexhaustible. Here sweeping in a +mass along the race; there divided into branches and hurrying +through the walls of the various houses; here sliding through a +wooden channel across the floor to fall into the river in a +half-concealed cataract, there bubbling up through the bottom of a +huge wooden cave or vat, there resting placid in another; here +gurgling along a spout; there flowing in a narrow canal through the +green expanse of the well-mown bleaehfield, or lifted from it in +narrow curved wooden scoops, like fairy canoes with long handles, +and flung in showers over the outspread yarn--the water was an +endless delight. + +It is strange how some individual broidery or figure upon Nature's +garment will delight a boy long before he has ever looked Nature in +the face, or begun to love herself. But Robert was soon to become +dimly conscious of a life within these things--a life not the less +real that its operations on his mind had been long unrecognized. + +On the grassy bank of the gently-flowing river, at the other edge of +whose level the little canal squabbled along, and on the grassy brae +which rose immediately from the canal, were stretched, close beside +each other, with scarce a stripe of green betwixt, the long white +webs of linen, fastened down to the soft mossy ground with wooden +pegs, whose tops were twisted into their edges. Strangely would +they billow in the wind sometimes, like sea-waves, frozen and +enchanted flat, seeking to rise and wallow in the wind with +conscious depth and whelming mass. But generally they lay supine, +saturated with light and its cleansing power. Falconer's jubilation +in the white and green of a little boat, as we lay, one bright +morning, on the banks of the Thames between Richmond and Twickenham, +led to such a description of the bleachfield that I can write about +it as if I had known it myself. + +One Saturday afternoon in the end of July, when the westering sun +was hotter than at midday, he went down to the lower end of the +field, where the river was confined by a dam, and plunged from the +bank into deep water. After a swim of half-an-hour, he ascended the +higher part of the field, and lay down upon a broad web to bask in +the sun. In his ears was the hush rather than rush of the water +over the dam, the occasional murmur of a belt of trees that skirted +the border of the field, and the dull continuous sound of the +beatles at their work below, like a persistent growl of thunder on +the horizon. + +Had Robert possessed a copy of Robinson Crusoe, or had his +grandmother not cast The Lady of the Lake, mistaking it for an idol, +if not to the moles and the bats, yet to the mice and the +black-beetles, he might have been lying reading it, blind and deaf +to the face and the voice of Nature, and years might have passed +before a response awoke in his heart. It is good that children of +faculty, as distinguished from capacity, should not have too many +books to read, or too much of early lessoning. The increase of +examinations in our country will increase its capacity and diminish +its faculty. We shall have more compilers and reducers and fewer +thinkers; more modifiers and completers, and fewer inventors. + +He lay gazing up into the depth of the sky, rendered deeper and +bluer by the masses of white cloud that hung almost motionless below +it, until he felt a kind of bodily fear lest he should fall off the +face of the round earth into the abyss. A gentle wind, laden with +pine odours from the sun-heated trees behind him, flapped its light +wing in his face: the humanity of the world smote his heart; the +great sky towered up over him, and its divinity entered his soul; a +strange longing after something 'he knew not nor could name' awoke +within him, followed by the pang of a sudden fear that there was no +such thing as that which he sought, that it was all a fancy of his +own spirit; and then the voice of Shargar broke the spell, calling +to him from afar to come and see a great salmon that lay by a stone +in the water. But once aroused, the feeling was never stilled; the +desire never left him; sometimes growing even to a passion that was +relieved only by a flood of tears. + +Strange as it may sound to those who have never thought of such +things save in connection with Sundays and Bibles and churches and +sermons, that which was now working in Falconer's mind was the first +dull and faint movement of the greatest need that the human heart +possesses--the need of the God-Man. There must be truth in the scent +of that pine-wood: some one must mean it. There must be a glory in +those heavens that depends not upon our imagination: some power +greater than they must dwell in them. Some spirit must move in that +wind that haunts us with a kind of human sorrow; some soul must look +up to us from the eye of that starry flower. It must be something +human, else not to us divine. + +Little did Robert think that such was his need--that his soul was +searching after One whose form was constantly presented to him, but +as constantly obscured and made unlovely by the words without +knowledge spoken in the religious assemblies of the land; that he +was longing without knowing it on the Saturday for that from which +on the Sunday he would be repelled without knowing it. Years passed +before he drew nigh to the knowledge of what he sought. + +For weeks the mood broken by the voice of his companion did not +return, though the forms of Nature were henceforth full of a +pleasure he had never known before. He loved the grass; the water +was more gracious to him; he would leave his bed early, that he +might gaze on the clouds of the east, with their borders +gold-blasted with sunrise; he would linger in the fields that the +amber and purple, and green and red, of the sunset, might not escape +after the sun unseen. And as long as he felt the mystery, the +revelation of the mystery lay before and not behind him. + +And Shargar--had he any soul for such things? Doubtless; but how +could he be other than lives behind Robert? For the latter had +ancestors--that is, he came of people with a mental and spiritual +history; while the former had been born the birth of an animal; of a +noble sire, whose family had for generations filled the earth with +fire, famine, slaughter, and licentiousness; and of a wandering +outcast mother, who blindly loved the fields and woods, but retained +her affection for her offspring scarcely beyond the period while she +suckled them. The love of freedom and of wild animals that she had +given him, however, was far more precious than any share his male +ancestor had borne in his mental constitution. After his fashion he +as well as Robert enjoyed the sun and the wind and the water and the +sky; but he had sympathies with the salmon and the rooks and the +wild rabbits even stronger than those of Robert. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + +ROBERT STEALS HIS OWN. + +The period of the hairst-play, that is, of the harvest holiday time, +drew near, and over the north of Scotland thousands of half-grown +hearts were beating with glad anticipation. Of the usual devices of +boys to cheat themselves into the half-belief of expediting a +blessed approach by marking its rate, Robert knew nothing: even the +notching of sticks was unknown at Rothieden; but he had a mode +notwithstanding. Although indifferent to the games of his +school-fellows, there was one amusement, a solitary one nearly, and +therein not so good as most amusements, into which he entered with +the whole energy of his nature: it was kite-flying. The moment that +the hairst-play approached near enough to strike its image through +the eyes of his mind, Robert proceeded to make his kite, or draigon, +as he called it. Of how many pleasures does pocket-money deprive +the unfortunate possessor! What is the going into a shop and buying +what you want, compared with the gentle delight of hours and days +filled with gaining effort after the attainment of your end? Never +boy that bought his kite, even if the adornment thereafter lay in +his own hands, and the pictures were gorgeous with colour and +gilding, could have half the enjoyment of Robert from the moment he +went to the cooper's to ask for an old gird or hoop, to the moment +when he said 'Noo, Shargar!' and the kite rose slowly from the depth +of the aërial flood. The hoop was carefully examined, the best +portion cut away from it, that pared to a light strength, its ends +confined to the proper curve by a string, and then away went Robert +to the wright's shop. There a slip of wood, of proper length and +thickness, was readily granted to his request, free as the daisies +of the field. Oh! those horrid town conditions, where nothing is +given for the asking, but all sold for money! In Robert's kite the +only thing that cost money was the string to fly it with, and that +the grandmother willingly provided, for not even her ingenuity could +discover any evil, direct or implicated, in kite-flying. Indeed, I +believe the old lady felt not a little sympathy with the exultation +of the boy when he saw his kite far aloft, diminished to a speck in +the vast blue; a sympathy, it may be, rooted in the religious +aspirations which she did so much at once to rouse and to suppress +in the bosom of her grandchild. But I have not yet reached the +kite-flying, for I have said nothing of the kite's tail, for the +sake of which principally I began to describe the process of its +growth. + +As soon as the body of the dragon was completed, Robert attached to +its spine the string which was to take the place of its caudal +elongation, and at a proper distance from the body joined to the +string the first of the cross-pieces of folded paper which in this +animal represent the continued vertebral processes. Every morning, +the moment he issued from his chamber, he proceeded to the garret +where the monster lay, to add yet another joint to his tail, until +at length the day should arrive when, the lessons over for a blessed +eternity of five or six weeks, he would tip the whole with a piece +of wood, to which grass, quantum suff., might be added from the +happy fields. + +Upon this occasion the dragon was a monster one. With a little help +from Shargar, he had laid the skeleton of a six-foot specimen, and +had carried the body to a satisfactory completion. + +The tail was still growing, having as yet only sixteen joints, when +Mr. Lammie called with an invitation for the boys to spend their +holidays with him. It was fortunate for Robert that he was in the +room when Mr. Lammie presented his petition, otherwise he would +never have heard of it till the day of departure arrived, and would +thus have lost all the delights of anticipation. In frantic effort +to control his ecstasy, he sped to the garret, and with trembling +hands tied the second joint of the day to the tail of the +dragon--the first time he had ever broken the law of its accretion. +Once broken, that law was henceforth an object of scorn, and the +tail grew with frightful rapidity. It was indeed a great dragon. +And none of the paltry fields about Rothieden should be honoured +with its first flight, but from Bodyfauld should the majestic child +of earth ascend into the regions of upper air. + +My reader may here be tempted to remind me that Robert had been only +too glad to return to Rothieden from his former visit. But I must +in my turn remind him that the circumstances were changed. In the +first place, the fiddle was substituted for grannie; and in the +second, the dragon for the school. + +The making of this dragon was a happy thing for Shargar, and a yet +happier thing for Robert, in that it introduced again for a time +some community of interest between them. Shargar was happier than +he had been for many a day because Robert used him; and Robert was +yet happier than Shargar in that his conscience, which had +reproached him for his neglect of him, was now silent. But not even +his dragon had turned aside his attentions from his violin; and many +were the consultations between the boys as to how best she might be +transported to Bodyfauld, where endless opportunities of holding +communion with her would not be wanting. The difficulty was only +how to get her clear of Rothieden. + +The play commenced on a Saturday; but not till the Monday were they +to be set at liberty. Wearily the hours of mental labour and bodily +torpidity which the Scotch called the Sabbath passed away, and at +length the millennial morning dawned. Robert and Shargar were up +before the sun. But strenuous were the efforts they made to +suppress all indications of excitement, lest grannie, fearing the +immoral influence of gladness, should give orders to delay their +departure for an awfully indefinite period, which might be an hour, +a day, or even a week. Horrible conception! Their behaviour was so +decorous that not even a hinted threat escaped the lips of Mrs. +Falconer. + +They set out three hours before noon, carrying the great kite, and +Robert's school bag, of green baize, full of sundries: a cart from +Bodyfauld was to fetch their luggage later in the day. As soon as +they were clear of the houses, Shargar lay down behind a dyke with +the kite, and Robert set off at full speed for Dooble Sanny's shop, +making a half-circuit of the town to avoid the chance of being seen +by grannie or Betty. Having given due warning before, he found the +brown-paper parcel ready for him, and carried it off in fearful +triumph. He joined Shargar in safety, and they set out on their +journey as rich and happy a pair of tramps as ever tramped, having +six weeks of their own in their pockets to spend and not spare. + +A hearty welcome awaited them, and they were soon revelling in the +glories of the place, the first instalment of which was in the shape +of curds and cream, with oatcake and butter, as much as they liked. +After this they would 'e'en to it like French falconers' with their +kite, for the wind had been blowing bravely all the morning, having +business to do with the harvest. The season of stubble not yet +arrived, they were limited to the pasturage and moorland, which, +however, large as their kite was, were spacious enough. Slowly the +great-headed creature arose from the hands of Shargar, and ascended +about twenty feet, when, as if seized with a sudden fit of wrath or +fierce indignation, it turned right round and dashed itself with +headlong fury to the earth, as if sooner than submit to such +influences a moment longer it would beat out its brains at once. + +'It hasna half tail eneuch,' cried Robert. 'It's queer 'at things +winna gang up ohn hauden them doon. Pu' a guid han'fu' o' clover, +Shargar. She's had her fa', an' noo she'll gang up a' richt. She's +nane the waur o' 't.' + +Upon the next attempt, the kite rose triumphantly. But just as it +reached the length of the string it shot into a faster current of +air, and Robert found himself first dragged along in spite of his +efforts, and then lifted from his feet. After carrying him a few +yards, the dragon broke its string, dropped him in a ditch, and, +drifting away, went fluttering and waggling downwards in the +distance. + +'Luik whaur she gangs, Shargar,' cried Robert, from the ditch. + +Experience coming to his aid, Shargar took landmarks of the +direction in which it went; and ere long they found it with its tail +entangled in the topmost branches of a hawthorn tree, and its head +beating the ground at its foot. It was at once agreed that they +would not fly it again till they got some stronger string. + +Having heard the adventure, Mr. Lammie produced a shilling from the +pocket of his corduroys, and gave it to Robert to spend upon the +needful string. He resolved to go to the town the next morning and +make a grand purchase of the same. During the afternoon he roamed +about the farm with his hands in his pockets, revolving if not many +memories, yet many questions, while Shargar followed like a pup at +the heels of Miss Lammie, to whom, during his former visit, he had +become greatly attached. + +In the evening, resolved to make a confidant of Mr. Lammie, and +indeed to cast himself upon the kindness of the household generally, +Robert went up to his room to release his violin from its prison of +brown paper. What was his dismay to find--not his bonny leddy, but +her poor cousin, the soutar's auld wife! It was too bad. Dooble +Sanny indeed! + +He first stared, then went into a rage, and then came out of it to +go into a resolution. He replaced the unwelcome fiddle in the +parcel, and came down-stairs gloomy and still wrathful, but silent. +The evening passed over, and the inhabitants of the farmhouse went +early to bed. Robert tossed about fuming on his. He had not +undressed. + +About eleven o'clock, after all had been still for more than an +hour, he took his shoes in one hand and the brown parcel in the +other, and descending the stairs like a thief, undid the quiet +wooden bar that secured the door, and let himself out. All was +darkness, for the moon was not yet up, and he felt a strange +sensation of ghostliness in himself--awake and out of doors, when he +ought to be asleep and unconscious in bed. He had never been out so +late before, and felt as if walking in the region of the dead, +existing when and where he had no business to exist. For it was the +time Nature kept for her own quiet, and having once put her children +to bed--hidden them away with the world wiped out of them--enclosed +them in her ebony box, as George Herbert says--she did not expect to +have her hours of undress and meditation intruded upon by a +venturesome school-boy. Yet she let him pass. He put on his shoes +and hurried to the road. He heard a horse stamp in the stable, and +saw a cat dart across the corn-yard as he went through. Those were +all the signs of life about the place. + +It was a cloudy night and still. Nothing was to be heard but his +own footsteps. The cattle in the fields were all asleep. The larch +and spruce trees on the top of the hill by the foot of which his +road wound were still as clouds. He could just see the sky through +their stems. It was washed with the faintest of light, for the +moon, far below, was yet climbing towards the horizon. A star or +two sparkled where the clouds broke, but so little light was there, +that, until he had passed the moorland on the hill, he could not get +the horror of moss-holes, and deep springs covered with treacherous +green, out of his head. But he never thought of turning. When the +fears of the way at length fell back and allowed his own thoughts to +rise, the sense of a presence, or of something that might grow to a +presence, was the first to awake in him. The stillness seemed to be +thinking all around his head. But the way grew so dark, where it +lay through a corner of the pine-wood, that he had to feel the edge +of the road with his foot to make sure that he was keeping upon it, +and the sense of the silence vanished. Then he passed a farm, and +the motions of horses came through the dark, and a doubtful crow +from a young inexperienced cock, who did not yet know the moon from +the sun. Then a sleepy low in his ear startled him, and made him +quicken his pace involuntarily. + +By the time he reached Rothieden all the lights were out, and this +was just what he wanted. + +The economy of Dooble Sanny's abode was this: the outer door was +always left on the latch at night, because several families lived in +the house; the soutar's workshop opened from the passage, close to +the outer door, therefore its door was locked; but the key hung on a +nail just inside the soutar's bedroom. All this Robert knew. + +Arrived at the house, he lifted the latch, closed the door behind +him, took off his shoes once more, like a housebreaker, as indeed he +was, although a righteous one, and felt his way to and up the stair +to the bedroom. There was a sound of snoring within. The door was +a little ajar. He reached the key and descended, his heart beating +more and more wildly as he approached the realization of his hopes. +Gently as he could he turned it in the lock. In a moment more he +had his hands on the spot where the shoemaker always laid his +violin. But his heart sank within him: there was no violin there. +A blank of dismay held him both motionless and thoughtless; nor had +he recovered his senses before he heard footsteps, which he well +knew, approaching in the street. He slunk at once into a corner. +Elshender entered, feeling his way carefully, and muttering at his +wife. He was tipsy, most likely, but that had never yet interfered +with the safety of his fiddle: Robert heard its faint echo as he +laid it gently down. Nor was he too tipsy to lock the door behind +him, leaving Robert incarcerated amongst the old boots and leather +and rosin. + +For one moment only did the boy's heart fail him. The next he was +in action, for a happy thought had already struck him. Hastily, +that he might forestall sleep in the brain of the soutar, he undid +his parcel, and after carefully enveloping his own violin in the +paper, took the old wife of the soutar, and proceeded to perform +upon her a trick which in a merry moment his master had taught him, +and which, not without some feeling of irreverence, he had +occasionally practised upon his own bonny lady. + +The shoemaker's room was overhead; its thin floor of planks was the +ceiling of the workshop. Ere Dooble Sanny was well laid by the side +of his sleeping wife, he heard a frightful sound from below, as of +some one tearing his beloved violin to pieces. No sound of rending +coffin-planks or rising dead would have been so horrible in the ears +of the soutar. He sprang from his bed with a haste that shook the +crazy tenement to its foundation. + +The moment Robert heard that, he put the violin in its place, and +took his station by the door-cheek. The soutar came tumbling down +the stair, and rushed at the door, but found that he had to go back +for the key. When, with uncertain hand, he had opened at length, he +went straight to the nest of his treasure, and Robert slipping out +noiselessly, was in the next street before Dooble Sanny, having +found the fiddle uninjured, and not discovering the substitution, +had finished concluding that the whisky and his imagination had +played him a very discourteous trick between them, and retired once +more to bed. And not till Robert had cut his foot badly with a +piece of glass, did he discover that he had left his shoes behind +him. He tied it up with his handkerchief, and limped home the three +miles, too happy to think of consequences. + +Before he had gone far, the moon floated up on the horizon, large, +and shaped like the broadside of a barrel. She stared at him in +amazement to see him out at such a time of the night. But he +grasped his violin and went on. He had no fear now, even when he +passed again over the desolate moss, although he saw the stagnant +pools glimmering about him in the moonlight. And ever after this he +had a fancy for roaming at night. He reached home in safety, found +the door as he had left it, and ascended to his bed, triumphant in +his fiddle. + +In the morning bloody prints were discovered on the stair, and +traced to the door of his room. Miss Lammie entered in some alarm, +and found him fast asleep on his bed, still dressed, with a +brown-paper parcel in his arms, and one of his feet evidently enough +the source of the frightful stain. She was too kind to wake him, +and inquiry was postponed till they met at breakfast, to which he +descended bare-footed, save for a handkerchief on the injured foot. + +'Robert, my lad,' said Mr. Lammie, kindly, 'hoo cam ye by that +bluidy fut?' + +Robert began the story, and, guided by a few questions from his +host, at length told the tale of the violin from beginning to end, +omitting only his adventure in the factory. Many a guffaw from Mr. +Lammie greeted its progress, and Miss Lammie laughed till the tears +rolled unheeded down her cheeks, especially when Shargar, emboldened +by the admiration Robert had awakened, imparted his private share in +the comedy, namely, the entombment of Boston in a fifth-fold state; +for the Lammies were none of the unco guid to be censorious upon +such exploits. The whole business advanced the boys in favour at +Bodyfauld; and the entreaties of Robert that nothing, should reach +his grandmother's ears were entirely unnecessary. + +After breakfast Miss Lammie dressed the wounded foot. But what was +to be done for shoes, for Robert's Sunday pair had been left at +home? Under ordinary circumstances it would have been no great +hardship to him to go barefoot for the rest of the autumn, but the +cut was rather a serious one. So his feet were cased in a pair of +Mr. Lammie's Sunday boots, which, from their size, made it so +difficult for him to get along, that he did not go far from the +doors, but revelled in the company of his violin in the corn-yard +amongst last year's ricks, in the barn, and in the hayloft, playing +all the tunes he knew, and trying over one or two more from a very +dirty old book of Scotch airs, which his teacher had lent him. + +In the evening, as they sat together after supper, Mr. Lammie said, + +'Weel, Robert, hoo's the fiddle?' + +'Fine, I thank ye, sir,' answered Robert. + +'Lat's hear what ye can do wi' 't.' + +Robert fetched the instrument and complied. + +'That's no that ill,' remarked the farmer. 'But eh! man, ye suld hae +heard yer gran'father han'le the bow. That was something to +hear--ance in a body's life. Ye wad hae jist thoucht the strings +had been drawn frae his ain inside, he kent them sae weel, and +han'led them sae fine. He jist fan' (felt) them like wi' 's fingers +throu' the bow an' the horsehair an' a', an' a' the time he was +drawin' the soun' like the sowl frae them, an' they jist did +onything 'at he likit. Eh! to hear him play the Flooers o' the +Forest wad hae garred ye greit.' + +'Cud my father play?' asked Robert. + +'Ay, weel eneuch for him. He could do onything he likit to try, +better nor middlin'. I never saw sic a man. He played upo' the +bagpipes, an' the flute, an' the bugle, an' I kenna what a'; but +a'thegither they cam' na within sicht o' his father upo' the auld +fiddle. Lat's hae a luik at her.' + +He took the instrument in his hands reverently, turned it over and +over, and said, + +'Ay, ay; it's the same auld mill, an' I wat it grun' (ground) bonny +meal.--That sma' crater noo 'ill be worth a hunner poun', I s' +warran',' he added, as he restored it carefully into Robert's hands, +to whom it was honey and spice to hear his bonny lady paid her due +honours. 'Can ye play the Flooers o' the Forest, no?' he added yet +again. + +'Ay can I,' answered Robert, with some pride, and laid the bow on +the violin, and played the air through without blundering a single +note. + +'Weel, that's verra weel,' said Mr. Lammie. 'But it's nae mair like +as yer gran'father played it, than gin there war twa sawyers at it, +ane at ilka lug o' the bow, wi' the fiddle atween them in a +saw-pit.' + +Robert's heart sank within him; but Mr. Lammie went on: + +'To hear the bow croudin' (cooing), and wailin', an' greitin' ower +the strings, wad hae jist garred ye see the lands o' braid Scotlan' +wi' a' the lasses greitin' for the lads that lay upo' reid Flodden +side; lasses to cut, and lasses to gether, and lasses to bin', and +lasses to stook, and lasses to lead, and no a lad amo' them a'. +It's just the murnin' o' women, doin' men's wark as weel 's their +ain, for the men that suld hae been there to du 't; and I s' warran' +ye, no a word to the orra (exceptional, over-all) lad that didna +gang wi' the lave (rest).' + +Robert had not hitherto understood it--this wail of a pastoral and +ploughing people over those who had left their side to return no +more from the field of battle. But Mr. Lammie's description of his +grandfather's rendering laid hold of his heart. + +'I wad raither be grutten for nor kissed,' said he, simply. + +'Haud ye to that, my lad,' returned Mr. Lammie. 'Lat the lasses +greit for ye gin they like; but haud oot ower frae the kissin'. I +wadna mell wi' 't.' + +'Hoot, father, dinna put sic nonsense i' the bairns' heids,' said +Miss Lammie. + +'Whilk 's the nonsense, Aggy?' asked her father, slily. 'But I +doobt,' he added, 'he'll never play the Flooers o' the Forest as it +suld be playt, till he's had a taste o' the kissin', lass.' + +'Weel, it's a queer instructor o' yowth, 'at says an' onsays i' the +same breith.' + +'Never ye min'. I haena contradickit mysel' yet; for I hae said +naething. But, Robert, my man, ye maun pit mair sowl into yer +fiddlin'. Ye canna play the fiddle till ye can gar 't greit. It's +unco ready to that o' 'ts ain sel'; an' it's my opingon that there's +no anither instrument but the fiddle fit to play the Flooers o' the +Forest upo', for that very rizzon, in a' his Maijesty's +dominions.--My father playt the fiddle, but no like your +gran'father.' + +Robert was silent. He spent the whole of the next morning in +reiterated attempts to alter his style of playing the air in +question, but in vain--as far at least as any satisfaction to +himself was the result. He laid the instrument down in despair, and +sat for an hour disconsolate upon the bedside. His visit had not as +yet been at all so fertile in pleasure as he had anticipated. He +could not fly his kite; he could not walk; he had lost his shoes; +Mr. Lammie had not approved of his playing; and, although he had his +will of the fiddle, he could not get his will out of it. He could +never play so as to please Miss St. John. Nothing but manly pride +kept him from crying. He was sorely disappointed and dissatisfied; +and the world might be dreary even at Bodyfauld. + +Few men can wait upon the bright day in the midst of the dull one. +Nor can many men even wait for it. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + +JESSIE HEWSON. + +The wound on Robert's foot festered, and had not yet healed when the +sickle was first put to the barley. He hobbled out, however, to the +reapers, for he could not bear to be left alone with his violin, so +dreadfully oppressive was the knowledge that he could not use it +after its nature. He began to think whether his incapacity was not +a judgment upon him for taking it away from the soutar, who could do +so much more with it, and to whom, consequently, it was so much more +valuable. The pain in his foot, likewise, had been very depressing; +and but for the kindness of his friends, especially of Miss Lammie, +he would have been altogether 'a weary wight forlorn.' + +Shargar was happier than ever he had been in his life. His white +face hung on Miss Lammie's looks, and haunted her steps from spence +(store-room, as in Devonshire) to milk-house, and from milk-house to +chessel, surmounted by the glory of his red hair, which a +farm-servant declared he had once mistaken for a fun-buss +(whin-bush) on fire. This day she had gone to the field to see the +first handful of barley cut, and Shargar was there, of course. + +It was a glorious day of blue and gold, with just wind enough to set +the barley-heads a-talking. But, whether from the heat of the sun, +or the pain of his foot operating on the general discouragement +under which he laboured, Robert turned faint all at once, and +dragged himself away to a cottage on the edge of the field. + +It was the dwelling of a cottar, whose family had been settled upon +the farm of Bodyfauld from time immemorial. They were, indeed, like +other cottars, a kind of feudal dependents, occupying an acre or two +of the land, in return for which they performed certain stipulated +labour, called cottar-wark. The greater part of the family was +employed in the work of the farm, at the regular wages. + +Alas for Scotland that such families are now to seek! Would that +the parliaments of our country held such a proportion of +noble-minded men as was once to be found in the clay huts on a +hill-side, or grouped about a central farm, huts whose wretched look +would move the pity of many a man as inferior to their occupants as +a King Charles's lap-dog is to a shepherd's colley. The utensils of +their life were mean enough: the life itself was often elixir +vitae--a true family life, looking up to the high, divine life. But +well for the world that such life has been scattered over it, east +and west, the seed of fresh growth in new lands. Out of offence to +the individual, God brings good to the whole; for he pets no nation, +but trains it for the perfect globular life of all nations--of his +world--of his universe. As he makes families mingle, to redeem each +from its family selfishness, so will he make nations mingle, and +love and correct and reform and develop each other, till the +planet-world shall go singing through space one harmony to the God +of the whole earth. The excellence must vanish from one portion, +that it may be diffused through the whole. The seed ripens on one +favoured mound, and is scattered over the plain. We console +ourselves with the higher thought, that if Scotland is worse, the +world is better. Yea, even they by whom the offence came, and who +have first to reap the woe of that offence, because they did the +will of God to satisfy their own avarice in laying land to land and +house to house, shall not reap their punishment in having their own +will, and standing therefore alone in the earth when the good of +their evil deeds returns upon it; but the tears of men that ascended +to heaven in the heat of their burning dwellings shall descend in +the dew of blessing even on the hearts of them that kindled the +fire.--'Something too much of this.' + +Robert lifted the latch, and walked into the cottage. It was not +quite so strange to him as it would be to most of my readers; still, +he had not been in such a place before. A girl who was stooping by +the small peat fire on the hearth looked up, and seeing that he was +lame, came across the heights and hollows of the clay floor to meet +him. Robert spoke so faintly that she could not hear. + +'What's yer wull?' she asked; then, changing her tone,--'Eh! ye're +no weel,' she said. 'Come in to the fire. Tak a haud o' me, and +come yer wa's butt.' + +She was a pretty, indeed graceful girl of about eighteen, with the +elasticity rather than undulation of movement which distinguishes +the peasant from the city girl. She led him to the chimla-lug (the +ear of the chimney), carefully levelled a wooden chair to the +inequalities of the floor, and said, + +'Sit ye doon. Will I fess a drappy o' milk?' + +'Gie me a drink o' water, gin ye please,' said Robert. + +She brought it. He drank, and felt better. A baby woke in a cradle +on the other side of the fire, and began to cry. The girl went and +took him up; and then Robert saw what she was like. Light-brown +hair clustered about a delicately-coloured face and hazel eyes. +Later in the harvest her cheeks would be ruddy--now they were +peach-coloured. A white neck rose above a pink print jacket, called +a wrapper; and the rest of her visible dress was a blue petticoat. +She ended in pretty, brown bare feet. Robert liked her, and began +to talk. If his imagination had not been already filled, he would +have fallen in love with her, I dare say, at once; for, except Miss +St. John, he had never seen anything he thought so beautiful. The +baby cried now and then. + +'What ails the bairnie?' he asked. + +'Ow, it's jist cuttin' its teeth. Gin it greits muckle, I maun jist +tak it oot to my mither. She'll sune quaiet it. Are ye haudin' +better?' + +'Hoot, ay. I'm a' richt noo. Is yer mither shearin'?' + +'Na. She's gatherin'. The shearin' 's some sair wark for her e'en +noo. I suld hae been shearin', but my mither wad fain hae a day o' +the hairst. She thocht it wud du her gude. But I s' warran' a day +o' 't 'll sair (satisfy) her, and I s' be at it the morn. She's +been unco dowie (ailing) a' the summer; and sae has the bairnie.' + +'Ye maun hae had a sair time o' 't, than.' + +'Ay, some. But I aye got some sleep. I jist tuik the towie +(string) into the bed wi' me, and whan the bairnie grat, I waukit, +an' rockit it till 't fell asleep again. But whiles naething wad du +but tak him till 's mammie.' + +All the time she was hushing and fondling the child, who went on +fretting when not actually crying. + +'Is he yer brither, than?' asked Robert. + +'Ay, what ither? I maun tak him, I see. But ye can sit there as +lang 's ye like; and gin ye gang afore I come back, jist turn the +key 'i the door to lat onybody ken that there's naebody i' the +hoose.' + +Robert thanked her, and remained in the shadow by the chimney, which +was formed of two smoke-browned planks fastened up the wall, one on +each side, and an inverted wooden funnel above to conduct the smoke +through the roof. He sat for some time gloomily gazing at a spot of +sunlight which burned on the brown clay floor. All was still as +death. And he felt the white-washed walls even more desolate than +if they had been smoke-begrimed. + +Looking about him, he found over his head something which he did not +understand. It was as big as the stump of a great tree. Apparently +it belonged to the structure of the cottage, but he could not, in +the imperfect light, and the dazzling of the sun-spot at which he +had been staring, make out what it was, or how it came to be up +there--unsupported as far as he could see. He rose to examine it, +lifted a bit of tarpaulin which hung before it, and found a rickety +box, suspended by a rope from a great nail in the wall. It had two +shelves in it full of books. + +Now, although there were more books in Mr. Lammie's house than in +his grandmother's, the only one he had found that in the least +enticed him to read, was a translation of George Buchanan's History +of Scotland. This he had begun to read faithfully, believing every +word of it, but had at last broken down at the fiftieth king or so. +Imagine, then, the moon that arose on the boy when, having pulled a +ragged and thumb-worn book from among those of James Hewson the +cottar, he, for the first time, found himself in the midst of The +Arabian Nights. I shrink from all attempt to set forth in words the +rainbow-coloured delight that coruscated in his brain. When Jessie +Hewson returned, she found him seated where she had left him, so +buried in his volume that he did not lift his head when she entered. + +'Ye hae gotten a buik,' she said. + +'Ay have I,' answered Robert, decisively. + +'It's a fine buik, that. Did ye ever see 't afore?' + +'Na, never.' + +'There's three wolums o' 't about, here and there,' said Jessie; and +with the child on one arm, she proceeded with the other hand to +search for them in the crap o' the wa', that is, on the top of the +wall where the rafters rest. + +There she found two or three books, which, after examining them, she +placed on the dresser beside Robert. + +'There's nane o' them there,' she said; 'but maybe ye wad like to +luik at that anes.' + +Robert thanked her, but was too busy to feel the least curiosity +about any book in the world but the one he was reading. He read on, +heart and soul and mind absorbed in the marvels of the eastern +skald; the stories told in the streets of Cairo, amidst gorgeous +costumes, and camels, and white-veiled women, vibrating here in the +heart of a Scotch boy, in the darkest corner of a mud cottage, at +the foot of a hill of cold-loving pines, with a barefooted girl and +a baby for his companions. + +But the pleasure he had been having was of a sort rather to expedite +than to delay the subjective arrival of dinner-time. There was, +however, happily no occasion to go home in order to appease his +hunger; he had but to join the men and women in the barley-field: +there was sure to be enough, for Miss Lammie was at the head of the +commissariat. + +When he had had as much milk-porridge as he could eat, and a good +slice of swack (elastic) cheese, with a cap (wooden bowl) of ale, +all of which he consumed as if the good of them lay in the haste of +their appropriation, he hurried back to the cottage, and sat there +reading The Arabian Nights, till the sun went down in the +orange-hued west, and the gloamin' came, and with it the reapers, +John and Elspet Hewson, and their son George, to their supper and +early bed. + +John was a cheerful, rough, Roman-nosed, black-eyed man, who took +snuff largely, and was not careful to remove the traces of the +habit. He had a loud voice, and an original way of regarding +things, which, with his vivacity, made every remark sound like the +proclamation of a discovery. + +'Are ye there, Robert?' said he, as he entered. Robert rose, +absorbed and silent. + +'He's been here a' day, readin' like a colliginer,' said Jessie. + +'What are ye readin' sae eident (diligent), man?' asked John. + +'A buik o' stories, here,' answered Robert, carelessly, shy of being +supposed so much engrossed with them as he really was. + +I should never expect much of a young poet who was not rather +ashamed of the distinction which yet he chiefly coveted. There is a +modesty in all young delight. It is wild and shy, and would hide +itself, like a boy's or maiden's first love, from the gaze of the +people. Something like this was Robert's feeling over The Arabian +Nights. + +'Ay,' said John, taking snuff from a small bone spoon, 'it's a gran' +buik that. But my son Charley, him 'at 's deid an' gane hame, wad +hae tell't ye it was idle time readin' that, wi' sic a buik as that +ither lyin' at yer elbuck.' + +He pointed to one of the books Jessie had taken from the crap o' the +wa' and laid down beside him on the well-scoured dresser. Robert +took up the volume and opened it. There was no title-page. + +'The Tempest?' he said. 'What is 't? Poetry?' + +'Ay is 't. It's Shackspear.' + +'I hae heard o' him,' said Robert. 'What was he?' + +'A player kin' o' a chiel', wi' an unco sicht o' brains,' answered +John. 'He cudna hae had muckle time to gang skelpin' and sornin' +aboot the country like maist o' thae cattle, gin he vrote a' that, +I'm thinkin'.' + +'Whaur did he bide?' + +'Awa' in Englan'--maistly aboot Lonnon, I'm thinkin'. That's the +place for a' by-ordinar fowk, they tell me.' + +'Hoo lang is 't sin he deid?' + +'I dinna ken. A hunner year or twa, I s' warran'. It's a lang +time. But I'm thinkin' fowk than was jist something like what they +are noo. But I ken unco little aboot him, for the prent 's some +sma', and I'm some ill for losin' my characters, and sae I dinna win +that far benn wi' him. Geordie there 'll tell ye mair aboot him.' + +But George Hewson had not much to communicate, for he had but lately +landed in Shakspere's country, and had got but a little way inland +yet. Nor did Robert much care, for his head was full of The Arabian +Nights. This, however, was his first introduction to Shakspere. + +Finding himself much at home, he stopped yet a while, shared in the +supper, and resumed his seat in the corner when the book was brought +out for worship. The iron lamp, with its wick of rush-pith, which +hung against the side of the chimney, was lighted, and John sat down +to read. But as his eyes and the print, too, had grown a little dim +with years, the lamp was not enough, and he asked for a +'fir-can'le.' A splint of fir dug from the peat-bog was handed to +him. He lighted it at the lamp, and held it in his hand over the +page. Its clear resinous flame enabled him to read a short psalm. +Then they sang a most wailful tune, and John prayed. If I were to +give the prayer as he uttered it, I might make my reader laugh, +therefore I abstain, assuring him only that, although full of long +words--amongst the rest, aspiration and ravishment--the prayer of +the cheerful, joke-loving cottar contained evidence of a degree of +religious development rare, I doubt, amongst bishops. + +When Robert left the cottage, he found the sky partly clouded and +the air cold. The nearest way home was across the barley-stubble of +the day's reaping, which lay under a little hill covered with +various species of the pine. His own soul, after the restful day he +had spent, and under the reaction from the new excitement of the +stories he had been reading, was like a quiet, moonless night. The +thought of his mother came back upon him, and her written words, 'O +Lord, my heart is very sore'; and the thought of his father followed +that, and he limped slowly home, laden with mournfulness. As he +reached the middle of the field, the wind was suddenly there with a +low sough from out of the north-west. The heads of barley in the +sheaves leaned away with a soft rustling from before it; and Robert +felt for the first time the sadness of a harvest-field. Then the +wind swept away to the pine-covered hill, and raised a rushing and a +wailing amongst its thin-clad branches, and to the ear of Robert the +trees were singing over again in their night solitudes the air sung +by the cottar's family. When he looked to the north-west, whence +the wind came, he saw nothing but a pale cleft in the sky. The +meaning, the music of the night awoke in his soul; he forgot his +lame foot, and the weight of Mr. Lammie's great boots, ran home and +up the stair to his own room, seized his violin with eager haste, +nor laid it down again till he could draw from it, at will, a sound +like the moaning of the wind over the stubble-field. Then he knew +that he could play the Flowers of the Forest. The Wind that Shakes +the Barley cannot have been named from the barley after it was cut, +but while it stood in the field: the Flowers of the Forest was of +the gathered harvest. + +He tried the air once over in the dark, and then carried his violin +down to the room where Mr. and Miss Lammie sat. + +'I think I can play 't noo, Mr. Lammie,' he said abruptly. + +'Play what, callant?' asked his host. + +'The Flooers o' the Forest.' + +'Play awa' than.' + +And Robert played--not so well as he had hoped. I dare say it was a +humble enough performance, but he gave something at least of the +expression Mr. Lammie desired. For, the moment the tune was over, +he exclaimed, + +'Weel dune, Robert man! ye'll be a fiddler some day yet!' + +And Robert was well satisfied with the praise. + +'I wish yer mother had been alive,' the farmer went on. 'She wad hae +been rael prood to hear ye play like that. Eh! she likit the fiddle +weel. And she culd play bonny upo' the piana hersel'. It was +something to hear the twa o' them playing thegither, him on the +fiddle--that verra fiddle o' 's father's 'at ye hae i' yer han'--and +her on the piana. Eh! but she was a bonnie wuman as ever I saw, an' +that quaiet! It's my belief she never thocht aboot her ain beowty +frae week's en' to week's en', and that's no sayin' little--is 't, +Aggy?' + +'I never preten't ony richt to think aboot sic,' returned Miss +Lammie, with a mild indignation. + +'That's richt, lass. Od, ye're aye i' the richt--though I say 't +'at sudna.' + +Miss Lammie must indeed have been good-natured, to answer only with +a genuine laugh. Shargar looked explosive with anger. But Robert +would fain hear more of his mother. + +'What was my mother like, Mr. Lammie?' he asked. + +'Eh, my man! ye suld hae seen her upon a bonnie bay mere that yer +father gae her. Faith! she sat as straught as a rash, wi' jist a +hing i' the heid o' her, like the heid o' a halm o' wild aits.' + +'My father wasna that ill till her than?' suggested Robert. + +'Wha ever daured say sic a thing?' returned Mr. Lammie, but in a +tone so far from satisfactory to Robert, that he inquired no more in +that direction. + +I need hardly say that from that night Robert was more than ever +diligent with his violin. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + +THE DRAGON. + +Next day, his foot was so much better that he sent Shargar to +Rothieden to buy the string, taking with him Robert's school-bag, in +which to carry off his Sunday shoes; for as to those left at Dooble +Sanny's, they judged it unsafe to go in quest of them: the soutar +could hardly be in a humour fit to be intruded upon. + +Having procured the string, Shargar went to Mrs. Falconer's. +Anxious not to encounter her, but, if possible, to bag the boots +quietly, he opened the door, peeped in, and seeing no one, made his +way towards the kitchen. He was arrested, however, as he crossed +the passage by the voice of Mrs. Falconer calling, 'Wha's that?' +There she was at the parlour door. It paralyzed him. His first +impulse was to make a rush and escape. But the boots--he could not +go without at least an attempt upon them. So he turned and faced +her with inward trembling. + +'Wha's that?' repeated the old lady, regarding him fixedly. 'Ow, +it's you! What duv ye want? Ye camna to see me, I'm thinkin'! +What hae ye i' that bag?' + +'I cam to coff (buy) twine for the draigon,' answered Shargar. + +'Ye had twine eneuch afore!' + +'It bruik. It wasna strang eneuch.' + +'Whaur got ye the siller to buy mair? Lat's see 't?' + +Shargar took the string from the bag. + +'Sic a sicht o' twine! What paid ye for 't?' + +'A shillin'.' + +'Whaur got ye the shillin'?' + +'Mr. Lammie gae 't to Robert.' + +'I winna hae ye tak siller frae naebody. It's ill mainners. Hae!' +said the old lady, putting her hand in her pocket, and taking out a +shilling. 'Hae,' she said. 'Gie Mr. Lammie back his shillin', an' +tell 'im 'at I wadna hae ye learn sic ill customs as tak siller. +It's eneuch to gang sornin' upon 'im (exacting free quarters) as ye +du, ohn beggit for siller. Are they a' weel?' + +'Ay, brawly,' answered Shargar, putting the shilling in his pocket. + +In another moment Shargar had, without a word of adieu, embezzled +the shoes, and escaped from the house without seeing Betty. He went +straight to the shop he had just left, and bought another shilling's +worth of string. + +When he got home, he concealed nothing from Robert, whom he found +seated in the barn, with his fiddle, waiting his return. + +Robert started to his feet. He could appropriate his grandfather's +violin, to which, possibly, he might have shown as good a right as +his grandmother--certainly his grandfather would have accorded it +him--but her money was sacred. + +'Shargar, ye vratch!' he cried, 'fess that shillin' here direckly. +Tak the twine wi' ye, and gar them gie ye back the shillin'.' + +'They winna brak the bargain,' cried Shargar, beginning almost to +whimper, for a savoury smell of dinner was coming across the yard. + +'Tell them it's stown siller, and they'll be in het watter aboot it +gin they dinna gie ye 't back.' + +'I maun hae my denner first,' remonstrated Shargar. + +But the spirit of his grandmother was strong in Robert, and in a +matter of rectitude there must be no temporizing. Therein he could +be as tyrannical as the old lady herself. + +'De'il a bite or a sup s' gang ower your thrapple till I see that +shillin'.' + +There was no help for it. Six hungry miles must be trudged by +Shargar ere he got a morsel to eat. Two hours and a half passed +before he reappeared. But he brought the shilling. As to how he +recovered it, Robert questioned him in vain. Shargar, in his turn, +was obstinate. + +'She's a some camstairy (unmanageable) wife, that grannie o' yours,' +said Mr. Lammie, when Robert returned the shilling with Mrs. +Falconer's message, 'but I reckon I maun pit it i' my pooch, for she +will hae her ain gait, an' I dinna want to strive wi' her. But gin +ony o' ye be in want o' a shillin' ony day, lads, as lang 's I'm +abune the yird--this ane 'll be grown twa, or maybe mair, 'gen that +time.' + +So saying, the farmer put the shilling into his pocket, and buttoned +it up. + +The dragon flew splendidly now, and its strength was mighty. It was +Robert's custom to drive a stake in the ground, slanting against the +wind, and thereby tether the animal, as if it were up there grazing +in its own natural region. Then he would lie down by the stake and +read The Arabian Nights, every now and then casting a glance upward +at the creature alone in the waste air, yet all in his power by the +string at his side. Somehow the high-flown dragon was a bond +between him and the blue; he seemed nearer to the sky while it flew, +or at least the heaven seemed less far away and inaccessible. While +he lay there gazing, all at once he would find that his soul was up +with the dragon, feeling as it felt, tossing about with it in the +torrents of the air. Out at his eyes it would go, traverse the dim +stairless space, and sport with the wind-blown monster. Sometimes, +to aid his aspiration, he would take a bit of paper, make a hole in +it, pass the end of the string through the hole, and send the +messenger scudding along the line athwart the depth of the wind. If +it stuck by the way, he would get a telescope of Mr. Lammie's, and +therewith watch its struggles till it broke loose, then follow it +careering up to the kite. Away with each successive paper his +imagination would fly, and a sense of air, and height, and freedom +settled from his play into his very soul, a germ to sprout +hereafter, and enrich the forms of his aspirations. And all his +after-memories of kite-flying were mingled with pictures of eastern +magnificence, for from the airy height of the dragon his eyes always +came down upon the enchanted pages of John Hewson's book. + +Sometimes, again, he would throw down his book, and sitting up with +his back against the stake, lift his bonny leddy from his side, and +play as he had never played in Rothieden, playing to the dragon +aloft, to keep him strong in his soaring, and fierce in his battling +with the winds of heaven. Then he fancied that the monster swooped +and swept in arcs, and swayed curving to and fro, in rhythmic +response to the music floating up through the wind. + +What a full globated symbolism lay then around the heart of the boy +in his book, his violin, his kite! + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + +DR. ANDERSON. + +One afternoon, as they were sitting at their tea, a footstep in the +garden approached the house, and then a figure passed the window. +Mr. Lammie started to his feet. + +'Bless my sowl, Aggy! that's Anderson!' he cried, and hurried to the +door. + +His daughter followed. The boys kept their seats. A loud and +hearty salutation reached their ears; but the voice of the farmer +was all they heard. Presently he returned, bringing with him the +tallest and slenderest man Robert had ever seen. He was +considerably over six feet, with a small head, and delicate, if not +fine features, a gentle look in his blue eyes, and a slow clear +voice, which sounded as if it were thinking about every word it +uttered. The hot sun of India seemed to have burned out everything +self-assertive, leaving him quietly and rather sadly contemplative. + +'Come in, come in,' repeated Mr. Lammie, overflowing with glad +welcome. 'What'll ye hae? There's a frien' o' yer ain,' he +continued, pointing to Robert, 'an' a fine lad.' Then lowering his +voice, he added: 'A son o' poor Anerew's, ye ken, doctor.' + +The boys rose, and Dr. Anderson, stretching his long arms across the +table, shook hands kindly with Robert and Shargar. Then he sat down +and began to help himself to the cakes (oat-cake), at which Robert +wondered, seeing there was 'white breid' on the table. Miss Lammie +presently came in with the teapot and some additional dainties, and +the boys took the opportunity of beginning at the beginning again. + +Dr. Anderson remained for a few days at Bodyfauld, sending Shargar +to Rothieden for some necessaries from The Boar's Head, where he had +left his servant and luggage. During this time Mr. Lammie was much +occupied with his farm affairs, anxious to get his harvest in as +quickly as possible, because a change of weather was to be dreaded; +so the doctor was left a good deal to himself. He was fond of +wandering about, but, thoughtful as he was, did not object to the +companionship which Robert implicitly offered him: before many hours +were over, the two were friends. + +Various things attracted Robert to the doctor. First, he was a +relation of his own, older than himself, the first he had known +except his father, and Robert's heart was one of the most dutiful. +Second, or perhaps I ought to have put this first, he was the only +gentleman, except Eric Ericson, whose acquaintance he had yet made. +Third, he was kind to him, and gentle to him, and, above all, +respectful to him; and to be respected was a new sensation to Robert +altogether. And lastly, he could tell stories of elephants and +tiger hunts, and all The Arabian Nights of India. He did not +volunteer much talk, but Robert soon found that he could draw him +out. + +But what attracted the man to the boy? + +'Ah! Robert,' said the doctor one day, sadly, 'it's a sore thing to +come home after being thirty years away.' + +He looked up at the sky, then all around at the hills: the face of +Nature alone remained the same. Then his glance fell on Robert, and +he saw a pair of black eyes looking up at him, brimful of tears. +And thus the man was drawn to the boy. + +Robert worshipped Dr. Anderson. As long as he remained their +visitor, kite and violin and all were forgotten, and he followed him +like a dog. To have such a gentleman for a relation, was grand +indeed. What could he do for him? He ministered to him in all +manner of trifles--a little to the amusement of Dr. Anderson, but +more to his pleasure, for he saw that the boy was both large-hearted +and lowly-minded: Dr. Anderson had learned to read character, else +he would never have been the honour to his profession that he was. + +But all the time Robert could not get him to speak about his father. +He steadily avoided the subject. + +When he went away, the two boys walked with him to The Boar's Head, +caught a glimpse of his Hindoo attendant, much to their wonderment, +received from the doctor a sovereign apiece and a kind good-bye, and +returned to Bodyfauld. + +Dr. Anderson remained a few days longer at Rothieden, and amongst +others visited Mrs. Falconer, who was his first cousin. What passed +between them Robert never heard, nor did his grandmother even allude +to the visit. He went by the mail-coach from Rothieden to Aberdeen, +and whether he should ever see him again Robert did not know. + +He flew his kite no more for a while, but betook himself to the work +of the harvest-field, in which he was now able for a share. But his +violin was no longer neglected. + +Day after day passed in the delights of labour, broken for Robert by +The Arabian Nights and the violin, and for Shargar by attendance +upon Miss Lammie, till the fields lay bare of their harvest, and the +night-wind of autumn moaned everywhere over the vanished glory of +the country, and it was time to go back to school. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + +AN AUTO DA FÉ. + +The morning at length arrived when Robert and Shargar must return to +Rothieden. A keen autumnal wind was blowing far-off feathery clouds +across a sky of pale blue; the cold freshened the spirits of the +boys, and tightened their nerves and muscles, till they were like +bow-strings. No doubt the winter was coming, but the sun, although +his day's work was short and slack, was still as clear as ever. So +gladsome was the world, that the boys received the day as a fresh +holiday, and strenuously forgot to-morrow. The wind blew straight +from Rothieden, and between sun and wind a bright thought awoke in +Robert. The dragon should not be carried--he should fly home. + +After they had said farewell, in which Shargar seemed to suffer more +than Robert, and had turned the corner of the stable, they heard the +good farmer shouting after them, + +'There'll be anither hairst neist year, boys,' which wonderfully +restored their spirits. When they reached the open road, Robert +laid his violin carefully into a broom-bush. Then the tail was +unrolled, and the dragon ascended steady as an angel whose work is +done. Shargar took the stick at the end of the string, and Robert +resumed his violin. But the creature was hard to lead in such a +wind; so they made a loop on the string, and passed it round +Shargar's chest, and he tugged the dragon home. Robert longed to +take his share in the struggle, but he could not trust his violin to +Shargar, and so had to walk beside ingloriously. On the way they +laid their plans for the accommodation of the dragon. But the +violin was the greater difficulty. Robert would not hear of the +factory, for reasons best known to himself, and there were serious +objections to taking it to Dooble Sanny. It was resolved that the +only way was to seize the right moment, and creep upstairs with it +before presenting themselves to Mrs. Falconer. Their intended +manœuvres with the kite would favour the concealment of this stroke. + +Before they entered the town they drew in the kite a little way, and +cut off a dozen yards of the string, which Robert put in his pocket, +with a stone tied to the end. When they reached the house, Shargar +went into the little garden and tied the string of the kite to the +paling between that and Captain Forsyth's. Robert opened the street +door, and having turned his head on all sides like a thief, darted +with his violin up the stairs. Having laid his treasure in one of +the presses in Shargar's garret, he went to his own, and from the +skylight threw the stone down into the captain's garden, fastening +the other end of the string to the bedstead. Escaping as cautiously +as he had entered, he passed hurriedly into their neighbour's +garden, found the stone, and joined Shargar. The ends were soon +united, and the kite let go. It sunk for a moment, then, arrested +by the bedstead, towered again to its former 'pride of place,' +sailing over Rothieden, grand and unconcerned, in the wastes of air. + +But the end of its tether was in Robert's garret. And that was to +him a sense of power, a thought of glad mystery. There was +henceforth, while the dragon flew, a relation between the desolate +little chamber, in that lowly house buried among so many more +aspiring abodes, and the unmeasured depths and spaces, the stars, +and the unknown heavens. And in the next chamber lay the fiddle +free once more,--yet another magical power whereby his spirit could +forsake the earth and mount heavenwards. + +All that night, all the next day, all the next night, the dragon +flew. + +Not one smile broke over the face of the old lady as she received +them. Was it because she did not know what acts of disobedience, +what breaches of the moral law, the two children of possible +perdition might have committed while they were beyond her care, and +she must not run the risk of smiling upon iniquity? I think it was +rather that there was no smile in her religion, which, while it +developed the power of a darkened conscience, overlaid and +half-smothered all the lovelier impulses of her grand nature. How +could she smile? Did not the world lie under the wrath and curse of +God? Was not her own son in hell for ever? Had not the blood of +the Son of God been shed for him in vain? Had not God meant that it +should be in vain? For by the gift of his Spirit could he not have +enabled him to accept the offered pardon? And for anything she +knew, was not Robert going after him to the place of misery? How +could she smile? + +'Noo be dooce,' she said, the moment she had shaken hands with them, +with her cold hands, so clean and soft and smooth. With a volcanic +heart of love, her outside was always so still and cold!--snow on +the mountain sides, hot vein-coursing lava within. For her highest +duty was submission to the will of God. Ah! if she had only known +the God who claimed her submission! But there is time enough for +every heart to know him. + +'Noo be dooce,' she repeated, 'an' sit doon, and tell me aboot the +fowk at Bodyfauld. I houpe ye thankit them, or ye left, for their +muckle kindness to ye.' + +The boys were silent. + +'Didna ye thank them?' + +'No, grannie; I dinna think 'at we did.' + +'Weel, that was ill-faured o' ye. Eh! but the hert is deceitfu' +aboon a' thing, and desperately wicked. Who can know it? Come +awa'. Come awa'. Robert, festen the door.' + +And she led them to the corner for prayer, and poured forth a +confession of sin for them and for herself, such as left little that +could have been added by her own profligate son, had he joined in +the prayer. Either there are no degrees in guilt, or the Scotch +language was equal only to the confession of children and holy +women, and could provide no more awful words for the contrition of +the prodigal or the hypocrite. But the words did little harm, for +Robert's mind was full of the kite and the violin, and was probably +nearer God thereby than if he had been trying to feel as wicked as +his grandmother told God that he was. Shargar was even more +divinely employed at the time than either; for though he had not had +the manners to thank his benefactor, his heart had all the way home +been full of tender thoughts of Miss Lammie's kindness; and now, +instead of confessing sins that were not his, he was loving her over +and over, and wishing to be back with her instead of with this +awfully good woman, in whose presence there was no peace, for all +the atmosphere of silence and calm in which she sat. + +Confession over, and the boys at liberty again, a new anxiety seized +them. Grannie must find out that Robert's shoes were missing, and +what account was to be given of the misfortune, for Robert would +not, or could not lie? In the midst of their discussion a bright +idea flashed upon Shargar, which, however, he kept to himself: he +would steal them, and bring them home in triumph, emulating thus +Robert's exploit in delivering his bonny leddy. + +The shoemaker sat behind his door to be out of the draught: Shargar +might see a great part of the workshop without being seen, and he +could pick Robert's shoes from among a hundred. Probably they lay +just where Robert had laid them, for Dooble Sanny paid attention to +any job only in proportion to the persecution accompanying it. + +So the next day Shargar contrived to slip out of school just as the +writing lesson began, for he had great skill in conveying himself +unseen, and, with his book-bag, slunk barefooted into the soutar's +entry. + +The shop door was a little way open, and the red eyes of Shargar had +only the corner next it to go peering about in. But there he saw +the shoes. He got down on his hands and knees, and crept nearer. +Yes, they were beyond a doubt Robert's shoes. He made a long arm, +like a beast of prey, seized them, and, losing his presence of mind +upon possession, drew them too hastily towards him. The shoemaker +saw them as they vanished through the door, and darted after them. +Shargar was off at full speed, and Sandy followed with hue and cry. +Every idle person in the street joined in the pursuit, and all who +were too busy or too respectable to run crowded to door and windows. +Shargar made instinctively for his mother's old lair; but +bethinking himself when he reached the door, he turned, and, knowing +nowhere else to go, fled in terror to Mrs. Falconer's, still, +however, holding fast by the shoes, for they were Robert's. + +As Robert came home from school, wondering what could have become of +his companion, he saw a crowd about his grandmother's door, and +pushing his way through it in some dismay, found Dooble Sanny and +Shargar confronting each other before the stern justice of Mrs. +Falconer. + +'Ye're a leear,' the soutar was panting out. 'I haena had a pair o' +shune o' Robert's i' my han's this three month. Thae shune--lat me +see them--they're--Here's Robert himsel'. Are thae shune yours, +noo, Robert?' + +'Ay are they. Ye made them yersel'.' + +'Hoo cam they in my chop, than?' + +'Speir nae mair quest'ons nor's worth answerin',' said Robert, with +a look meant to be significant. 'They're my shune, and I'll keep +them. Aiblins ye dinna aye ken wha's shune ye hae, or whan they cam +in to ye.' + +'What for didna Shargar come an' speir efter them, than, in place o' +makin' a thief o' himsel' that gait?' + +'Ye may haud yer tongue,' returned Robert, with yet more +significance. + +'I was aye a gowk (idiot),' said Shargar, in apologetic reflection, +looking awfully white, and afraid to lift an eye to Mrs. Falconer, +yet reassured a little by Robert's presence. + +Some glimmering seemed now to have dawned upon the soutar, for he +began to prepare a retreat. Meantime Mrs. Falconer sat silent, +allowing no word that passed to escape her. She wanted to be at the +bottom of the mysterious affair, and therefore held her peace. + +'Weel, I'm sure, Robert, ye never tellt me aboot the shune,' said +Alexander. 'I s' jist tak them back wi' me, and du what's wantit to +them. And I'm sorry that I hae gien ye this tribble, Mistress +Faukner; but it was a' that fule's wite there. I didna even ken it +was him, till we war near-han' the hoose.' + +'Lat me see the shune,' said Mrs. Falconer, speaking almost for the +first time. 'What's the maitter wi' them?' + +Examining the shoes, she saw they were in a perfectly sound state, +and this confirmed her suspicion that there was more in the affair +than had yet come out. Had she taken the straightforward measure of +examining Robert, she would soon have arrived at the truth. But she +had such a dread of causing a lie to be told, that she would adopt +any roundabout way rather than ask a plain question of a suspected +culprit. So she laid the shoes down beside her, saying to the +soutar, + +'There's naething amiss wi' the shune. Ye can lea' them.' + +Thereupon Alexander went away, and Robert and Shargar would have +given more than their dinner to follow him. Grannie neither asked +any questions, however, nor made a single remark on what had passed. +Dinner was served and eaten, and the boys returned to their +afternoon school. + +No sooner was she certain that they were safe under the +school-master's eye than the old lady put on her black silk bonnet +and her black woollen shawl, took her green cotton umbrella, which +served her for a staff, and, refusing Betty's proffered assistance, +set out for Dooble Sanny's shop. + +As she drew near she heard the sounds of his violin. When she +entered, he laid his auld wife carefully aside, and stood in an +expectant attitude. + +'Mr. Elshender, I want to be at the boddom o' this,' said Mrs. +Falconer. + +'Weel, mem, gang to the boddom o' 't,' returned Dooble Sanny, +dropping on his stool, and taking his stone upon his lap and +stroking it, as if it had been some quadrupedal pet. Full of rough +but real politeness to women when in good humour, he lost all his +manners along with his temper upon the slightest provocation, and +her tone irritated him. + +'Hoo cam Robert's shune to be i' your shop?' + +'Somebody bude till hae brocht them, mem. In a' my expairience, and +that's no sma', I never kent pair o' shune gang ohn a pair o' feet +i' the wame o' them.' + +'Hoots! what kin' o' gait 's that to speyk till a body? Whase feet +was inside the shune?' + +'De'il a bit o' me kens, mem.' + +'Dinna sweir, whatever ye du.' + +'De'il but I will sweir, mem; an' gin ye anger me, I'll jist sweir +awfu'.' + +'I'm sure I hae nae wuss to anger ye, man! Canna ye help a body to +win at the boddom o' a thing ohn angert an' sworn?' + +'Weel, I kenna wha brocht the shune, as I tellt ye a'ready.' + +'But they wantit nae men'in'.' + +'I micht hae men't them an' forgotten 't, mem.' + +'Noo ye're leein'.' + +'Gin ye gang on that gait, mem, I winna speyk a word o' trowth frae +this moment foret.' + +'Jist tell me what ye ken aboot thae shune, an' I'll no say anither +word.' + +'Weel, mem, I'll tell ye the trowth. The de'il brocht them in ae +day in a lang taings; and says he, "Elshender, men' thae shune for +puir Robby Faukner; an' dooble-sole them for the life o' ye; for +that auld luckie-minnie o' his 'ill sune hae him doon oor gait, and +the grun' 's het i' the noo; an' I dinna want to be ower sair upon +him, for he's a fine chield, an' 'll mak a fine fiddler gin he live +lang eneuch."' + +Mrs. Falconer left the shop without another word, but with an awful +suspicion which the last heedless words of the shoemaker had aroused +in her bosom. She left him bursting with laughter over his +lapstone. He caught up his fiddle and played The De'il's i' the +Women lustily and with expression. But he little thought what he +had done. + +As soon as she reached her own room, she went straight to her bed +and disinterred the bonny leddy's coffin. She was gone; and in her +stead, horror of horrors! lay in the unhallowed chest that body of +divinity known as Boston's Fourfold State. Vexation, anger, +disappointment, and grief possessed themselves of the old woman's +mind. She ranged the house like the 'questing beast' of the Round +Table, but failed in finding the violin before the return of the +boys. Not a word did she say all that evening, and their oppressed +hearts foreboded ill. They felt that there was thunder in the +clouds, a sleeping storm in the air; but how or when it would break +they had no idea. + +Robert came home to dinner the next day a few minutes before +Shargar. As he entered his grandmother's parlour, a strange odour +greeted his sense. A moment more, and he stood rooted with horror, +and his hair began to rise on his head. His violin lay on its back +on the fire, and a yellow tongue of flame was licking the red lips +of a hole in its belly. All its strings were shrivelled up save +one, which burst as he gazed. And beside, stern as a Druidess, sat +his grandmother in her chair, feeding her eyes with grim +satisfaction on the detestable sacrifice. At length the rigidity of +Robert's whole being relaxed in an involuntary howl like that of a +wild beast, and he turned and rushed from the house in a helpless +agony of horror. Where he was going he knew not, only a blind +instinct of modesty drove him to hide his passion from the eyes of +men. + +>From her window Miss St. John saw him tearing like one demented +along the top walk of the captain's garden, and watched for his +return. He came far sooner than she expected. + +Before he arrived at the factory, Robert began to hear strange +sounds in the desolate place. When he reached the upper floor, he +found men with axe and hammer destroying the old woodwork, breaking +the old jennies, pitching the balls of lead into baskets, and +throwing the spools into crates. Was there nothing but destruction +in the world? There, most horrible! his 'bonny leddy' dying of +flames, and here, the temple of his refuge torn to pieces by +unhallowed hands! What could it mean? Was his grandmother's +vengeance here too? But he did not care. He only felt like the +dove sent from the ark, that there was no rest for the sole of his +foot, that there was no place to hide his head in his agony--that he +was naked to the universe; and like a heartless wild thing hunted +till its brain is of no more use, he turned and rushed back again +upon his track. At one end was the burning idol, at the other the +desecrated temple. + +No sooner had he entered the captain's garden than Miss St. John met +him. + +'What is the matter with you, Robert?' she asked, kindly. + +'Oh, mem!' gasped Robert, and burst into a very storm of weeping. + +It was long before he could speak. He cowered before Miss St. John +as if conscious of an unfriendly presence, and seeking to shelter +himself by her tall figure from his grandmother's eyes. For who +could tell but at the moment she might be gazing upon him from some +window, or even from the blue vault above? There was no escaping +her. She was the all-seeing eye personified--the eye of the God of +the theologians of his country, always searching out the evil, and +refusing to acknowledge the good. Yet so gentle and faithful was +the heart of Robert, that he never thought of her as cruel. He took +it for granted that somehow or other she must be right. Only what a +terrible thing such righteousness was! He stood and wept before the +lady. + +Her heart was sore for the despairing boy. She drew him to a little +summer-seat. He entered with her, and sat down, weeping still. She +did her best to soothe him. At last, sorely interrupted by sobs, he +managed to let her know the fate of his 'bonnie leddy.' But when he +came to the words, 'She's burnin' in there upo' granny's fire,' he +broke out once more with that wild howl of despair, and then, +ashamed of himself, ceased weeping altogether, though he could not +help the intrusion of certain chokes and sobs upon his otherwise +even, though low and sad speech. + +Knowing nothing of Mrs. Falconer's character, Miss St. John set her +down as a cruel and heartless as well as tyrannical and bigoted old +woman, and took the mental position of enmity towards her. In a +gush of motherly indignation she kissed Robert on the forehead. + +>From that chrism he arose a king. + +He dried his eyes; not another sob even broke from him; he gave one +look, but no word of gratitude, to Miss St. John; bade her good-bye; +and walked composedly into his grandmother's parlour, where the neck +of the violin yet lay upon the fire only half consumed. The rest +had vanished utterly. + +'What are they duin' doon at the fact'ry, grannie?' he asked. + +'What's wha duin', laddie?' returned his grandmother, curtly. + +'They're takin' 't doon.' + +'Takin' what doon?' she returned, with raised voice. + +'Takin' doon the hoose.' + +The old woman rose. + +'Robert, ye may hae spite in yer hert for what I hae dune this +mornin', but I cud do no ither. An' it's an ill thing to tak sic +amen's o' me, as gin I had dune wrang, by garrin' me troo 'at yer +grandfather's property was to gang the gait o' 's auld, useless, +ill-mainnert scraich o' a fiddle.' + +'She was the bonniest fiddle i' the country-side, grannie. And she +never gae a scraich in her life 'cep' whan she was han'let in a +mainner unbecomin'. But we s' say nae mair aboot her, for she's +gane, an' no by a fair strae-deith (death on one's own straw) +either. She had nae blude to cry for vengeance; but the snappin' o' +her strings an' the crackin' o' her banes may hae made a cry to gang +far eneuch notwithstandin'.' + +The old woman seemed for one moment rebuked under her grandson's +eloquence. He had made a great stride towards manhood since the +morning. + +'The fiddle's my ain,' she said, in a defensive tone. 'And sae is +the fact'ry,' she added, as if she had not quite reassured herself +concerning it. + +'The fiddle's yours nae mair, grannie. And for the fact'ry--ye +winna believe me: gang and see yersel'.' + +Therewith Robert retreated to his garret. + +When he opened the door of it, the first thing he saw was the string +of his kite, which, strange to tell, so steady had been the wind, +was still up in the air--still tugging at the bedpost. Whether it +was from the stinging thought that the true sky-soarer, the violin, +having been devoured by the jaws of the fire-devil, there was no +longer any significance in the outward and visible sign of the +dragon, or from a dim feeling that the time of kites was gone by and +manhood on the threshold, I cannot tell; but he drew his knife from +his pocket, and with one down-stroke cut the string in twain. Away +went the dragon, free, like a prodigal, to his ruin. And with the +dragon, afar into the past, flew the childhood of Robert Falconer. +He made one remorseful dart after the string as it swept out of the +skylight, but it was gone beyond remeid. And never more, save in +twilight dreams, did he lay hold on his childhood again. But he +knew better and better, as the years rolled on, that he approached a +deeper and holier childhood, of which that had been but the feeble +and necessarily vanishing type. + +As the kite sank in the distance, Mrs. Falconer issued from the +house, and went down the street towards the factory. + +Before she came back the cloth was laid for dinner, and Robert and +Shargar were both in the parlour awaiting her return. She entered +heated and dismayed, went into Robert's bedroom, and shut the door +hastily. They heard her open the old bureau. In a moment after she +came out with a more luminous expression upon her face than Robert +had ever seen it bear. It was as still as ever, but there was a +strange light in her eyes, which was not confined to her eyes, but +shone in a measure from her colourless forehead and cheeks as well. +It was long before Robert was able to interpret that change in her +look, and that increase of kindness towards himself and Shargar, +apparently such a contrast with the holocaust of the morning. Had +they both been Benjamins they could not have had more abundant +platefuls than she gave them that day. And when they left her to +return to school, instead of the usual 'Noo be douce,' she said, in +gentle, almost loving tones, 'Noo, be good lads, baith o' ye.' + +The conclusion at which Falconer did arrive was that his grandmother +had hurried home to see whether the title-deeds of the factory were +still in her possession, and had found that they were gone--taken, +doubtless, by her son Andrew. At whatever period he had +appropriated them, he must have parted with them but recently. And +the hope rose luminous that her son had not yet passed into the +region 'where all life dies, death lives.' Terrible consolation! +Terrible creed, which made the hope that he was still on this side +of the grave working wickedness, light up the face of the mother, +and open her hand in kindness. Is it suffering, or is it +wickedness, that is the awful thing? 'Ah! but they are both combined +in the other world.' And in this world too, I answer; only, +according to Mrs. Falconer's creed, in the other world God, for the +sake of the suffering, renders the wickedness eternal! + +The old factory was in part pulled down, and out of its remains a +granary constructed. Nor did the old lady interpose a word to +arrest the alienation of her property. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + +BOOT FOR BALE. + +Mary St. John was the orphan daughter of an English clergyman, who +had left her money enough to make her at least independent. Mrs. +Forsyth, hearing that her niece was left alone in the world, had +concluded that her society would be a pleasure to herself and a +relief to the housekeeping. Even before her father's death, Miss +St. John, having met with a disappointment, and concluded herself +dead to the world, had been looking about for some way of doing +good. The prospect of retirement, therefore, and of being useful to +her sick aunt, had drawn her northwards. + +She was now about six-and-twenty, filled with two passions--one for +justice, the other for music. Her griefs had not made her selfish, +nor had her music degenerated into sentiment. The gentle style of +the instruction she had received had never begotten a diseased +self-consciousness; and if her religion lacked something of the +intensity without which a character like hers could not be evenly +balanced, its force was not spent on the combating of unholy doubts +and selfish fears, but rose on the wings of her music in gentle +thanksgiving. Tears had changed her bright-hued hopes into a +dove-coloured submission, through which her mind was passing towards +a rainbow dawn such as she had never dreamed of. To her as yet the +Book of Common Prayer contained all the prayers that human heart had +need to offer; what things lay beyond its scope must lie beyond the +scope of religion. All such things must be parted with one day, and +if they had been taken from her very soon, she was the sooner free +from the painful necessity of watching lest earthly love should +remove any of the old landmarks dividing what was God's from what +was only man's. She had now retired within the pale of religion, +and left the rest of her being, as she thought, 'to dull +forgetfulness a prey.' + +She had little comfort in the society of her aunt. Indeed, she felt +strongly tempted to return again to England the same month, and seek +a divine service elsewhere. But it was not at all so easy then as +it is now for a woman to find the opportunity of being helpful in +the world of suffering. + +Mrs. Forsyth was one of those women who get their own way by the +very vis inertiae of their silliness. No argument could tell upon +her. She was so incapable of seeing anything noble that her perfect +satisfaction with everything she herself thought, said, or did, +remained unchallenged. She had just illness enough to swell her +feeling of importance. She looked down upon Mrs. Falconer from such +an immeasurable height that she could not be indignant with her for +anything; she only vouchsafed a laugh now and then at her oddities, +holding no further communication with her than a condescending bend +of the neck when they happened to meet, which was not once a year. +But, indeed, she would have patronized the angel Gabriel, if she +had had a chance, and no doubt given him a hint or two upon the +proper way of praising God. For the rest, she was good-tempered, +looked comfortable, and quarrelled with nobody but her rough honest +old bear of a husband, whom, in his seventieth year, she was always +trying to teach good manners, with the frequent result of a storm of +swearing. + +But now Mary St. John was thoroughly interested in the strange boy +whose growing musical pinions were ever being clipped by the shears +of unsympathetic age and crabbed religion, and the idea of doing +something for him to make up for the injustice of his grandmother +awoke in her a slight glow of that interest in life which she sought +only in doing good. But although ere long she came to love the boy +very truly, and although Shargar's life was bound up in the favour +of Robert, yet neither stooping angel nor foot-following dog ever +loved the lad with the love of that old grandmother, who would for +him have given herself to the fire to which she had doomed his +greatest delight. + +For some days Robert worked hard at his lessons, for he had nothing +else to do. Life was very gloomy now. If he could only go to sea, +or away to keep sheep on the stormy mountains! If there were only +some war going on, that he might list! Any fighting with the +elements, or with the oppressors of the nations, would make life +worth having, a man worth being. But God did not heed. He leaned +over the world, a dark care, an immovable fate, bearing down with +the weight of his presence all aspiration, all budding delights of +children and young persons: all must crouch before him, and uphold +his glory with the sacrificial death of every impulse, every +admiration, every lightness of heart, every bubble of laughter. +Or--which to a mind like Robert's was as bad--if he did not punish +for these things, it was because they came not within the sphere of +his condescension, were not worth his notice: of sympathy could be +no question. + +But this gloom did not last long. When souls like Robert's have +been ill-taught about God, the true God will not let them gaze too +long upon the Moloch which men have set up to represent him. He +will turn away their minds from that which men call him, and fill +them with some of his own lovely thoughts or works, such as may by +degrees prepare the way for a vision of the Father. + +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. I +shall 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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + +THE GATES OF PARADISE. + +Robert had his first lesson the next Saturday afternoon. Eager and +undismayed by the presence of Mrs, Forsyth, good-natured and +contemptuous--for had he not a protecting angel by him?--he +hearkened for every word of Miss St. John, combated every fault, and +undermined every awkwardness with earnest patience. Nothing +delighted Robert so much as to give himself up to one greater. His +mistress was thoroughly pleased, and even Mrs. Forsyth gave him two +of her soft finger tips to do something or other with--Robert did +not know what, and let them go. + +About eight o'clock that same evening, his heart beating like a +captured bird's, he crept from grannie's parlour, past the kitchen, +and up the low stair to the mysterious door. He had been trying for +an hour to summon up courage to rise, feeling as if his grandmother +must suspect where he was going. Arrived at the barrier, twice his +courage failed him; twice he turned and sped back to the parlour. A +third time he made the essay, a third time stood at the wondrous +door--so long as blank as a wall to his careless eyes, now like the +door of the magic Sesame that led to the treasure-cave of Ali Baba. +He laid his hand on the knob, withdrew it, thought he heard some one +in the transe, rushed up the garret stair, and stood listening, +hastened down, and with a sudden influx of determination opened the +door, saw that the trap was raised, closed the door behind him, and +standing with his head on the level of the floor, gazed into the +paradise of Miss St. John's room. To have one peep into such a room +was a kind of salvation to the half-starved nature of the boy. All +before him was elegance, richness, mystery. Womanhood radiated from +everything. A fire blazed in the chimney. A rug of long white wool +lay before it. A little way off stood the piano. Ornaments +sparkled and shone upon the dressing-table. The door of a wardrobe +had swung a little open, and discovered the sombre shimmer of a +black silk dress. Something gorgeously red, a China crape shawl, +hung glowing beyond it. He dared not gaze any longer. He had +already been guilty of an immodesty. He hastened to ascend, and +seated himself at the piano. + +Let my reader aid me for a moment with his imagination--reflecting +what it was to a boy like Robert, and in Robert's misery, to open a +door in his own meagre dwelling and gaze into such a room--free to +him. If he will aid me so, then let him aid himself by thinking +that the house of his own soul has such a door into the infinite +beauty, whether he has yet found it or not. + +'Just think,' Robert said to himself, 'o' me in sic a place! It's a +pailace. It's a fairy pailace. And that angel o' a leddy bides +here, and sleeps there! I wonner gin she ever dreams aboot onything +as bonny 's hersel'!' + +Then his thoughts took another turn. + +'I wonner gin the room was onything like this whan my mamma sleepit +in 't? I cudna hae been born in sic a gran' place. But my mamma +micht hae weel lien here.' + +The face of the miniature, and the sad words written below the hymn, +came back upon him, and he bowed his head upon his hands. He was +sitting thus when Miss St. John came behind him, and heard him +murmur the one word Mamma! She laid her hand on his shoulder. He +started and rose. + +'I beg yer pardon, mem. I hae no business to be here, excep' to +play. But I cudna help thinkin' aboot my mother; for I was born in +this room, mem. Will I gang awa' again?' + +He turned towards the door. + +'No, no,' said Miss St. John. 'I only came to see if you were here. +I cannot stop now; but to-morrow you must tell me about your +mother. Sit down, and don't lose any more time. Your grandmother +will miss you. And then what would come of it?' + +Thus was this rough diamond of a Scotch boy, rude in speech, but +full of delicate thought, gathered under the modelling influences of +the finished, refined, tender, sweet-tongued, and sweet-thoughted +Englishwoman, who, if she had been less of a woman, would have been +repelled by his uncouthness; if she had been less of a lady, would +have mistaken his commonness for vulgarity. But she was just, like +the type of womankind, a virgin-mother. She saw the nobility of his +nature through its homely garments, and had been, indeed, sent to +carry on the work from which his mother had been too early taken +away. + +'There's jist ae thing mem, that vexes me a wee, an' I dinna ken +what to think aboot it,' said Robert, as Miss St. John was leaving +the room. 'Maybe ye cud bide ae minute till I tell ye.' + +'Yes, I can. What is it?' + +'I'm nearhan' sure that whan I lea' the parlour, grannie 'ill think +I'm awa' to my prayers; and sae she'll think better o' me nor I +deserve. An' I canna bide that.' + +'What should make you suppose that she will think so?' + +'Fowk kens what ane anither's aboot, ye ken, mem.' + +'Then she'll know you are not at your prayers.' + +'Na. For sometimes I div gang to my prayers for a whilie like, but +nae for lang, for I'm nae like ane o' them 'at he wad care to hear +sayin' a lang screed o' a prayer till 'im. I hae but ae thing to +pray aboot.' + +'And what's that, Robert?' + +One of his silences had seized him. He looked confused, and turned +away. + +'Never mind,' said Miss St. John, anxious to relieve him, and +establish a comfortable relation between them; 'you will tell me +another time.' + +'I doobt no, mem,' answered Robert, with what most people would +think an excess of honesty. + +But Miss St. John made a better conjecture as to his apparent +closeness. + +'At all events,' she said, 'don't mind what your grannie may think, +so long as you have no wish to make her think it. Good-night.' + +Had she been indeed an angel from heaven, Robert could not have +worshipped her more. And why should he? Was she less God's +messenger that she had beautiful arms instead of less beautiful +wings? + +He practised his scales till his unaccustomed fingers were stiff, +then shut the piano with reverence, and departed, carefully peeping +into the disenchanted region without the gates to see that no enemy +lay in wait for him as he passed beyond them. He closed the door +gently; and in one moment the rich lovely room and the beautiful +lady were behind him, and before him the bare stair between two +white-washed walls, and the long flagged transe that led to his +silent grandmother seated in her arm-chair, gazing into the red +coals--for somehow grannie's fire always glowed, and never +blazed--with her round-toed shoes pointed at them from the top of +her little wooden stool. He traversed the stair and the transe, +entered the parlour, and sat down to his open book as though nothing +had happened. But his grandmother saw the light in his face, and +did think he had just come from his prayers. And she blessed God +that he had put it into her heart to burn the fiddle. + +The next night Robert took with him the miniature of his mother, and +showed it to Miss St. John, who saw at once that, whatever might be +his present surroundings, his mother must have been a lady. A +certain fancied resemblance in it to her own mother likewise drew +her heart to the boy. Then Robert took from his pocket the gold +thimble, and said, + +'This thimmel was my mamma's. Will ye tak it, mem, for ye ken it's +o' nae use to me.' + +Miss St. John hesitated for a moment. + +'I will keep it for you, if you like,' she said, for she could not +bear to refuse it. + +'Na, mem; I want ye to keep it to yersel'; for I'm sure my mamma wad +hae likit you to hae 't better nor ony ither body.' + +'Well, I will use it sometimes for your sake. But mind, I will not +take it from you; I will only keep it for you.' + +'Weel, weel, mem; gin ye'll keep it till I speir for 't, that'll du +weel eneuch,' answered Robert, with a smile. + +He laboured diligently; and his progress corresponded to his labour. +It was more than intellect that guided him: Falconer had genius for +whatever he cared for. + +Meantime the love he bore his teacher, and the influence of her +beauty, began to mould him, in his kind and degree, after her +likeness, so that he grew nice in his person and dress, and smoothed +the roughness and moderated the broadness of his speech with the +amenities of the English which she made so sweet upon her tongue. +He became still more obedient to his grandmother, and more diligent +at school; gathered to himself golden opinions without knowing it, +and was gradually developing into a rustic gentleman. + +Nor did the piano absorb all his faculties. Every divine influence +tends to the rounded perfection of the whole. His love of Nature +grew more rapidly. Hitherto it was only in summer that he had felt +the presence of a power in her and yet above her: in winter, now, +the sky was true and deep, though the world was waste and sad; and +the tones of the wind that roared at night about the goddess-haunted +house, and moaned in the chimneys of the lowly dwelling that nestled +against it, woke harmonies within him which already he tried to +spell out falteringly. Miss St. John began to find that he put +expressions of his own into the simple things she gave him to play, +and even dreamed a little at his own will when alone with the +passive instrument. Little did Mrs. Falconer think into what a +seventh heaven of accursed music she had driven her boy. + +But not yet did he tell his friend, much as he loved and much as he +trusted her, the little he knew of his mother's sorrows and his +father's sins, or whose the hand that had struck him when she found +him lying in the waste factory. + +For a time almost all his trouble about God went from him. Nor do I +think that this was only because he rarely thought of him at all: +God gave him of himself in Miss St. John. But words dropped now and +then from off the shelves where his old difficulties lay, and they +fell like seeds upon the heart of Miss St. John, took root, and rose +in thoughts: in the heart of a true woman the talk of a child even +will take life. + +One evening Robert rose from the table, not unwatched of his +grandmother, and sped swiftly and silently through the dark, as was +his custom, to enter the chamber of enchantment. Never before had +his hand failed to alight, sure as a lark on its nest, upon the +brass handle of the door that admitted him to his paradise. It +missed it now, and fell on something damp, and rough, and repellent +instead. Horrible, but true suspicion! While he was at school that +day, his grandmother, moved by what doubt or by what certainty she +never revealed, had had the doorway walled up. He felt the place +all over. It was to his hands the living tomb of his mother's vicar +on earth. + +He returned to his book, pale as death, but said never a word. The +next day the stones were plastered over. + +Thus the door of bliss vanished from the earth. And neither the boy +nor his grandmother ever said that it had been. + + + + +PART II.--HIS YOUTH. + + + +CHAPTER I. + +ROBERT KNOCKS--AND THE DOOR IS NOT OPENED. + +The remainder of that winter was dreary indeed. Every time Robert +went up the stair to his garret, he passed the door of a tomb. With +that gray mortar Mary St. John was walled up, like the nun he had +read of in the Marmion she had lent him. He might have rung the +bell at the street door, and been admitted into the temple of his +goddess, but a certain vague terror of his grannie, combined with +equally vague qualms of conscience for having deceived her, and the +approach in the far distance of a ghastly suspicion that violins, +pianos, moonlight, and lovely women were distasteful to the +over-ruling Fate, and obnoxious to the vengeance stored in the gray +cloud of his providence, drove him from the awful entrance of the +temple of his Isis. + +Nor did Miss St. John dare to make any advances to the dreadful old +lady. She would wait. For Mrs. Forsyth, she cared nothing about +the whole affair. It only gave her fresh opportunity for smiling +condescensions about 'poor Mrs. Falconer.' So Paradise was over and +gone. + +But though the loss of Miss St. John and the piano was the last +blow, his sorrow did not rest there, but returned to brood over his +bonny lady. She was scattered to the winds. Would any of her ashes +ever rise in the corn, and moan in the ripening wind of autumn? +Might not some atoms of the bonny leddy creep into the pines on the +hill, whose 'soft and soul-like sounds' had taught him to play the +Flowers of the Forest on those strings which, like the nerves of an +amputated limb, yet thrilled through his being? Or might not some +particle find its way by winds and waters to sycamore forest of +Italy, there creep up through the channels of its life to some +finely-rounded curve of noble tree, on the side that ever looks +sunwards, and be chosen once again by the violin-hunter, to be +wrought into a new and fame-gathering instrument? + +Could it be that his bonny lady had learned her wondrous music in +those forests, from the shine of the sun, and the sighing of the +winds through the sycamores and pines? For Robert knew that the +broad-leaved sycamore, and the sharp, needle-leaved pine, had each +its share in the violin. Only as the wild innocence of human +nature, uncorrupted by wrong, untaught by suffering, is to that +nature struggling out of darkness into light, such and so different +is the living wood, with its sweetest tones of obedient impulse, +answering only to the wind which bloweth where it listeth, to that +wood, chosen, separated, individualized, tortured into strange, +almost vital shape, after a law to us nearly unknown, strung with +strings from animal organizations, and put into the hands of man to +utter the feelings of a soul that has passed through a like history. +This Robert could not yet think, and had to grow able to think it +by being himself made an instrument of God's music. + +What he could think was that the glorious mystery of his bonny leddy +was gone for ever--and alas! she had no soul. Here was an eternal +sorrow. He could never meet her again. His affections, which must +live for ever, were set upon that which had passed away. But the +child that weeps because his mutilated doll will not rise from the +dead, shall yet find relief from his sorrow, a true relief, both +human and divine. He shall know that that which in the doll made +him love the doll, has not passed away. And Robert must yet be +comforted for the loss of his bonny leddy. If she had had a soul, +nothing but her own self could ever satisfy him. As she had no +soul, another body might take her place, nor occasion reproach of +inconstancy. + +But, in the meantime, the shears of Fate having cut the string of +the sky-soaring kite of his imagination, had left him with the stick +in his hand. And thus the rest of that winter was dreary enough. +The glow was out of his heart; the glow was out of the world. The +bleak, kindless wind was hissing through those pines that clothed +the hill above Bodyfauld, and over the dead garden, where in the +summer time the rose had looked down so lovingly on the heartsease. +If he had stood once more at gloaming in that barley-stubble, not +even the wail of Flodden-field would have found him there, but a +keen sense of personal misery and hopeless cold. Was the summer a +lie? + +Not so. The winter restrains, that the summer may have the needful +time to do its work well; for the winter is but the sleep of summer. + +Now in the winter of his discontent, and in Nature finding no help, +Robert was driven inwards--into his garret, into his soul. There, +the door of his paradise being walled up, he began, vaguely, +blindly, to knock against other doors--sometimes against stone-walls +and rocks, taking them for doors--as travel-worn, and hence +brain-sick men have done in a desert of mountains. A door, out or +in, he must find, or perish. + +It fell, too, that Miss St. John went to visit some friends who +lived in a coast town twenty miles off; and a season of heavy snow +followed by frost setting in, she was absent for six weeks, during +which time, without a single care to trouble him from without, +Robert was in the very desert of desolation. His spirits sank +fearfully. He would pass his old music-master in the street with +scarce a recognition, as if the bond of their relation had been +utterly broken, had vanished in the smoke of the martyred violin, +and all their affection had gone into the dust-heap of the past. + +Dooble Sanny's character did not improve. He took more and more +whisky, his bouts of drinking alternating as before with fits of +hopeless repentance. His work was more neglected than ever, and his +wife having no money to spend even upon necessaries, applied in +desperation to her husband's bottle for comfort. This comfort, to +do him justice, he never grudged her; and sometimes before midday +they would both be drunk--a condition expedited by the lack of food. +When they began to recover, they would quarrel fiercely; and at +last they became a nuisance to the whole street. Little did the +whisky-hating old lady know to what god she had really offered up +that violin--if the consequences of the holocaust can be admitted as +indicating the power which had accepted it. + +But now began to appear in Robert the first signs of a practical +outcome of such truth as his grandmother had taught him, operating +upon the necessities of a simple and earnest nature. Reality, +however lapt in vanity, or even in falsehood, cannot lose its power. +It is--the other is not. She had taught him to look up--that there +was a God. He would put it to the test. Not that he doubted it yet: +he only doubted whether there was a hearing God. But was not that +worse? It was, I think. For it is of far more consequence what +kind of a God, than whether a God or no. Let not my reader suppose +I think it possible there could be other than a perfect +God--perfect--even to the vision of his creatures, the faith that +supplies the lack of vision being yet faithful to that vision. I +speak from Robert's point of outlook. But, indeed, whether better +or worse is no great matter, so long as he would see it or what +there was. He had no comfort, and, without reasoning about it, he +felt that life ought to have comfort--from which point he began to +conclude that the only thing left was to try whether the God in whom +his grandmother believed might not help him. If the God would but +hear him, it was all he had yet learned to require of his Godhood. +And that must ever be the first thing to require. More demands +would come, and greater answers he would find. But now--if God +would but hear him! If he spoke to him but one kind word, it would +be the very soul of comfort; he could no more be lonely. A fountain +of glad imaginations gushed up in his heart at the thought. What +if, from the cold winter of his life, he had but to open the door of +his garret-room, and, kneeling by the bare bedstead, enter into the +summer of God's presence! What if God spoke to him face to face! +He had so spoken to Moses. He sought him from no fear of the +future, but from present desolation; and if God came near to him, it +would not be with storm and tempest, but with the voice of a friend. +And surely, if there was a God at all, that is, not a power greater +than man, but a power by whose power man was, he must hear the voice +of the creature whom he had made, a voice that came crying out of +the very need which he had created. Younger people than Robert are +capable of such divine metaphysics. Hence he continued to disappear +from his grandmother's parlour at much the same hour as before. In +the cold, desolate garret, he knelt and cried out into that which +lay beyond the thought that cried, the unknowable infinite, after +the God that may be known as surely as a little child knows his +mysterious mother. And from behind him, the pale-blue, star-crowded +sky shone upon his head, through the window that looked upwards +only. + +Mrs. Falconer saw that he still went away as he had been wont, and +instituted observations, the result of which was the knowledge that +he went to his own room. Her heart smote her, and she saw that the +boy looked sad and troubled. There was scarce room in her heart for +increase of love, but much for increase of kindness, and she did +increase it. In truth, he needed the smallest crumb of comfort that +might drop from the table of God's 'feastful friends.' + +Night after night he returned to the parlour cold to the very heart. +God was not to be found, he said then. He said afterwards that +even then 'God was with him though he knew it not.' + +For the very first night, the moment that he knelt and cried, 'O +Father in heaven, hear me, and let thy face shine upon me'--like a +flash of burning fire the words shot from the door of his heart: 'I +dinna care for him to love me, gin he doesna love ilka body;' and no +more prayer went from the desolate boy that night, although he knelt +an hour of agony in the freezing dark. Loyal to what he had been +taught, he struggled hard to reduce his rebellious will to what he +supposed to be the will of God. It was all in vain. Ever a voice +within him--surely the voice of that God who he thought was not +hearing--told him that what he wanted was the love belonging to his +human nature, his human needs--not the preference of a +court-favourite. He had a dim consciousness that he would be a +traitor to his race if he accepted a love, even from God, given him +as an exception from his kind. But he did not care to have such a +love. It was not what his heart yearned for. It was not love. He +could not love such a love. Yet he strove against it all--fought +for religion against right as he could; struggled to reduce his +rebellious feelings, to love that which was unlovely, to choose that +which was abhorrent, until nature almost gave way under the effort. +Often would he sink moaning on the floor, or stretch himself like a +corpse, save that it was face downwards, on the boards of the +bedstead. Night after night he returned to the battle, but with no +permanent success. What a success that would have been! Night +after night he came pale and worn from the conflict, found his +grandmother and Shargar composed, and in the quietness of despair +sat down beside them to his Latin version. + +He little thought, that every night, at the moment when he stirred +to leave the upper room, a pale-faced, red-eyed figure rose from its +seat on the top of the stair by the door, and sped with long-legged +noiselessness to resume its seat by the grandmother before he should +enter. Shargar saw that Robert was unhappy, and the nearest he +could come to the sharing of his unhappiness was to take his place +outside the door within which he had retreated. Little, too, did +Shargar, on his part, think that Robert, without knowing it, was +pleading for him inside--pleading for him and for all his race in +the weeping that would not be comforted. + +Robert had not the vaguest fancy that God was with him--the spirit +of the Father groaning with the spirit of the boy in intercession +that could not be uttered. If God had come to him then and +comforted him with the assurance of individual favour--but the very +supposition is a taking of his name in vain--had Robert found +comfort in the fancied assurance that God was his friend in +especial, that some private favour was granted to his prayers, that, +indeed, would have been to be left to his own inventions, to bring +forth not fruits meet for repentance, but fruits for which +repentance alone is meet. But God was with him, and was indeed +victorious in the boy when he rose from his knees, for the last +time, as he thought, saying, 'I cannot yield--I will pray no +more.'--With a burst of bitter tears he sat down on the bedside till +the loudest of the storm was over, then dried his dull eyes, in +which the old outlook had withered away, and trod unknowingly in the +silent footsteps of Shargar, who was ever one corner in advance of +him, down to the dreary lessons and unheeded prayers; but, thank +God, not to the sleepless night, for some griefs bring sleep the +sooner. + +My reader must not mistake my use of the words especial and private, +or suppose that I do not believe in an individual relation between +every man and God, yes, a peculiar relation, differing from the +relation between every other man and God! But this very +individuality and peculiarity can only be founded on the broadest +truths of the Godhood and the manhood. + +Mrs. Falconer, ere she went to sleep, gave thanks that the boys had +been at their prayers together. And so, in a very deep sense, they +had. + +And well they might have been; for Shargar was nearly as desolate as +Robert, and would certainly, had his mother claimed him now, have +gone on the tramp with her again. Wherein could this civilized life +show itself to him better than that to which he had been born? For +clothing he cared little, and he had always managed to kill his +hunger or thirst, if at longer intervals, then with greater +satisfaction. Wherein is the life of that man who merely does his +eating and drinking and clothing after a civilized fashion better +than that of the gipsy or tramp? If the civilized man is honest to +boot, and gives good work in return for the bread or turtle on which +he dines, and the gipsy, on the other hand, steals his dinner, I +recognize the importance of the difference; but if the rich man +plunders the community by exorbitant profits, or speculation with +other people's money, while the gipsy adds a fowl or two to the +produce of his tinkering; or, once again, if the gipsy is as honest +as the honest citizen, which is not so rare a case by any means as +people imagine, I return to my question: Wherein, I say, is the warm +house, the windows hung with purple, and the table covered with fine +linen, more divine than the tent or the blue sky, and the dipping in +the dish? Why should not Shargar prefer a life with the mother God +had given him to a life with Mrs. Falconer? Why should he prefer +geography to rambling, or Latin to Romany? His purposelessness and +his love for Robert alone kept him where he was. + +The next evening, having given up his praying, Robert sat with his +Sallust before him. But the fount of tears began to swell, and the +more he tried to keep it down, the more it went on swelling till his +throat was filled with a lump of pain. He rose and left the room. +But he could not go near the garret. That door too was closed. He +opened the house door instead, and went out into the street. There, +nothing was to be seen but faint blue air full of moonlight, solid +houses, and shining snow. Bareheaded he wandered round the corner +of the house to the window whence first he had heard the sweet +sounds of the pianoforte. The fire within lighted up the crimson +curtains, but no voice of music came forth. The window was as dumb +as the pale, faintly befogged moon overhead, itself seeming but a +skylight through which shone the sickly light of the passionless +world of the dead. Not a form was in the street. The eyes of the +houses gleamed here and there upon the snow. He leaned his elbow on +the window-sill behind which stood that sealed fountain of lovely +sound, looked up at the moon, careless of her or of aught else in +heaven or on earth, and sunk into a reverie, in which nothing was +consciously present but a stream of fog-smoke that flowed slowly, +listlessly across the face of the moon, like the ghost of a dead +cataract. 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. + +Things had gone ill with him. Outside of Paradise, deserted of his +angel, in the frost and the snow, the voice of the despised violin +once more the source of a sad comfort! But there is no better +discipline than an occasional descent from what we count well-being, +to a former despised or less happy condition. One of the results of +this taste of damnation in Robert was, that when he was in bed that +night, his heart began to turn gently towards his old master. How +much did he not owe him, after all! Had he not acted ill and +ungratefully in deserting him? His own vessel filled to the brim +with grief, had he not let the waters of its bitterness overflow +into the heart of the soutar? The wail of that violin echoed now in +Robert's heart, not for Flodden, not for himself, but for the +debased nature that drew forth the plaint. Comrades in misery, why +should they part? What right had he to forsake an old friend and +benefactor because he himself was unhappy? He would go and see him +the very next night. And he would make friends once more with the +much 'suffering instrument' he had so wrongfully despised. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +THE STROKE. + +The following night, he left his books on the table, and the house +itself behind him, and sped like a grayhound to Dooble Sanny's shop, +lifted the latch, and entered. + +By the light of a single dip set on a chair, he saw the shoemaker +seated on his stool, one hand lying on the lap of his leathern +apron, his other hand hanging down by his side, and the fiddle on +the ground at his feet. His wife stood behind him, wiping her eyes +with her blue apron. Through all its accumulated dirt, the face of +the soutar looked ghastly, and they were eyes of despair that he +lifted to the face of the youth as he stood holding the latch in his +hand. Mrs. Alexander moved towards Robert, drew him in, and gently +closed the door behind him, resuming her station like a sculptured +mourner behind her motionless husband. + +'What on airth's the maitter wi' ye, Sandy?' said Robert. + +'Eh, Robert!' returned the shoemaker, and a tone of affection tinged +the mournfulness with which he uttered the strange words--'eh, +Robert! the Almichty will gang his ain gait, and I'm in his grup +noo.' + +'He's had a stroke,' said his wife, without removing her apron from +her eyes. + +'I hae gotten my pecks (blows),' resumed the soutar, in a despairing +voice, which gave yet more effect to the fantastic eccentricity of +conscience which from the midst of so many grave faults chose such a +one as especially bringing the divine displeasure upon him: 'I hae +gotten my pecks for cryin' doon my ain auld wife to set up your +bonny leddy. The tane's gane a' to aise an' stew (ashes and dust), +an' frae the tither,' he went on, looking down on the violin at his +feet as if it had been something dead in its youth--'an' frae the +tither I canna draw a cheep, for my richt han' has forgotten her +cunnin' Man, Robert, I canna lift it frae my side.' + +'Ye maun gang to yer bed,' said Robert, greatly concerned. + +'Ow, ay, I maun gang to my bed, and syne to the kirkyaird, and syne +to hell, I ken that weel eneuch. Robert, I lea my fiddle to you. +Be guid to the auld wife, man--better nor I hae been. An auld +wife's better nor nae fiddle.' + +He stooped, lifted the violin with his left hand, gave it to Robert, +rose, and made for the door. They helped him up the creaking stair, +got him half-undressed, and laid him in his bed. Robert put the +violin on the top of a press within sight of the sufferer, left him +groaning, and ran for the doctor. Having seen him set out for the +patient's dwelling, he ran home to his grandmother. + +Now while Robert was absent, occasion had arisen to look for him: +unusual occurrence, a visitor had appeared, no less a person than +Mr. Innes, the school-master. Shargar had been banished in +consequence from the parlour, and had seated himself outside +Robert's room, never doubting that Robert was inside. Presently he +heard the bell ring, and then Betty came up the stair, and said +Robert was wanted. Thereupon Shargar knocked at the door, and as +there was neither voice nor hearing, opened it, and found, with a +well-known horror, that he had been watching an empty room. He made +no haste to communicate the fact. Robert might return in a moment, +and his absence from the house not be discovered. He sat down on +the bedstead and waited. But Betty came up again, and before +Shargar could prevent her, walked into the room with her candle in +her hand. In vain did Shargar intreat her to go and say that Robert +was coming. Betty would not risk the danger of discovery in +connivance, and descended to open afresh the fountain of the old +lady's anxiety. She did not, however, betray her disquietude to Mr. +Innes. + +She had asked the school-master to visit her, in order that she +might consult him about Robert's future. Mr. Innes expressed a high +opinion of the boy's faculties and attainments, and strongly urged +that he should be sent to college. Mrs. Falconer inwardly shuddered +at the temptations to which this course would expose him; but he +must leave home or be apprentice to some trade. She would have +chosen the latter, I believe, but for religion towards the boy's +parents, who would never have thought of other than a profession for +him. While the school-master was dwelling on the argument that he +was pretty sure to gain a good bursary, and she would thus be +relieved for four years, probably for ever, from further expense on +his account, Robert entered. + +'Whaur hae ye been, Robert?' asked Mrs. Falconer. + +'At Dooble Sanny's,' answered the boy. + +'What hae ye been at there?' + +'Helpin' him till 's bed.' + +'What's come ower him?' + +'A stroke.' + +'That's what comes o' playin' the fiddle.' + +'I never heard o' a stroke comin' frae a fiddle, grannie. It comes +oot o' a clood whiles. Gin he had hauden till 's fiddle, he wad hae +been playin' her the nicht, in place o' 's airm lyin' at 's side +like a lang lingel (ligneul--shoemaker's thread).' + +'Hm!' said his grandmother, concealing her indignation at this +freedom of speech, 'ye dinna believe in God's judgments!' + +'Nae upo' fiddles,' returned Robert. + +Mr. Innes sat and said nothing, with difficulty concealing his +amusement at this passage of arms. + +It was but within the last few days that Robert had become capable +of speaking thus. His nature had at length arrived at the point of +so far casting off the incubus of his grandmother's authority as to +assert some measure of freedom and act openly. His very +hopelessness of a hearing in heaven had made him indifferent to +things on earth, and therefore bolder. Thus, strange as it may +seem, the blessing of God descended on him in the despair which +enabled him to speak out and free his soul from the weight of +concealment. But it was not despair alone that gave him strength. +On his way home from the shoemaker's he had been thinking what he +could do for him; and had resolved, come of it what might, that he +would visit him every evening, and try whether he could not comfort +him a little by playing upon his violin. So that it was +loving-kindness towards man, as well as despair towards God, that +gave him strength to resolve that between him and his grandmother +all should be above-board from henceforth. + +'Nae upo' fiddles,' Robert had said. + +'But upo' them 'at plays them,' returned his grandmother. + +'Na; nor upo' them 'at burns them,' retorted Robert--impudently it +must be confessed; for every man is open to commit the fault of +which he is least capable. + +But Mrs. Falconer had too much regard to her own dignity to indulge +her feelings. Possibly too her sense of justice, which Falconer +always said was stronger than that of any other woman he had ever +known, as well as some movement of her conscience interfered. She +was silent, and Robert rushed into the breach which his last +discharge had effected. + +'An' I want to tell ye, grannie, that I mean to gang an' play the +fiddle to puir Sanny ilka nicht for the best pairt o' an hoor; an' +excep' ye lock the door an' hide the key, I will gang. The puir +sinner sanna be desertit by God an' man baith.' + +He scarcely knew what he was saying before it was out of his mouth; +and as if to cover it up, he hurried on. + +'An' there's mair in 't.--Dr. Anderson gae Shargar an' me a +sovereign the piece. An' Dooble Sanny s' hae them, to haud him ohn +deid o' hunger an' cauld.' + +'What for didna ye tell me 'at Dr. Anderson had gien ye sic a sicht +o' siller? It was ill-faured o' ye--an' him as weel.' + +''Cause ye wad hae sent it back till 'im; an' Shargar and me we +thocht we wad raither keep it.' + +'Considerin' 'at I'm at sae muckle expense wi' ye baith, it wadna +hae been ill-contrived to hae brocht the siller to me, an' latten me +du wi' 't as I thocht fit.--Gang na awa', laddie,' she added, as she +saw Robert about to leave the room. + +'I'll be back in a minute, grannie,' returned Robert. + +'He's a fine lad, that!' said Mr. Innes; 'an' guid 'll come o' 'm, +and that 'll be heard tell o'.' + +'Gin he had but the grace o' God, there wadna be muckle to compleen +o',' acquiesced his grandmother. + +'There's time eneuch for that, Mrs. Faukner. Ye canna get auld +heids upo' young shoothers, ye ken.' + +''Deed for that maitter, ye may get mony an auld heid upo' auld +shoothers, and nae a spark o' grace in 't to lat it see hoo to lay +itsel' doon i' the grave.' + +Robert returned before Mr. Innes had made up his mind as to whether +the old lady intended a personal rebuke. + +'Hae, grannie,' he said, going up to her, and putting the two +sovereigns in her white palm. + +He had found some difficulty in making Shargar give up his, else he +would have returned sooner. + +'What's this o' 't, laddie?' said Mrs. Falconer. 'Hoots! I'm nae +gaein' to tak yer siller. Lat the puir soutar-craturs hae 't. But +dinna gie them mair nor a shillin' or twa at ance--jist to haud them +in life. They deserve nae mair. But they maunna sterve. And jist +ye tell them, laddie, at gin they spen' ae saxpence o' 't upo' +whusky, they s' get nae mair.' + +'Ay, ay, grannie,' responded Robert, with a glimmer of gladness in +his heart. 'And what aboot the fiddlin', grannie?' he added, half +playfully, hoping for some kind concession therein as well. + +But he had gone too far. She vouchsafed no reply, and her face grew +stern with offence. It was one thing to give bread to eat, another +to give music and gladness. No music but that which sprung from +effectual calling and the perseverance of the saints could be lawful +in a world that was under the wrath and curse of God. Robert waited +in vain for a reply. + +'Gang yer wa's,' she said at length. 'Mr. Innes and me has some +business to mak an en' o', an' we want nae assistance.' + +Robert rejoined Shargar, who was still bemoaning the loss of his +sovereign. His face brightened when he saw its well-known yellow +shine once more, but darkened again as soon as Robert told him to +what service it was now devoted. + +'It's my ain,' he said, with a suppressed expostulatory growl. + +Robert threw the coin on the floor. + +'Tak yer filthy lucre!' he exclaimed with contempt, and turned to +leave Shargar alone in the garret with his sovereign. + +'Bob!' Shargar almost screamed, 'tak it, or I'll cut my throat.' + +This was his constant threat when he was thoroughly in earnest. + +'Cut it, an' hae dune wi' 't,' said Robert cruelly. + +Shargar burst out crying. + +'Len' me yer knife, than, Bob,' he sobbed, holding out his hand. + +Robert burst into a roar of laughter, caught up the sovereign from +the floor, sped with it to the baker's, who refused to change it +because he had no knowledge of anything representing the sum of +twenty shillings except a pound-note, succeeded in getting silver +for it at the bank, and then ran to the soutar's. + +After he left the parlour, the discussion of his fate was resumed +and finally settled between his grandmother and the school-master. +The former, in regard of the boy's determination to befriend the +shoemaker in the matter of music as well as of money, would now have +sent him at once to the grammar-school in Old Aberdeen, to prepare +for the competition in the month of November; but the latter +persuaded her that if the boy gave his whole attention to Latin till +the next summer, and then went to the grammar-school for three +months or so, he would have an excellent chance of success. As to +the violin, the school-master said, wisely enough: + +'He that will to Cupar maun to Cupar; and gin ye kep (intercept) him +upo' the shore-road, he'll tak to the hill-road; an' I s' warran' a +braw lad like Robert 'll get mony a ane in Ebberdeen 'll be ready +eneuch to gie him a lift wi' the fiddle, and maybe tak him into waur +company nor the puir bed-ridden soutar; an' wi' you an' me to hing +on to the tail o' 'im like, he canna gang ower the scar (cliff) +afore he learns wit.' + +'Hm!' was the old lady's comprehensive response. + +It was further arranged that Robert should be informed of their +conclusion, and so roused to effort in anticipation of the trial +upon which his course in life must depend. + +Nothing could have been better for Robert than the prospect of a +college education. But his first thought at the news was not of the +delights of learning nor of the honourable course that would ensue, +but of Eric Ericson, the poverty-stricken, friendless descendant of +yarls and sea-rovers. He would see him--the only man that +understood him! Not until the passion of this thought had abated, +did he begin to perceive the other advantages before him. But so +practical and thorough was he in all his proposals and means, that +ere half-an-hour was gone, he had begun to go over his Rudiments +again. He now wrote a version, or translation from English into +Latin, five times a week, and read Caeser, Virgil, or Tacitus, every +day. He gained permission from his grandmother to remove his bed to +his own garret, and there, from the bedstead at which he no longer +kneeled, he would often rise at four in the morning, even when the +snow lay a foot thick on the skylight, kindle his lamp by means of a +tinder-box and a splinter of wood dipped in sulphur, and sitting +down in the keen cold, turn half a page of Addison into something as +near Ciceronian Latin as he could effect. This would take him from +an hour and a half to two hours, when he would tumble again into +bed, blue and stiff, and sleep till it was time to get up and go to +the morning school before breakfast. His health was excellent, else +it could never have stood such treatment. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +'THE END CROWNS ALL'. + +His sole relaxation almost lay in the visit he paid every evening to +the soutar and his wife. Their home was a wretched place; but +notwithstanding the poverty in which they were now sunk, Robert soon +began to see a change, like the dawning of light, an alba, as the +Italians call the dawn, in the appearance of something white here +and there about the room. Robert's visits had set the poor woman +trying to make the place look decent. It soon became at least +clean, and there is a very real sense in which cleanliness is next +to godliness. If the people who want to do good among the poor +would give up patronizing them, would cease from trying to convert +them before they have gained the smallest personal influence with +them, would visit them as those who have just as good a right to be +here as they have, it would be all the better for both, perhaps +chiefly for themselves. + +For the first week or so, Alexander, unable either to work or play, +and deprived of his usual consolation of drink, was very testy and +unmanageable. If Robert, who strove to do his best, in the hope of +alleviating the poor fellow's sufferings--chiefly those of the +mind--happened to mistake the time or to draw a false note from the +violin, Sandy would swear as if he had been the Grand Turk and +Robert one of his slaves. But Robert was too vexed with himself, +when he gave occasion to such an outburst, to mind the outburst +itself. And invariably when such had taken place, the shoemaker +would ask forgiveness before he went. Holding out his left hand, +from which nothing could efface the stains of rosin and lamp-black +and heel-ball, save the sweet cleansing of mother-earth, he would +say, + +'Robert, ye'll jist pit the sweirin' doon wi' the lave (rest), an' +score 't oot a'thegither. I'm an ill-tongued vratch, an' I'm +beginnin' to see 't. But, man, ye're jist behavin' to me like God +himsel', an' gin it warna for you, I wad jist lie here roarin' an' +greitin' an' damnin' frae mornin' to nicht.--Ye will be in the +morn's night--willna ye?' he would always end by asking with some +anxiety. + +'Of coorse I will,' Robert would answer. + +'Gude nicht, than, gude nicht.--I'll try and get a sicht o' my sins +ance mair,' he added, one evening. 'Gin I could only be a wee bit +sorry for them, I reckon he wad forgie me. Dinna ye think he wad, +Robert?' + +'Nae doobt, nae doobt,' answered Robert hurriedly. 'They a' say 'at +gin a man repents the richt gait, he'll forgie him.' + +He could not say more than 'They say,' for his own horizon was all +dark, and even in saying this much he felt like a hypocrite. A +terrible waste, heaped thick with the potsherds of hope, lay outside +that door of prayer which he had, as he thought, nailed up for ever. + +'An' what is the richt gait?' asked the soutar. + +''Deed, that's mair nor I ken, Sandy,' answered Robert mournfully. + +'Weel, gin ye dinna ken, what's to come o' me?' said Alexander +anxiously. + +'Ye maun speir at himsel',' returned Robert, 'an' jist tell him 'at +ye dinna ken, but ye'll do onything 'at he likes.' + +With these words he took his leave hurriedly, somewhat amazed to +find that he had given the soutar the strange advice to try just +what he had tried so unavailingly himself. And stranger still, he +found himself, before he reached home, praying once more in his +heart--both for Dooble Sanny and for himself. From that hour a +faint hope was within him that some day he might try again, though +he dared not yet encounter such effort and agony. + +All this time he had never doubted that there was God; nor had he +ventured to say within himself that perhaps God was not good; he had +simply come to the conclusion that for him there was no approach to +the fountain of his being. + +In the course of a fortnight or so, when his system had covered over +its craving after whisky, the irritability of the shoemaker almost +vanished. It might have been feared that his conscience would then +likewise relax its activity; but it was not so: it grew yet more +tender. He now began to give Robert some praise, and make +allowances for his faults, and Robert dared more in consequence, and +played with more spirit. I do not say that his style could have +grown fine under such a master, but at least he learned the +difference between slovenliness and accuracy, and between accuracy +and expression, which last is all of original that the best mere +performer can claim. + +One evening he was scraping away at Tullochgorum when Mr. Maccleary +walked in. Robert ceased. The minister gave him one searching +glance, and sat down by the bedside. Robert would have left the +room. + +'Dinna gang, Robert,' said Sandy, and Robert remained. + +The clergyman talked very faithfully as far as the shoemaker was +concerned; though whether he was equally faithful towards God might +be questioned. He was one of those prudent men, who are afraid of +dealing out the truth freely lest it should fall on thorns or stony +places. Hence of course the good ground came in for a scanty share +too. Believing that a certain precise condition of mind was +necessary for its proper reception, he would endeavour to bring +about that condition first. He did not know that the truth makes +its own nest in the ready heart, and that the heart may be ready for +it before the priest can perceive the fact, seeing that the +imposition of hands confers, now-a-days at least, neither love nor +common-sense. He therefore dwelt upon the sins of the soutar, +magnifying them and making them hideous, in the idea that thus he +magnified the law, and made it honourable, while of the special +tenderness of God to the sinner he said not a word. Robert was +offended, he scarcely knew why, with the minister's mode of treating +his friend; and after Mr. Maccleary had taken a far kinder leave of +them than God could approve, if he resembled his representation, +Robert sat still, oppressed with darkness. + +'It's a' true,' said the soutar; 'but, man Robert, dinna ye think +the minister was some sair upo' me?' + +'I duv think it,' answered Robert. + +'Something beirs 't in upo' me 'at he wadna be sae sair upo' me +himsel'. There's something i' the New Testament, some gait, 'at's +pitten 't into my heid; though, faith, I dinna ken whaur to luik for +'t. Canna ye help me oot wi' 't, man?' + +Robert could think of nothing but the parable of the prodigal son. +Mrs. Alexander got him the New Testament, and he read it. She sat +at the foot of the bed listening. + +'There!' cried the soutar, triumphantly, 'I telled ye sae! Not ae +word aboot the puir lad's sins! It was a' a hurry an' a scurry to +get the new shune upo' 'im, an' win at the calfie an' the fiddlin' +an' the dancin'.--O Lord,' he broke out, 'I'm comin' hame as fest 's +I can; but my sins are jist like muckle bauchles (shoes down at +heel) upo' my feet and winna lat me. I expec' nae ring and nae +robe, but I wad fain hae a fiddle i' my grup when the neist prodigal +comes hame; an' gin I dinna fiddle weel, it s' no be my wyte.--Eh, +man! but that is what I ca' gude, an' a' the minister said--honest +man--'s jist blether till 't.--O Lord, I sweir gin ever I win up +again, I'll put in ilka steek (stitch) as gin the shune war for the +feet o' the prodigal himsel'. It sall be gude wark, O Lord. An' +I'll never lat taste o' whusky intil my mou'--nor smell o' whusky +intil my nose, gin sae be 'at I can help it--I sweir 't, O Lord. An' +gin I binna raised up again--' + +Here his voice trembled and ceased, and silence endured for a short +minute. Then he called his wife. + +'Come here, Bell. Gie me a kiss, my bonny lass. I hae been an ill +man to you.' + +'Na, na, Sandy. Ye hae aye been gude to me--better nor I deserved. +Ye hae been naebody's enemy but yer ain.' + +'Haud yer tongue. Ye're speykin' waur blethers nor the minister, +honest man! I tell ye I hae been a damned scoon'rel to ye. I haena +even hauden my han's aff o' ye. And eh! ye war a bonny lass whan I +merried ye. I hae blaudit (spoiled) ye a'thegither. But gin I war +up, see gin I wadna gie ye a new goon, an' that wad be something to +make ye like yersel' again. I'm affrontet wi' mysel' 'at I had been +sic a brute o' a man to ye. But ye maun forgie me noo, for I do +believe i' my hert 'at the Lord's forgien me. Gie me anither kiss, +lass. God be praised, and mony thanks to you! Ye micht hae run +awa' frae me lang or noo, an' a'body wad hae said ye did +richt.--Robert, play a spring.' + +Absorbed in his own thoughts, Robert began to play The Ewie wi' the +Crookit Horn. + +'Hoots! hoots!' cried Sandy angrily. 'What are ye aboot? Nae mair +o' that. I hae dune wi' that. What's i' the heid o' ye, man?' + +'What'll I play than, Sandy?' asked Robert meekly. + +'Play The Lan' o' the Leal, or My Nannie's awa,', or something o' +that kin'. I'll be leal to ye noo, Bell. An' we winna pree o' the +whusky nae mair, lass.' + +'I canna bide the smell o' 't,' cried Bell, sobbing. + +Robert struck in with The Lan' o' the Leal. When he had played it +over two or three times, he laid the fiddle in its place, and +departed--able just to see, by the light of the neglected candle, +that Bell sat on the bedside stroking the rosiny hand of her +husband, the rhinoceros-hide of which was yet delicate enough to let +the love through to his heart. + +After this the soutar never called his fiddle his auld wife. + +Robert walked home with his head sunk on his breast. Dooble Sanny, +the drinking, ranting, swearing soutar, was inside the wicket-gate; +and he was left outside for all his prayers, with the arrows from +the castle of Beelzebub sticking in his back. He would have another +try some day--but not yet--he dared not yet. + +Henceforth Robert had more to do in reading the New Testament than +in the fiddle to the soutar, though they never parted without an air +or two. Sandy continued hopeful and generally cheerful, with +alternations which the reading generally fixed on the right side for +the night. Robert never attempted any comments, but left him to +take from the word what nourishment he could. There was no return +of strength to the helpless arm, and his constitution was gradually +yielding. + +The rumour got abroad that he was a 'changed character,'--how is not +far to seek, for Mr. Maccleary fancied himself the honoured +instrument of his conversion, whereas paralysis and the New +Testament were the chief agents, and even the violin had more share +in it than the minister. For the spirit of God lies all about the +spirit of man like a mighty sea, ready to rush in at the smallest +chink in the walls that shut him out from his own--walls which even +the tone of a violin afloat on the wind of that spirit is sometimes +enough to rend from battlement to base, as the blast of the rams' +horns rent the walls of Jericho. And now to the day of his death, +the shoemaker had need of nothing. Food, wine, and delicacies were +sent him by many who, while they considered him outside of the +kingdom, would have troubled themselves in no way about him. What +with visits of condolence and flattery, inquiries into his +experience, and long prayers by his bedside, they now did their best +to send him back among the swine. The soutar's humour, however, +aided by his violin, was a strong antidote against these evil +influences. + +'I doobt I'm gaein' to dee, Robert,' he said at length one evening +as the lad sat by his bedside. + +'Weel, that winna do ye nae ill,' answered Robert, adding with just +a touch of bitterness--'ye needna care aboot that.' + +'I do not care aboot the deein' o' 't. But I jist want to live lang +eneuch to lat the Lord ken 'at I'm in doonricht earnest aboot it. I +hae nae chance o' drinkin' as lang's I'm lyin' here.' + +'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. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +THE ABERDEEN GARRET. + +Miss St. John had long since returned from her visit, but having +heard how much Robert was taken up with his dying friend, she judged +it better to leave her intended proposal of renewing her lessons +alone for the present. Meeting him, however, soon after Alexander's +death, she introduced the subject, and Robert was enraptured at the +prospect of the re-opening of the gates of his paradise. If he did +not inform his grandmother of the fact, neither did he attempt to +conceal it; but she took no notice, thinking probably that the whole +affair would be effectually disposed of by his departure. Till that +period arrived, he had a lesson almost every evening, and Miss St. +John was surprised to find how the boy had grown since the door was +built up. Robert's gratitude grew into a kind of worship. + +The evening before his departure for Bodyfauld--whence his +grandmother had arranged that he should start for Aberdeen, in order +that he might have the company of Mr. Lammie, whom business drew +thither about the same time--as he was having his last lesson, Mrs. +Forsyth left the room. Thereupon Robert, who had been dejected all +day at the thought of the separation from Miss St. John, found his +heart beating so violently that he could hardly breathe. Probably +she saw his emotion, for she put her hand on the keys, as if to +cover it by showing him how some movement was to be better effected. +He seized her hand and lifted it to his lips. But when he found +that instead of snatching it away, she yielded it, nay gently +pressed it to his face, he burst into tears, and dropped on his +knees, as if before a goddess. + +'Hush, Robert! Don't be foolish,' she said, quietly and tenderly. +'Here is my aunt coming.' + +The same moment he was at the piano again, playing My Bonny Lady +Ann, so as to astonish Miss St. John, and himself as well. Then he +rose, bade her a hasty good-night, and hurried away. + +A strange conflict arose in his mind at the prospect of leaving the +old place, on every house of whose streets, on every swell of whose +surrounding hills he left the clinging shadows of thought and +feeling. A faintly purpled mist arose, and enwrapped all the past, +changing even his grayest troubles into tales of fairyland, and his +deepest griefs into songs of a sad music. Then he thought of +Shargar, and what was to become of him after he was gone. The lad +was paler and his eyes were redder than ever, for he had been +weeping in secret. He went to his grandmother and begged that +Shargar might accompany him to Bodyfauld. + +'He maun bide at hame an' min' his beuks,' she answered; 'for he +winna hae them that muckle langer. He maun be doin' something for +himsel'.' + +So the next morning the boys parted--Shargar to school, and Robert +to Bodyfauld--Shargar left behind with his desolation, his sun gone +down in a west that was not even stormy, only gray and hopeless, and +Robert moving towards an east which reflected, like a faint +prophecy, the west behind him tinged with love, death, and music, +but mingled the colours with its own saffron of coming dawn. + +When he reached Bodyfauld he marvelled to find that all its glory +had returned. He found Miss Lammie busy among the rich yellow pools +in her dairy, and went out into the garden, now in the height of its +summer. Great cabbage roses hung heavy-headed splendours towards +purple-black heartseases, and thin-filmed silvery pods of honesty; +tall white lilies mingled with the blossoms of currant bushes, and +at their feet the narcissi of old classic legend pressed their +warm-hearted paleness into the plebeian thicket of the many-striped +gardener's garters. It was a lovely type of a commonwealth indeed, +of the garden and kingdom of God. His whole mind was flooded with a +sense of sunny wealth. The farmer's neglected garden blossomed into +higher glory in his soul. The bloom and the richness and the use +were all there; but instead of each flower was a delicate ethereal +sense or feeling about that flower. Of these how gladly would he +have gathered a posy to offer Miss St. John! but, alas! he was no +poet; or rather he had but the half of the poet's inheritance--he +could see: he could not say. But even if he had been full of poetic +speech, he would yet have found that the half of his posy remained +ungathered, for although we have speech enough now to be 'cousin to +the deed,' as Chaucer says it must always be, we have not yet enough +speech to cousin the tenth part of our feelings. Let him who doubts +recall one of his own vain attempts to convey that which made the +oddest of dreams entrancing in loveliness--to convey that aroma of +thought, the conscious absence of which made him a fool in his own +eyes when he spoke such silly words as alone presented themselves +for the service. I can no more describe the emotion aroused in my +mind by a gray cloud parting over a gray stone, by the smell of a +sweetpea, by the sight of one of those long upright pennons of +striped grass with the homely name, than I can tell what the glory +of God is who made these things. The man whose poetry is like +nature in this, that it produces individual, incommunicable moods +and conditions of mind--a sense of elevated, tender, marvellous, and +evanescent existence, must be a poet indeed. Every dawn of such a +feeling is a light-brushed bubble rendering visible for a moment the +dark unknown sea of our being which lies beyond the lights of our +consciousness, and is the stuff and region of our eternal growth. +But think what language must become before it will tell +dreams!--before it will convey the delicate shades of fancy that +come and go in the brain of a child!--before it will let a man know +wherein one face differeth from another face in glory! I suspect, +however, that for such purposes it is rather music than articulation +that is needful--that, with a hope of these finer results, the +language must rather be turned into music than logically extended. + +The next morning he awoke at early dawn, hearing the birds at his +window. He rose and went out. The air was clear and fresh as a +new-made soul. Bars of mottled cloud were bent across the eastern +quarter of the sky, which lay like a great ethereal ocean ready for +the launch of the ship of glory that was now gliding towards its +edge. Everything was waiting to conduct him across the far horizon +to the south, where lay the stored-up wonder of his coming life. +The lark sang of something greater than he could tell; the wind got +up, whispered at it, and lay down to sleep again; the sun was at +hand to bathe the world in the light and gladness alone fit to +typify the radiance of Robert's thoughts. The clouds that formed +the shore of the upper sea were already burning from saffron into +gold. A moment more and the first insupportable sting of light +would shoot from behind the edge of that low blue hill, and the +first day of his new life would be begun. He watched, and it came. +The well-spring of day, fresh and exuberant as if now first from +the holy will of the Father of Lights, gushed into the basin of the +world, and the world was more glad than tongue or pen can tell. The +supernal light alone, dawning upon the human heart, can exceed the +marvel of such a sunrise. + +And shall life itself be less beautiful than one of its days? Do +not believe it, young brother. Men call the shadow, thrown upon the +universe where their own dusky souls come between it and the eternal +sun, life, and then mourn that it should be less bright than the +hopes of their childhood. Keep thou thy soul translucent, that thou +mayest never see its shadow; at least never abuse thyself with the +philosophy which calls that shadow life. Or, rather would I say, +become thou pure in heart, and thou shalt see God, whose vision +alone is life. + +Just as the sun rushed across the horizon he heard the tramp of a +heavy horse in the yard, passing from the stable to the cart that +was to carry his trunk to the turnpike road, three miles off, where +the coach would pass. Then Miss Lammie came and called him to +breakfast, and there sat the farmer in his Sunday suit of black, +already busy. Robert was almost too happy to eat; yet he had not +swallowed two mouthfuls before the sun rose unheeded, the lark sang +unheeded, and the roses sparkled with the dew that bowed yet lower +their heavy heads, all unheeded. By the time they had finished, Mr. +Lammie's gig was at the door, and they mounted and followed the +cart. Not even the recurring doubt and fear that hollowness was at +the heart of it all, for that God could not mean such reinless +gladness, prevented the truth of the present joy from sinking deep +into the lad's heart. In his mind he saw a boat moored to a rock, +with no one on board, heaving on the waters of a rising tide, and +waiting to bear him out on the sea of the unknown. The picture +arose of itself: there was no paradise of the west in his +imagination, as in that of a boy of the sixteenth century, to +authorize its appearance. It rose again and again; the dew +glittered as if the light were its own; the sun shone as he had +never seen him shine before; the very mare that sped them along held +up her head and stepped out as if she felt it the finest of +mornings. Had she also a future, poor old mare? Might there not be +a paradise somewhere? and if in the furthest star instead of +next-door America, why, so much the more might the Atlantis of the +nineteenth century surpass Manoa the golden of the seventeenth! + +The gig and the cart reached the road together. One of the men who +had accompanied the cart took the gig; and they were left on the +road-side with Robert's trunk and box--the latter a present from +Miss Lammie. + +Their places had been secured, and the guard knew where he had to +take them up. Long before the coach appeared, the notes of his +horn, as like the colour of his red coat as the blindest of men +could imagine, came echoing from the side of the heathery, stony +hill under which they stood, so that Robert turned wondering, as if +the chariot of his desires had been coming over the top of +Drumsnaig, to carry him into a heaven where all labour was delight. +But round the corner in front came the four-in-hand red mail +instead. She pulled up gallantly; the wheelers lay on their hind +quarters, and the leaders parted theirs from the pole; the boxes +were hoisted up; Mr. Lammie climbed, and Robert scrambled to his +seat; the horn blew; the coachman spake oracularly; the horses +obeyed; and away went the gorgeous symbol of sovereignty careering +through the submissive region. Nor did Robert's delight abate +during the journey--certainly not when he saw the blue line of the +sea in the distance, a marvel and yet a fact. + +Mrs. Falconer had consulted the Misses Napier, who had many +acquaintances in Aberdeen, as to a place proper for Robert, and +suitable to her means. Upon this point Miss Letty, not without a +certain touch of design, as may appear in the course of my story, +had been able to satisfy her. In a small house of two floors and a +garret, in the old town, Mr. Lammie took leave of Robert. + +It was from a garret window still, but a storm-window now that +Robert looked--eastward across fields and sand-hills, to the blue +expanse of waters--not blue like southern seas, but slaty blue, like +the eyes of northmen. It was rather dreary; the sun was shining +from overhead now, casting short shadows and much heat; the dew was +gone up, and the lark had come down; he was alone; the end of his +journey was come, and was not anything very remarkable. His +landlady interrupted his gaze to know what he would have for dinner, +but he declined to use any discretion in the matter. When she left +the room he did not return to the window, but sat down upon his box. +His eye fell upon the other, a big wooden cube. Of its contents he +knew nothing. He would amuse himself by making inquisition. It was +nailed up. He borrowed a screwdriver and opened it. At the top lay +a linen bag full of oatmeal; underneath that was a thick layer of +oat-cake; underneath that two cheeses, a pound of butter, and six +pots of jam, which ought to have tasted of roses, for it came from +the old garden where the roses lived in such sweet companionship +with the currant bushes; underneath that, &c.; and underneath, &c., +a box which strangely recalled Shargar's garret, and one of the +closets therein. With beating heart he opened it, and lo, to his +marvel, and the restoration of all the fair day, there was the +violin which Dooble Sanny had left him when he forsook her for--some +one or other of the queer instruments of Fra Angelico's angels? + +In a flutter of delight he sat down on his trunk again and played +the most mournful of tunes. Two white pigeons, which had been +talking to each other in the heat on the roof, came one on each side +of the window and peeped into the room; and out between them, as he +played, Robert saw the sea, and the blue sky above it. Is it any +wonder that, instead of turning to the lying pages and contorted +sentences of the Livy which he had already unpacked from his box, he +forgot all about school, and college, and bursary, and went on +playing till his landlady brought up his dinner, which he swallowed +hastily that he might return to the spells of his enchantress! + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +THE COMPETITION. + +I could linger with gladness even over this part of my hero's +history. If the school work, was dry it was thorough. If that +academy had no sweetly shadowing trees; if it did stand within a +parallelogram of low stone walls, containing a roughly-gravelled +court; if all the region about suggested hot stones and sand--beyond +still was the sea and the sky; and that court, morning and +afternoon, was filled with the shouts of eager boys, kicking the +football with mad rushings to and fro, and sometimes with wounds and +faintings--fit symbol of the equally resultless ambition with which +many of them would follow the game of life in the years to come. +Shock-headed Highland colts, and rough Lowland steers as many of +them were, out of that group, out of the roughest of them, would +emerge in time a few gentlemen--not of the type of your trim, +self-contained, clerical exquisite--but large-hearted, courteous +gentlemen, for whom a man may thank God. And if the master was stern +and hard, he was true; if the pupils feared him, they yet cared to +please him; if there might be found not a few more widely-read +scholars than he, it would be hard to find a better teacher. + +Robert leaned to the collar and laboured, not greatly moved by +ambition, but much by the hope of the bursary and the college life +in the near distance. Not unfrequently he would rush into the thick +of the football game, fight like a maniac for one short burst, and +then retire and look on. He oftener regarded than mingled. He +seldom joined his fellows after school hours, for his work lay both +upon his conscience and his hopes; but if he formed no very deep +friendships amongst them, at least he made no enemies, for he was +not selfish, and in virtue of the Celtic blood in him was invariably +courteous. His habits were in some things altogether irregular. He +never went out for a walk; but sometimes, looking up from his Virgil +or his Latin version, and seeing the blue expanse in the distance +breaking into white under the viewless wing of the summer wind, he +would fling down his dictionary or his pen, rush from his garret, +and fly in a straight line, like a sea-gull weary of lake and river, +down to the waste shore of the great deep. This was all that stood +for the Arabian Nights of moon-blossomed marvel; all the rest was +Aberdeen days of Latin and labour. + +Slowly the hours went, and yet the dreaded, hoped-for day came +quickly. The quadrangle of the stone-crowned college grew more +awful in its silence and emptiness every time Robert passed it; and +the professors' houses looked like the sentry-boxes of the angels of +learning, soon to come forth and judge the feeble mortals who dared +present a claim to their recognition. October faded softly by, with +its keen fresh mornings, and cold memorial green-horizoned evenings, +whose stars fell like the stray blossoms of a more heavenly world, +from some ghostly wind of space that had caught them up on its awful +shoreless sweep. November came, 'chill and drear,' with its +heartless, hopeless nothingness; but as if to mock the poor +competitors, rose, after three days of Scotch mist, in a lovely +'halcyon day' of 'St. Martin's summer,' through whose long shadows +anxious young faces gathered in the quadrangle, or under the arcade, +each with his Ainsworth's Dictionary, the sole book allowed, under +his arm. But when the sacrist appeared and unlocked the public +school, and the black-gowned professors walked into the room, and +the door was left open for the candidates to follow, then indeed a +great awe fell upon the assembly, and the lads crept into their +seats as if to a trial for life before a bench of the incorruptible. +They took their places; a portion of Robertson's History of +Scotland was given them to turn into Latin; and soon there was +nothing to be heard in the assembly but the turning of the leaves of +dictionaries, and the scratching of pens constructing the first +rough copy of the Latinized theme. + +It was done. Four weary hours, nearly five, one or two of which +passed like minutes, the others as if each minute had been an hour, +went by, and Robert, in a kind of desperation, after a final reading +of the Latin, gave in his paper, and left the room. When he got +home, he asked his landlady to get him some tea. Till it was ready +he would take his violin. But even the violin had grown dull, and +would not speak freely. He returned to the torture--took out his +first copy, and went over it once more. Horror of horrors! a +maxie!--that is a maximus error. Mary Queen of Scots had been left +so far behind in the beginning of the paper, that she forgot the +rights of her sex in the middle of it, and in the accusative of a +future participle passive--I do not know if more modern grammarians +have a different name for the growth--had submitted to be dum, and +her rightful dam was henceforth and for ever debarred. + +He rose, rushed out of the house, down through the garden, across +two fields and a wide road, across the links, and so to the moaning +lip of the sea--for it was moaning that night. From the last +bulwark of the sandhills he dropped upon the wet sands, and there he +paced up and down--how long, God only, who was watching him, +knew--with the low limitless form of the murmuring lip lying out and +out into the sinking sky like the life that lay low and hopeless +before him, for the want at most of twenty pounds a year (that was +the highest bursary then) to lift him into a region of possible +well-being. Suddenly a strange phenomenon appeared within him. The +subject hitherto became the object to a new birth of consciousness. +He began to look at himself. 'There's a sair bit in there,' he +said, as if his own bosom had been that of another mortal. 'What's +to be dune wi' 't? I doobt it maun bide it. Weel, the crater had +better bide it quaietly, and no cry oot. Lie doon, an' hand yer +tongue. Soror tua haud meretrix est, ye brute!' He burst out +laughing, after a doubtful and ululant fashion, I dare say; but he +went home, took up his auld wife, and played 'Tullochgorum' some +fifty times over, with extemporized variations. + +The next day he had to translate a passage from Tacitus; after +executing which somewhat heartlessly, he did not open a Latin book +for a whole week. The very sight of one was disgusting to him. He +wandered about the New Town, along Union Street, and up and down the +stairs that led to the lower parts, haunted the quay, watched the +vessels, learned their forms, their parts and capacities, made +friends with a certain Dutch captain whom he heard playing the +violin in his cabin, and on the whole, notwithstanding the wretched +prospect before him, contrived to spend the week with considerable +enjoyment. Nor does an occasional episode of lounging hurt a life +with any true claims to the epic form. + +The day of decision at length arrived. Again the black-robed powers +assembled, and again the hoping, fearing lads--some of them not +lads, men, and mere boys--gathered to hear their fate. Name after +name was called out;--a twenty pound bursary to the first, one of +seventeen to the next, three or four of fifteen and fourteen, and so +on, for about twenty, and still no Robert Falconer. At last, +lagging wearily in the rear, he heard his name, went up listlessly, +and was awarded five pounds. He crept home, wrote to his +grandmother, and awaited her reply. It was not long in coming; for +although the carrier was generally the medium of communication, Miss +Letty had contrived to send the answer by coach. It was to the +effect that his grandmother was sorry that he had not been more +successful, but that Mr. Innes thought it would be quite worth while +to try again, and he must therefore come home for another year. + +This was mortifying enough, though not so bad as it might have been. +Robert began to pack his box. But before he had finished it he +shut the lid and sat upon it. To meet Miss St. John thus disgraced, +was more than he could bear. If he remained, he had a chance of +winning prizes at the end of the session, and that would more than +repair his honour. The five pound bursars were privileged in paying +half fees; and if he could only get some teaching, he could manage. +But who would employ a bejan when a magistrand might be had for +next to nothing? Besides, who would recommend him? The thought of +Dr. Anderson flashed into his mind, and he rushed from the house +without even knowing where he lived. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +DR. ANDERSON AGAIN. + +At the Post-office he procured the desired information at once. Dr. +Anderson lived in Union Street, towards the western end of it. + +Away went Robert to find the house. That was easy. What a grand +house of smooth granite and wide approach it was! The great door +was opened by a man-servant, who looked at the country boy from head +to foot. + +'Is the doctor in?' asked Robert. + +'Yes.' + +'I wad like to see him.' + +'Wha will I say wants him?' + +'Say the laddie he saw at Bodyfauld.' + +The man left Robert in the hall, which was spread with tiger and +leopard skins, and had a bright fire burning in a large stove. +Returning presently, he led him through noiseless swing-doors +covered with cloth into a large library. Never had Robert conceived +such luxury. What with Turkey carpet, crimson curtains, +easy-chairs, grandly-bound books and morocco-covered writing-table, +it seemed the very ideal of comfort. But Robert liked the grandeur +too much to be abashed by it. + +'Sit ye doon there,' said the servant, 'and the doctor 'ill be wi' +ye in ae minute.' + +He was hardly out of the room before a door opened in the middle of +the books, and the doctor appeared in a long dressing-gown. He +looked inquiringly at Robert for one moment, then made two long +strides like a pair of eager compasses, holding out his hand. + +'I'm Robert Faukner,' said the boy. 'Ye'll min', maybe, doctor, 'at +ye war verra kin' to me ance, and tellt me lots o' stories--at +Bodyfauld, ye ken.' + +'I'm very glad to see you, Robert,' said Dr. Anderson. 'Of course I +remember you perfectly; but my servant did not bring your name, and +I did not know but it might be the other boy--I forget his name.' + +'Ye mean Shargar, sir. It's no him.' + +'I can see that,' said the doctor, laughing, 'although you are +altered. You have grown quite a man! I am very glad to see you,' +he repeated, shaking hands with him again. 'When did you come to +town?' + +'I hae been at the grammer school i' the auld toon for the last +three months,' said Robert. + +'Three months!' exclaimed Dr. Anderson. 'And never came to see me +till now! That was too bad of you, Robert.' + +'Weel, ye see, sir, I didna ken better. An' I had a heap to do, an' +a' for naething, efter a'. But gin I had kent 'at ye wad like to +see me, I wad hae likit weel to come to ye.' + +'I have been away most of the summer,' said the doctor; 'but I have +been at home for the last month. You haven't had your dinner, have +you?' + +'Weel, I dinna exackly ken what to say, sir. Ye see, I wasna that +sharp-set the day, sae I had jist a mou'fu' o' breid and cheese. +I'm turnin' hungry, noo, I maun confess.' + +The doctor rang the bell. + +'You must stop and dine with me.--Johnston,' he continued, as his +servant entered, 'tell the cook that I have a gentleman to dinner +with me to-day, and she must be liberal.' + +'Guidsake, sir!' said Robert, 'dinna set the woman agen me.' + +He had no intention of saying anything humorous, but Dr. Anderson +laughed heartily. + +'Come into my room till dinner-time,' he said, opening the door by +which he had entered. + +To Robert's astonishment, he found himself in a room bare as that of +the poorest cottage. A small square window, small as the window in +John Hewson's, looked out upon a garden neatly kept, but now 'having +no adorning but cleanliness.' The place was just the benn end of a +cottage. The walls were whitewashed, the ceiling was of bare +boards, and the floor was sprinkled with a little white sand. The +table and chairs were of common deal, white and clean, save that the +former was spotted with ink. A greater contrast to the soft, large, +richly-coloured room they had left could hardly be imagined. A few +bookshelves on the wall were filled with old books. A fire blazed +cheerily in the little grate. A bed with snow-white coverlet stood +in a recess. + +'This is the nicest room in the house, Robert,' said the doctor. +'When I was a student like you--' + +Robert shook his head, + +'I'm nae student yet,' he said; but the doctor went on: + +'I had the benn end of my father's cottage to study in, for he +treated me like a stranger-gentleman when I came home from college. +The father respected the son for whose advantage he was working +like a slave from morning till night. My heart is sometimes sore +with the gratitude I feel to him. Though he's been dead for thirty +years--would you believe it, Robert?--well, I can't talk more about +him now. I made this room as like my father's benn end as I could, +and I am happier here than anywhere in the world.' + +By this time Robert was perfectly at home. Before the dinner was +ready he had not only told Dr. Anderson his present difficulty, but +his whole story as far back as he could remember. The good man +listened eagerly, gazed at the boy with more and more of interest, +which deepened till his eyes glistened as he gazed, and when a +ludicrous passage intervened, welcomed the laughter as an excuse for +wiping them. When dinner was announced, he rose without a word and +led the way to the dining-room. Robert followed, and they sat down +to a meal simple enough for such a house, but which to Robert seemed +a feast followed by a banquet. For after they had done eating--on +the doctor's part a very meagre performance--they retired to his +room again, and then Robert found the table covered with a snowy +cloth, and wine and fruits arranged upon it. + +It was far into the night before he rose to go home. As he passed +through a thick rain of pin-point drops, he felt that although those +cold granite houses, with glimmering dead face, stood like rows of +sepulchres, he was in reality walking through an avenue of homes. +Wet to the skin long before he reached Mrs. Fyvie's in the auld +toon, he was notwithstanding as warm as the under side of a bird's +wing. For he had to sit down and write to his grandmother informing +her that Dr. Anderson had employed him to copy for the printers a +book of his upon the Medical Boards of India, and that as he was +going to pay him for that and other work at a rate which would +secure him ten shillings a week, it would be a pity to lose a year +for the chance of getting a bursary next winter. + +The doctor did want the manuscript copied; and he knew that the only +chance of getting Mrs. Falconer's consent to Robert's receiving any +assistance from him, was to make some business arrangement of the +sort. He wrote to her the same night, and after mentioning the +unexpected pleasure of Robert's visit, not only explained the +advantage to himself of the arrangement he had proposed, but set +forth the greater advantage to Robert, inasmuch as he would thus be +able in some measure to keep a hold of him. He judged that although +Mrs. Falconer had no great opinion of his religion, she would yet +consider his influence rather on the side of good than otherwise in +the case of a boy else abandoned to his own resources. + +The end of it all was that his grandmother yielded, and Robert was +straightway a Bejan, or Yellow-beak. + +Three days had he been clothed in the red gown of the Aberdeen +student, and had attended the Humanity and Greek class-rooms. On +the evening of the third day he was seated at his table preparing +his Virgil for the next, when he found himself growing very weary, +and no wonder, for, except the walk of a few hundred yards to and +from the college, he had had no open air for those three days. It +was raining in a persistent November fashion, and he thought of the +sea, away through the dark and the rain, tossing uneasily. Should +he pay it a visit? He sat for a moment, + + This way and that dividing the swift mind,4 + +when his eye fell on his violin. He had been so full of his new +position and its requirements, that he had not touched it since the +session opened. Now it was just what he wanted. He caught it up +eagerly, and began to play. The power of the music seized upon him, +and he went on playing, forgetful of everything else, till a string +broke. It was all too short for further use. Regardless of the +rain or the depth of darkness to be traversed before he could find a +music-shop, he caught up his cap, and went to rush from the house. + +His door opened immediately on the top step of the stair, without +any landing. There was a door opposite, to which likewise a few +steps led immediately up. The stairs from the two doors united a +little below. So near were the doors that one might stride across +the fork. The opposite door was open, and in it stood Eric Ericson. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +ERIC ERICSON. + +Robert sprang across the dividing chasm, clasped Ericson's hand in +both of his, looked up into his face, and stood speechless. Ericson +returned the salute with a still kindness--tender and still. His +face was like a gray morning sky of summer from whose level +cloud-fields rain will fall before noon. + +'So it was you,' he said, 'playing the violin so well?' + +'I was doin' my best,' answered Robert. 'But eh! Mr. Ericson, I wad +hae dune better gin I had kent ye was hearkenin'.' + +'You couldn't do better than your best,' returned Eric, smiling. + +'Ay, but yer best micht aye grow better, ye ken,' persisted Robert. + +'Come into my room,' said Ericson. 'This is Friday night, and there +is nothing but chapel to-morrow. So we'll have talk instead of +work.' + +In another moment they were seated by a tiny coal fire in a room one +side of which was the slope of the roof, with a large, low skylight +in it looking seawards. The sound of the distant waves, unheard in +Robert's room, beat upon the drum of the skylight, through all the +world of mist that lay between it and them--dimly, vaguely--but ever +and again with a swell of gathered force, that made the distant +tumult doubtful no more. + +'I am sorry I have nothing to offer you,' said Ericson. + +'You remind me of Peter and John at the Beautiful Gate of the +temple,' returned Robert, attempting to speak English like the +Northerner, but breaking down as his heart got the better of him. +'Eh! Mr. Ericson, gin ye kent what it is to me to see the face o' +ye, ye wadna speyk like that. Jist lat me sit an' leuk at ye. I +want nae mair.' + +A smile broke up the cold, sad, gray light of the young eagle-face. +Stern at once and gentle when in repose, its smile was as the +summer of some lovely land where neither the heat nor the sun shall +smite them. The youth laid his hand upon the boy's head, then +withdrew it hastily, and the smile vanished like the sun behind a +cloud. Robert saw it, and as if he had been David before Saul, rose +instinctively and said, + +'I'll gang for my fiddle.--Hoots! I hae broken ane o' the strings. +We maun bide till the morn. But I want nae fiddle mysel' whan I +hear the great water oot there.' + +'You're young yet, my boy, or you might hear voices in that water--! +I've lived in the sound of it all my days. When I can't rest at +night, I hear a moaning and crying in the dark, and I lie and listen +till I can't tell whether I'm a man or some God-forsaken sea in the +sunless north.' + +'Sometimes I believe in naething but my fiddle,' answered Robert. + +'Yes, yes. But when it comes into you, my boy! You won't hear much +music in the cry of the sea after that. As long as you've got it at +arm's length, it's all very well. It's interesting then, and you +can talk to your fiddle about it, and make poetry about it,' said +Ericson, with a smile of self-contempt. 'But as soon as the real +earnest comes that is all over. The sea-moan is the cry of a +tortured world then. Its hollow bed is the cup of the world's pain, +ever rolling from side to side and dashing over its lip. Of all +that might be, ought to be, nothing to be had!--I could get music +out of it once. Look here. I could trifle like that once.' + +He half rose, then dropped on his chair. But Robert's believing +eyes justified confidence, and Ericson had never had any one to talk +to. He rose again, opened a cupboard at his side, took out some +papers, threw them on the table, and, taking his hat, walked towards +the door. + +'Which of your strings is broken?' he asked. + +'The third,' answered Robert. + +'I will get you one,' said Ericson; and before Robert could reply he +was down the stair. Robert heard him cough, then the door shut, and +he was gone in the rain and fog. + +Bewildered, unhappy, ready to fly after him, yet irresolute, Robert +almost mechanically turned over the papers upon the little deal +table. He was soon arrested by the following verses, headed + +A NOONDAY MELODY. + +Everything goes to its rest; + The hills are asleep in the noon; +And life is as still in its nest + As the moon when she looks on a moon +In the depths of a calm river's breast + As it steals through a midnight in June. + +The streams have forgotten the sea + In the dream of their musical sound; +The sunlight is thick on the tree, + And the shadows lie warm on the ground-- +So still, you may watch them and see + Every breath that awakens around. + +The churchyard lies still in the heat, + With its handful of mouldering bone; +As still as the long stalk of wheat + In the shadow that sits by the stone, +As still as the grass at my feet + When I walk in the meadows alone. + +The waves are asleep on the main, + And the ships are asleep on the wave; +And the thoughts are as still in my brain + As the echo that sleeps in the cave; +All rest from their labour and pain-- + Then why should not I in my grave? + +His heart ready to burst with a sorrow, admiration, and devotion, +which no criticism interfered to qualify, Robert rushed out into the +darkness, and sped, fleet-footed, along the only path which Ericson +could have taken. He could not bear to be left in the house while +his friend was out in the rain. + +He was sure of joining him before he reached the new town, for he +was fleet-footed, and there was a path only on one side of the way, +so that there was no danger of passing him in the dark. As he ran +he heard the moaning of the sea. There must be a storm somewhere, +away in the deep spaces of its dark bosom, and its lips muttered of +its far unrest. When the sun rose it would be seen misty and gray, +tossing about under the one rain cloud that like a thinner ocean +overspread the heavens--tossing like an animal that would fain lie +down and be at peace but could not compose its unwieldy strength. + +Suddenly Robert slackened his speed, ceased running, stood, gazed +through the darkness at a figure a few yards before him. + +An old wall, bowed out with age and the weight behind it, flanked +the road in this part. Doors in this wall, with a few steps in +front of them and more behind, led up into gardens upon a slope, at +the top of which stood the houses to which they belonged. Against +one of these doors the figure stood with its head bowed upon its +hands. When Robert was within a few feet, it descended and went on. + +'Mr. Ericson!' exclaimed Robert. 'Ye'll get yer deith gin ye stan' +that gait i' the weet.' + +'Amen,' said Ericson, turning with a smile that glimmered wan +through the misty night. Then changing his tone, he went on: 'What +are you after, Robert?' + +'You,' answered Robert. 'I cudna bide to be left my lane whan I +micht be wi' ye a' the time--gin ye wad lat me. Ye war oot o' the +hoose afore I weel kent what ye was aboot. It's no a fit nicht for +ye to be oot at a', mair by token 'at ye're no the ablest to stan' +cauld an' weet.' + +'I've stood a great deal of both in my time,' returned Ericson; 'but +come along. We'll go and get that fiddle-string.' + +'Dinna ye think it wad be fully better to gang hame?' Robert +ventured to suggest. + +'What would be the use? I'm in no mood for Plato to-night,' he +answered, trying hard to keep from shivering. + +'Ye hae an ill cauld upo' ye,' persisted Robert; 'an' ye maun be as +weet 's a dishcloot.' + +Ericson laughed--a strange, hollow laugh. + +'Come along,' he said. 'A walk will do me good. We'll get the +string, and then you shall play to me. That will do me more good +yet.' + +Robert ceased opposing him, and they walked together to the new +town. Robert bought the string, and they set out, as he thought, to +return. + +But not yet did Ericson seem inclined to go home. He took the lead, +and they emerged upon the quay. + +There were not many vessels. One of them was the Antwerp tub, +already known to Robert. He recognized her even in the dull light +of the quay lamps. Her captain being a prudent and well-to-do +Dutchman, never slept on shore; he preferred saving his money; and +therefore, as the friends passed, Robert caught sight of him walking +his own deck and smoking a long clay pipe before turning in. + +'A fine nicht, capt'n,' said Robert. + +'It does rain,' returned the captain. 'Will you come on board and +have one schnapps before you turn in?' + +'I hae a frien' wi' me here,' said Robert, feeling his way. + +'Let him come and be welcomed.' + +Ericson making no objection, they went on board, and down into the +neat little cabin, which was all the roomier for the straightness of +the vessel's quarter. The captain got out a square, +coffin-shouldered bottle, and having respect to the condition of +their garments, neither of the young men refused his hospitality, +though Robert did feel a little compunction at the thought of the +horror it would have caused his grandmother. Then the Dutchman got +out his violin and asked Robert to play a Scotch air. But in the +middle of it his eyes fell on Ericson, and he stopped at once. +Ericson was sitting on a locker, leaning back against the side of +the vessel: his eyes were open and fixed, and he seemed quite +unconscious of what was passing. Robert fancied at first that the +hollands he had taken had gone to his head, but he saw at the same +moment, from his glass, that he had scarcely tasted the spirit. In +great alarm they tried to rouse him, and at length succeeded. He +closed his eyes, opened them again, rose up, and was going away. + +'What's the maitter wi' ye, Mr. Ericson?' said Robert, in distress. + +'Nothing, nothing,' answered Ericson, in a strange voice. 'I fell +asleep, I believe. It was very bad manners, captain. I beg your +pardon. I believe I am overtired.' + +The Dutchman was as kind as possible, and begged Ericson to stay the +night and occupy his berth. But he insisted on going home, although +he was clearly unfit for such a walk. They bade the skipper +good-night, went on shore, and set out, Ericson leaning rather +heavily upon Robert's arm. Robert led him up Marischal Street. + +The steep ascent was too much for Ericson. He stood still upon the +bridge and leaned over the wall of it. Robert stood beside, almost +in despair about getting him home. + +'Have patience with me, Robert,' said Ericson, in his natural voice. +'I shall be better presently. I don't know what's come to me. If I +had been a Celt now, I should have said I had a touch of the second +sight. But I am, as far as I know, pure Northman.' + +'What did you see?' asked Robert, with a strange feeling that miles +of the spirit world, if one may be allowed such a contradiction in +words, lay between him and his friend. + +Ericson returned no answer. Robert feared he was going to have a +relapse; but in a moment more he lifted himself up and bent again to +the brae. + +They got on pretty well till they were about the middle of the +Gallowgate. + +'I can't,' said Ericson feebly, and half leaned, half fell against +the wall of a house. + +'Come into this shop,' said Robert. 'I ken the man. He'll lat ye +sit doon.' + +He managed to get him in. He was as pale as death. The bookseller +got a chair, and he sank into it. Robert was almost at his wit's +end. There was no such thing as a cab in Aberdeen for years and +years after the date of my story. He was holding a glass of water +to Ericson's lips,--when he heard his name, in a low earnest +whisper, from the door. There, round the door-cheek, peered the +white face and red head of Shargar. + +'Robert! Robert!' said Shargar. + +'I hear ye,' returned Robert coolly: he was too anxious to be +surprised at anything. 'Haud yer tongue. I'll come to ye in a +minute.' + +Ericson recovered a little, refused the whisky offered by the +bookseller, rose, and staggered out. + +'If I were only home!' he said. 'But where is home?' + +'We'll try to mak ane,' returned Robert. 'Tak a haud o' me. Lay yer +weicht upo' me.--Gin it warna for yer len'th, I cud cairry ye weel +eneuch. Whaur's that Shargar?' he muttered to himself, looking up +and down the gloomy street. + +But no Shargar was to be seen. Robert peered in vain into every +dark court they crept past, till at length he all but came to the +conclusion that Shargar was only 'fantastical.' + +When they had reached the hollow, and were crossing then +canal-bridge by Mount Hooly, Ericson's strength again failed him, +and again he leaned upon the bridge. Nor had he leaned long before +Robert found that he had fainted. In desperation he began to hoist +the tall form upon his back, when he heard the quick step of a +runner behind him and the words-- + +'Gie 'im to me, Robert; gie 'im to me. I can carry 'im fine.' + +'Haud awa' wi' ye,' returned Robert; and again Shargar fell behind. + +For a few hundred yards he trudged along manfully; but his strength, +more from the nature of his burden than its weight, soon gave way. +He stood still to recover. The same moment Shargar was by his side +again. + +'Noo, Robert,' he said, pleadingly. + +Robert yielded, and the burden was shifted to Shargar's back. + +How they managed it they hardly knew themselves; but after many +changes they at last got Ericson home, and up to his own room. He +had revived several times, but gone off again. In one of his +faints, Robert undressed him and got him into bed. He had so little +to cover him, that Robert could not help crying with misery. He +himself was well provided, and would gladly have shared with +Ericson, but that was hopeless. He could, however, make him warm in +bed. Then leaving Shargar in charge, he sped back to the new town +to Dr. Anderson. The doctor had his carriage out at once, wrapped +Robert in a plaid and brought him home with him. + +Ericson came to himself, and seeing Shargar by his bedside, tried to +sit up, asking feebly, + +'Where am I?' + +'In yer ain bed, Mr. Ericson,' answered Shargar. + +'And who are you?' asked Ericson again, bewildered. + +Shargar's pale face no doubt looked strange under his crown of red +hair. + +'Ow! I'm naebody.' + +'You must be somebody, or else my brain's in a bad state,' returned +Ericson. + +'Na, na, I'm naebody. Naething ava (at all). Robert 'll be hame in +ae meenit.--I'm Robert's tyke (dog),' concluded Shargar, with a +sudden inspiration. + +This answer seemed to satisfy Ericson, for he closed his eyes and +lay still; nor did he speak again till Robert arrived with the +doctor. + +Poor food, scanty clothing, undue exertion in travelling to and from +the university, hard mental effort against weakness, disquietude of +mind, all borne with an endurance unconscious of itself, had reduced +Eric Ericson to his present condition. Strength had given way at +last, and he was now lying in the low border wash of a dead sea of +fever. + +The last of an ancient race of poor men, he had no relative but a +second cousin, and no means except the little he advanced him, +chiefly in kind, to be paid for when Eric had a profession. This +cousin was in the herring trade, and the chief assistance he gave +him was to send him by sea, from Wick to Aberdeen, a small barrel of +his fish every session. One herring, with two or three potatoes, +formed his dinner as long as the barrel lasted. But at Aberdeen or +elsewhere no one carried his head more erect than Eric Ericson--not +from pride, but from simplicity and inborn dignity; and there was +not a man during his curriculum more respected than he. An +excellent classical scholar--as scholarship went in those days--he +was almost the only man in the university who made his knowledge of +Latin serve towards an acquaintance with the Romance languages. He +had gained a small bursary, and gave lessons when he could. + +But having no level channel for the outgoing of the waters of one of +the tenderest hearts that ever lived, those waters had sought to +break a passage upwards. Herein his experience corresponded in a +considerable degree to that of Robert; only Eric's more fastidious +and more instructed nature bred a thousand difficulties which he +would meet one by one, whereas Robert, less delicate and more +robust, would break through all the oppositions of theological +science falsely so called, and take the kingdom of heaven by force. +But indeed the ruins of the ever falling temple of theology had +accumulated far more heavily over Robert's well of life, than over +that of Ericson: the obstructions to his faith were those that +rolled from the disintegrating mountains of humanity, rather than +the rubbish heaped upon it by the careless masons who take the +quarry whence they hew the stones for the temple--built without +hands eternal in the heavens. + +When Dr. Anderson entered, Ericson opened his eyes wide. The doctor +approached, and taking his hand began to feel his pulse. Then first +Ericson comprehended his visit. + +'I can't,' he said, withdrawing his hand. 'I am not so ill as to +need a doctor.' + +'My dear sir,' said Dr. Anderson, courteously, 'there will be no +occasion to put you to any pain.' + +'Sir,' said Eric, 'I have no money.' + +The doctor laughed. + +'And I have more than I know how to make a good use of.' + +'I would rather be left alone,' persisted Ericson, turning his face +away. + +'Now, my dear sir,' said the doctor, with gentle decision, 'that is +very wrong. With what face can you offer a kindness when your turn +comes, if you won't accept one yourself?' + +Ericson held out his wrist. Dr. Anderson questioned, prescribed, +and, having given directions, went home, to call again in the +morning. + +And now Robert was somewhat in the position of the old woman who +'had so many children she didn't know what to do.' Dr. Anderson +ordered nourishment for Ericson, and here was Shargar upon his hands +as well! Shargar and he could share, to be sure, and exist: but for +Ericson--? + +Not a word did Robert exchange with Shargar till he had gone to the +druggist's and got the medicine for Ericson, who, after taking it, +fell into a troubled sleep. Then, leaving the two doors open, +Robert joined Shargar in his own room. There he made up a good +fire, and they sat and dried themselves. + +'Noo, Shargar,' said Robert at length, 'hoo cam ye here?' + +His question was too like one of his grandmother's to be pleasant to +Shargar. + +'Dinna speyk to me that gait, Robert, or I'll cut my throat' he +returned. + +'Hoots! I maun ken a' aboot it,' insisted Robert, but with much +modified and partly convicted tone. + +'Weel, I never said I wadna tell ye a' aboot it. The fac' 's +this--an' I'm no' up to the leein' as I used to be, Robert: I hae +tried it ower an' ower, but a lee comes rouch throw my thrapple +(windpipe) noo. Faith! I cud hae leed ance wi' onybody, barrin' +the de'il. I winna lee. I'm nae leein'. The fac's jist this: I +cudna bide ahin' ye ony langer.' + +'But what, the muckle lang-tailed deevil! am I to do wi' ye?' +returned Robert, in real perplexity, though only pretended +displeasure. + +'Gie me something to ate, an' I'll tell ye what to do wi' me,' +answered Shargar. 'I dinna care a scart (scratch) what it is.' + +Robert rang the bell and ordered some porridge, and while it was +preparing, Shargar told his story--how having heard a rumour of +apprenticeship to a tailor, he had the same night dropped from the +gable window to the ground, and with three halfpence in his pocket +had wandered and begged his way to Aberdeen, arriving with one +halfpenny left. + +'But what am I to do wi' ye?' said Robert once more, in as much +perplexity as ever. + +'Bide till I hae tellt ye, as I said I wad,' answered Shargar. +'Dinna ye think I'm the haveless (careless and therefore helpless) +crater I used to be. I hae been in Aberdeen three days! Ay, an' I +hae seen you ilka day in yer reid goon, an' richt braw it is. Luik +ye here!' + +He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out what amounted to two or +three shillings, chiefly in coppers, which he exposed with triumph +on the table. + +'Whaur got ye a' that siller, man?' asked Robert. + +'Here and there, I kenna whaur; but I hae gien the weicht o' 't for +'t a' the same--rinnin' here an' rinnin' there, cairryin' boxes till +an' frae the smacks, an' doin' a'thing whether they bade me or no. +Yesterday mornin' I got thrippence by hingin' aboot the Royal afore +the coches startit. I luikit a' up and doon the street till I saw +somebody hine awa wi' a porkmanty. Till 'im I ran, an' he was an +auld man, an' maist at the last gasp wi' the weicht o' 't, an' gae +me 't to carry. An' wha duv ye think gae me a shillin' the verra +first nicht?--Wha but my brither Sandy?' + +'Lord Rothie?' + +'Ay, faith. I kent him weel eneuch, but little he kent me. There +he was upo' Black Geordie. He's turnin' auld noo.' + +'Yer brither?' + +'Na. He's young eneuch for ony mischeef; but Black Geordie. What on +earth gars him gang stravaguin' aboot upo' that deevil? I doobt +he's a kelpie, or a hell-horse, or something no canny o' that kin'; +for faith! brither Sandy's no ower canny himsel', I'm thinkin'. But +Geordie--the aulder the waur set (inclined). An' sae I'm thinkin' +wi' his maister.' + +'Did ye iver see yer father, Shargar?' + +'Na. Nor I dinna want to see 'im. I'm upo' my mither's side. But +that's naething to the pint. A' that I want o' you 's to lat me +come hame at nicht, an' lie upo' the flure here. I sweir I'll lie +i' the street gin ye dinna lat me. I'll sleep as soun' 's Peter +MacInnes whan Maccleary's preachin'. An' I winna ate muckle--I hae +a dreidfu' pooer o' aitin'--an' a' 'at I gether I'll fess hame to +you, to du wi' 't as ye like.--Man, I cairriet a heap o' things the +day till the skipper o' that boat 'at ye gaed intil wi' Maister +Ericson the nicht. He's a fine chiel' that skipper!' + +Robert was astonished at the change that had passed upon Shargar. +His departure had cast him upon his own resources, and allowed the +individuality repressed by every event of his history, even by his +worship of Robert, to begin to develop itself. Miserable for a few +weeks, he had revived in the fancy that to work hard at school would +give him some chance of rejoining Robert. Thence, too, he had +watched to please Mrs. Falconer, and had indeed begun to buy golden +opinions from all sorts of people. He had a hope in prospect. But +into the midst fell the whisper of the apprenticeship like a +thunderbolt out of a clear sky. He fled at once. + +'Weel, ye can hae my bed the nicht,' said Robert, 'for I maun sit up +wi' Mr. Ericson.' + +''Deed I'll hae naething o' the kin'. I'll sleep upo' the flure, or +else upo' the door-stane. Man, I'm no clean eneuch efter what I've +come throu sin' I drappit frae the window-sill i' the ga'le-room. +But jist len' me yer plaid, an' I'll sleep upo' the rug here as gin +I war i' Paradees. An' faith, sae I am, Robert. Ye maun gang to +yer bed some time the nicht forby (besides), or ye winna be fit for +yer wark the morn. Ye can jist gie me a kick, an' I'll be up afore +ye can gie me anither.' + +Their supper arrived from below, and, each on one side of the fire, +they ate the porridge, conversing all the while about old times--for +the youngest life has its old times, its golden age--and old +adventures,--Dooble Sanny, Betty, &c., &c. There were but two +subjects which Robert avoided--Miss St. John and the Bonnie Leddy. +Shargar was at length deposited upon the little bit of hearthrug +which adorned rather than enriched the room, with Robert's plaid of +shepherd tartan around him, and an Ainsworth's dictionary under his +head for a pillow. + +'Man, I fin' mysel' jist like a muckle colley (sheep-dog),' he said. +'Whan I close my een, I'm no sure 'at I'm no i' the inside o' yer +auld luckie-daiddie's kilt. The Lord preserve me frae ever sic a +fricht again as yer grannie an' Betty gae me the nicht they fand me +in 't! I dinna believe it's in natur' to hae sic a fricht twise in +ae lifetime. Sae I'll fa' asleep at ance, an' say nae mair--but as +muckle o' my prayers as I can min' upo' noo 'at grannie's no at my +lug.' + +'Haud yer impidence, an' yer tongue thegither,' said Robert. 'Min' +'at my grannie's been the best frien' ye ever had.' + +''Cep' my ain mither,' returned Shargar, with a sleepy doggedness in +his tone. + +During their conference, Ericson had been slumbering. Robert had +visited him from time to time, but he had not awaked. As soon as +Shargar was disposed of, he took his candle and sat down by him. He +grew more uneasy. Robert guessed that the candle was the cause, and +put it out. Ericson was quieter. So Robert sat in the dark. + +But the rain had now ceased. Some upper wind had swept the clouds +from the sky, and the whole world of stars was radiant over the +earth and its griefs. + +'O God, where art thou?' he said in his heart, and went to his own +room to look out. + +There was no curtain, and the blind had not been drawn down, +therefore the earth looked in at the storm-window. The sea neither +glimmered nor shone. It lay across the horizon like a low level +cloud, out of which came a moaning. Was this moaning all of the +earth, or was there trouble in the starry places too? thought +Robert, as if already he had begun to suspect the truth from +afar--that save in the secret place of the Most High, and in the +heart that is hid with the Son of Man in the bosom of the Father, +there is trouble--a sacred unrest--everywhere--the moaning of a tide +setting homewards, even towards the bosom of that Father. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +A HUMAN PROVIDENCE. + +Robert kept himself thoroughly awake the whole night, and it was +well that he had not to attend classes in the morning. As the gray +of the world's reviving consciousness melted in at the window, the +things around and within him looked and felt ghastly. Nothing is +liker the gray dawn than the soul of one who has been watching by a +sick bed all the long hours of the dark, except, indeed, it be the +first glimmerings of truth on the mind lost in the dark of a godless +life. + +Ericson had waked often, and Robert had administered his medicine +carefully. But he had been mostly between sleeping and waking, and +had murmured strange words, whose passing shadows rather than +glimmers roused the imagination of the youth as with messages from +regions unknown. + +As the light came he found his senses going, and went to his own +room again to get a book that he might keep himself awake by reading +at the window. To his surprise Shargar was gone, and for a moment +he doubted whether he had not been dreaming all that had passed +between them the night before. His plaid was folded up and laid +upon a chair, as if it had been there all night, and his Ainsworth +was on the table. But beside it was the money Shargar had drawn +from his pockets. + +About nine o'clock Dr. Anderson arrived, found Ericson not so much +worse as he had expected, comforted Robert, and told him he must go +to bed. + +'But I cannot leave Mr. Ericson,' said Robert. + +'Let your friend--what's his odd name?--watch him during the day.' + +'Shargar, you mean, sir. But that's his nickname. His rale name +they say his mither says, is George Moray--wi' an o an' no a +u-r.--Do you see, sir?' concluded Robert significantly. + +'No, I don't,' answered the doctor. + +'They say he's a son o' the auld Markis's, that's it. His mither's +a randy wife 'at gangs aboot the country--a gipsy they say. There's +nae doobt aboot her. An' by a' accoonts the father's likly eneuch.' + +'And how on earth did you come to have such a questionable +companion?' + +'Shargar's as fine a crater as ever God made,' said Robert warmly. +'Ye'll alloo 'at God made him, doctor; though his father an' mither +thochtna muckle aboot him or God either whan they got him atween +them? An' Shargar couldna help it. It micht ha' been you or me for +that maitter, doctor.' + +'I beg your pardon, Robert,' said Dr. Anderson quietly, although +delighted with the fervour of his young kinsman: 'I only wanted to +know how he came to be your companion.' + +'I beg your pardon, doctor--but I thoucht ye was some scunnert at +it; an' I canna bide Shargar to be luikit doon upo'. Luik here,' he +continued, going to his box, and bringing out Shargar's little heap +of coppers, in which two sixpences obscurely shone, 'he brocht a' +that hame last nicht, an' syne sleepit upo' the rug i' my room +there. We'll want a' 'at he can mak an' me too afore we get Mr. +Ericson up again.' + +'But ye haena tellt me yet,' said the doctor, so pleased with the +lad that he relapsed into the dialect of his youth, 'hoo ye cam to +forgather wi' 'im.' + +'I tellt ye a' aboot it, doctor. It was a' my grannie's doin', God +bless her--for weel he may, an' muckle she needs 't.' + +'Oh! yes; I remember now all your grandmother's part in the story,' +returned the doctor. 'But I still want to know how he came here.' + +'She was gaein' to mak a taylor o' 'm: an' he jist ran awa', an' cam +to me.' + +'It was too bad of him that--after all she had done for him.' + +'Ow, 'deed no, doctor. Even whan ye boucht a man an' paid for him, +accordin' to the Jewish law, ye cudna mak a slave o' 'im for +a'thegither, ohn him seekin' 't himsel'.--Eh! gin she could only get +my father hame!' sighed Robert, after a pause. + +'What should she want him home for?' asked Dr. Anderson, still +making conversation. + +'I didna mean hame to Rothieden. I believe she cud bide never +seein' 'im again, gin only he wasna i' the ill place. She has awfu' +notions aboot burnin' ill sowls for ever an' ever. But it's no +hersel'. It's the wyte o' the ministers. Doctor, I do believe she +wad gang an' be brunt hersel' wi' a great thanksgivin', gin it wad +lat ony puir crater oot o' 't--no to say my father. An' I sair +misdoobt gin mony o' them 'at pat it in her heid wad do as muckle. +I'm some feared they're like Paul afore he was convertit: he wadna +lift a stane himsel', but he likit weel to stan' oot by an' luik +on.' + +A deep sigh, almost a groan, from the bed, reminded them that they +were talking too much and too loud for a sick-room. It was followed +by the words, muttered, but articulate, + +'What's the good when you don't know whether there's a God at all?' + +''Deed, that's verra true, Mr. Ericson,' returned Robert. 'I wish ye +wad fin' oot an' tell me. I wad be blithe to hear what ye had to +say anent it--gin it was ay, ye ken.' + +Ericson went on murmuring, but inarticulately now. + +'This won't do at all, Robert, my boy,' said Dr. Anderson. 'You must +not talk about such things with him, or indeed about anything. You +must keep him as quiet as ever you can.' + +'I thocht he was comin' till himsel',' returned Robert. 'But I will +tak care, I assure ye, doctor. Only I'm feared I may fa' asleep the +nicht, for I was dooms sleepy this mornin'.' + +'I will send Johnston as soon as I get home, and you must go to bed +when he comes.' + +''Deed, doctor, that winna do at a'. It wad be ower mony strange +faces a'thegither. We'll get Mistress Fyvie to luik till 'im the +day, an' Shargar canna work the morn, bein' Sunday. An' I'll gang +to my bed for fear o' doin' waur, though I doobt I winna sleep i' +the daylicht.' + +Dr. Anderson was satisfied, and went home--cogitating much. This +boy, this cousin of his, made a vortex of good about him into which +whoever came near it was drawn. He seemed at the same time quite +unaware of anything worthy in his conduct. The good he did sprung +from some inward necessity, with just enough in it of the salt of +choice to keep it from losing its savour. To these cogitations of +Dr. Anderson, I add that there was no conscious exercise of religion +in it--for there his mind was all at sea. Of course I believe +notwithstanding that religion had much, I ought to say everything, +to do with it. Robert had not yet found in God a reason for being +true to his fellows; but, if God was leading him to be the man he +became, how could any good results of this leading be other than +religion? All good is of God. Robert began where he could. The +first table was too high for him; he began with the second. If a +man love his brother whom he hath seen, the love of God whom he hath +not seen, is not very far off. These results in Robert were the +first outcome of divine facts and influences--they were the buds of +the fruit hereafter to be gathered in perfect devotion. God be +praised by those who know religion to be the truth of humanity--its +own truth that sets it free--not binds, and lops, and mutilates it! +who see God to be the father of every human soul--the ideal Father, +not an inventor of schemes, or the upholder of a court etiquette for +whose use he has chosen to desecrate the name of justice! + +To return to Dr. Anderson. I have had little opportunity of knowing +his history in India. He returned from it half-way down the hill of +life, sad, gentle, kind, and rich. Whence his sadness came, we need +not inquire. Some woman out in that fervid land may have darkened +his story--darkened it wronglessly, it may be, with coldness, or +only with death. But to return home without wife to accompany him +or child to meet him,--to sit by his riches like a man over a fire +of straws in a Siberian frost; to know that old faces were gone and +old hearts changed, that the pattern of things in the heavens had +melted away from the face of the earth, that the chill evenings of +autumn were settling down into longer and longer nights, and that no +hope lay any more beyond the mountains--surely this was enough to +make a gentle-minded man sad, even if the individual sorrows of his +history had gathered into gold and purple in the west. I say west +advisedly. For we are journeying, like our globe, ever towards the +east. Death and the west are behind us--ever behind us, and +settling into the unchangeable. + +It was natural that he should be interested in the fine promise of +Robert, in whom he saw revived the hopes of his own youth, but in a +nature at once more robust and more ideal. Where the doctor was +refined, Robert was strong; where the doctor was firm with a +firmness he had cultivated, Robert was imperious with an +imperiousness time would mellow; where the doctor was generous and +careful at once, Robert gave his mite and forgot it. He was rugged +in the simplicity of his truthfulness, and his speech bewrayed him +as altogether of the people; but the doctor knew the hole of the pit +whence he had been himself digged. All that would fall away as the +spiky shell from the polished chestnut, and be reabsorbed in the +growth of the grand cone-flowering tree, to stand up in the sun and +wind of the years a very altar of incense. It is no wonder, I +repeat, that he loved the boy, and longed to further his plans. But +he was too wise to overwhelm him with a cataract of fortune instead +of blessing him with the merciful dew of progress. + +'The fellow will bring me in for no end of expense,' he said, +smiling to himself, as he drove home in his chariot. 'The less he +means it the more unconscionable he will be. There's that +Ericson--but that isn't worth thinking of. I must do something for +that queer protégé of his, though--that Shargar. The fellow is as +good as a dog, and that's saying not a little for him. I wonder if +he can learn--or if he takes after his father the marquis, who never +could spell. Well, it is a comfort to have something to do worth +doing. I did think of endowing a hospital; but I'm not sure that it +isn't better to endow a good man than a hospital. I'll think about +it. I won't say anything about Shargar either, till I see how he +goes on. I might give him a job, though, now and then. But where +to fall in with him--prowling about after jobs?' + +He threw himself back in his seat, and laughed with a delight he had +rarely felt. He was a providence watching over the boys, who +expected nothing of him beyond advice for Ericson! Might there not +be a Providence that equally transcended the vision of men, shaping +to nobler ends the blocked-out designs of their rough-hewn marbles? + +His thoughts wandered back to his friend the Brahmin, who died +longing for that absorption into deity which had been the dream of +his life: might not the Brahmin find the grand idea shaped to yet +finer issues than his aspiration had dared contemplate?--might he +not inherit in the purification of his will such an absorption as +should intensify his personality? + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +A HUMAN SOUL. + +Ericson lay for several weeks, during which time Robert and Shargar +were his only nurses. They contrived, by abridging both rest and +labour, to give him constant attendance. Shargar went to bed early +and got up early, so as to let Robert have a few hours' sleep before +his classes began. Robert again slept in the evening, after Shargar +came home, and made up for the time by reading while he sat by his +friend. Mrs. Fyvie's attendance was in requisition only for the +hours when he had to be at lectures. By the greatest economy of +means, consisting of what Shargar brought in by jobbing about the +quay and the coach-offices, and what Robert had from Dr. Anderson +for copying his manuscript, they contrived to procure for Ericson +all that he wanted. The shopping of the two boys, in their utter +ignorance of such delicacies as the doctor told them to get for him, +the blunders they made as to the shops at which they were to be +bought, and the consultations they held, especially about the +preparing of the prescribed nutriment, afforded them many an amusing +retrospect in after years. For the house was so full of lodgers, +that Robert begged Mrs. Fyvie to give herself no trouble in the +matter. Her conscience, however, was uneasy, and she spoke to Dr. +Anderson; but he assured her that she might trust the boys. What +cooking they could not manage, she undertook cheerfully, and refused +to add anything to the rent on Shargar's account. + +Dr. Anderson watched everything, the two boys as much as his +patient. He allowed them to work on, sending only the wine that was +necessary from his own cellar. The moment the supplies should begin +to fail, or the boys to look troubled, he was ready to do more. +About Robert's perseverance he had no doubt: Shargar's faithfulness +he wanted to prove. + +Robert wrote to his grandmother to tell her that Shargar was with +him, working hard. Her reply was somewhat cold and offended, but +was inclosed in a parcel containing all Shargar's garments, and +ended with the assurance that as long as he did well she was ready +to do what she could. + +Few English readers will like Mrs. Falconer; but her grandchild +considered her one of the noblest women ever God made; and I, from +his account, am of the same mind. Her care was fixed + + To fill her odorous lamp with deeds of light, + And hope that reaps not shame. + +And if one must choose between the how and the what, let me have the +what, come of the how what may. I know of a man so sensitive, that +he shuts his ears to his sister's griefs, because it spoils his +digestion to think of them. + +One evening Robert was sitting by the table in Ericson's room. Dr. +Anderson had not called that day, and he did not expect to see him +now, for he had never come so late. He was quite at his ease, +therefore, and busy with two things at once, when the doctor opened +the door and walked in. I think it is possible that he came up +quietly with some design of surprising him. He found him with a +stocking on one hand, a darning needle in the other, and a Greek +book open before him. Taking no apparent notice of him, he walked +up to the bedside, and Robert put away his work. After his +interview with his patient was over, the doctor signed to him to +follow him to the next room. There Shargar lay on the rug already +snoring. It was a cold night in December, but he lay in his +under-clothing, with a single blanket round him. + +'Good training for a soldier,' said the doctor; 'and so was your +work a minute ago, Robert.' + +'Ay,' answered Robert, colouring a little; 'I was readin' a bit o' +the Anabasis.' + +The doctor smiled a far-off sly smile. + +'I think it was rather the Katabasis, if one might venture to judge +from the direction of your labours.' + +'Weel,' answered Robert, 'what wad ye hae me do? Wad ye hae me lat +Mr. Ericson gang wi' holes i' the heels o' 's hose, whan I can mak +them a' snod, an' learn my Greek at the same time? Hoots, doctor! +dinna lauch at me. I was doin' nae ill. A body may please +themsel's--whiles surely, ohn sinned.' + +'But it's such waste of time! Why don't you buy him new ones?' + +''Deed that's easier said than dune. I hae eneuch ado wi' my siller +as 'tis; an' gin it warna for you, doctor, I do not ken what wad +come o' 's; for ye see I hae no richt to come upo' my grannie for +ither fowk. There wad be nae en' to that.' + +'But I could lend you the money to buy him some stockings.' + +'An' whan wad I be able to pay ye, do ye think, doctor? In anither +warl' maybe, whaur the currency micht be sae different there wad be +no possibility o' reckonin' the rate o' exchange. Na, na.' + +'But I will give you the money if you like.' + +'Na, na. You hae dune eneuch already, an' mony thanks. Siller's no +sae easy come by to be wastit, as lang's a darn 'll do. Forbye, gin +ye began wi' his claes, ye wadna ken whaur to haud; for it wad jist +be the new claith upo' the auld garment: ye micht as weel new cleed +him at ance.' + +'And why not if I choose, Mr. Falconer?' + +'Speir ye that at him, an' see what ye'll get--a luik 'at wad fess a +corbie (carrion crow) frae the lift (sky). I wadna hae ye try that. +Some fowk's poverty maun be han'let jist like a sair place, doctor. +He canna weel compleen o' a bit darnin'.--He canna tak that ill,' +repeated Robert, in a tone that showed he yet felt some anxiety on +the subject; 'but new anes! I wadna like to be by whan he fand that +oot. Maybe he micht tak them frae a wuman; but frae a man +body!--na, na; I maun jist darn awa'. But I'll mak them dacent +eneuch afore I hae dune wi' them. A fiddler has fingers.' + +The doctor smiled a pleased smile; but when he got into his +carriage, again he laughed heartily. + +The evening deepened into night. Robert thought Ericson was asleep. +But he spoke. + +'Who is that at the street door?' he said. + +They were at the top of the house, and there was no window to the +street. But Ericson's senses were preternaturally acute, as is +often the case in such illnesses. + +'I dinna hear onybody,' answered Robert. + +'There was somebody,' returned Ericson. + +>From that moment he began to be restless, and was more feverish than +usual throughout the night. + +Up to this time he had spoken little, was depressed with a suffering +to which he could give no name--not pain, he said--but such that he +could rouse no mental effort to meet it: his endurance was passive +altogether. This night his brain was more affected. He did not +rave, but often wandered; never spoke nonsense, but many words that +would have seemed nonsense to ordinary people: to Robert they seemed +inspired. His imagination, which was greater than any other of his +fine faculties, was so roused that he talked in verse--probably +verse composed before and now recalled. He would even pray +sometimes in measured lines, and go on murmuring petitions, till the +words of the murmur became undistinguishable, and he fell asleep. +But even in his sleep he would speak; and Robert would listen in +awe; for such words, falling from such a man, were to him as dim +breaks of coloured light from the rainbow walls of the heavenly +city. + +'If God were thinking me,' said Ericson, 'ah! But if he be only +dreaming me, I shall go mad.' + +Ericson's outside was like his own northern clime--dark, gentle, and +clear, with gray-blue seas, and a sun that seems to shine out of the +past, and know nothing of the future. But within glowed a volcanic +angel of aspiration, fluttering his half-grown wings, and ever +reaching towards the heights whence all things are visible, and +where all passions are safe because true, that is divine. Iceland +herself has her Hecla. + +Robert listened with keenest ear. A mist of great meaning hung +about the words his friend had spoken. He might speak more. For +some minutes he listened in vain, and was turning at last towards +his book in hopelessness, when he did speak yet again: Robert's ear +soon detected the rhythmic motion of his speech. + +'Come in the glory of thine excellence; +Rive the dense gloom with wedges of clear light; +And let the shimmer of thy chariot wheels +Burn through the cracks of night.--So slowly, Lord, +To lift myself to thee with hands of toil, +Climbing the slippery cliff of unheard prayer! +Lift up a hand among my idle days-- +One beckoning finger. I will cast aside +The clogs of earthly circumstance, and run +Up the broad highways where the countless worlds +Sit ripening in the summer of thy love.' + +Breathless for fear of losing a word, Robert yet remembered that he +had seen something like these words in the papers Ericson had given +him to read on the night when his illness began. When he had fallen +asleep and silent, he searched and found the poem from which I give +the following extracts. He had not looked at the papers since that +night. + +A PRAYER. + + O Lord, my God, how long +Shall my poor heart pant for a boundless joy? +How long, O mighty Spirit, shall I hear +The murmur of Truth's crystal waters slide +>From the deep caverns of their endless being, +But my lips taste not, and the grosser air +Choke each pure inspiration of thy will? + + I would be a wind, +Whose smallest atom is a viewless wing, +All busy with the pulsing life that throbs +To do thy bidding; yea, or the meanest thing +That has relation to a changeless truth +Could I but be instinct with thee--each thought +The lightning of a pure intelligence, +And every act as the loud thunder-clap +Of currents warring for a vacuum. + + Lord, clothe me with thy truth as with a robe. +Purge me with sorrow. I will bend my head, +And let the nations of thy waves pass over, +Bathing me in thy consecrated strength. +And let the many-voiced and silver winds +Pass through my frame with their clear influence. +O save me--I am blind; lo! thwarting shapes +Wall up the void before, and thrusting out +Lean arms of unshaped expectation, beckon +Down to the night of all unholy thoughts. + + I have seen +Unholy shapes lop off my shining thoughts, +Which I had thought nursed in thine emerald light; +And they have lent me leathern wings of fear, +Of baffled pride and harrowing distrust; +And Godhead with its crown of many stars, +Its pinnacles of flaming holiness, +And voice of leaves in the green summer-time, +Has seemed the shadowed image of a self. +Then my soul blackened; and I rose to find +And grasp my doom, and cleave the arching deeps +Of desolation. + + O Lord, my soul is a forgotten well; +Clad round with its own rank luxuriance; +A fountain a kind sunbeam searches for, +Sinking the lustre of its arrowy finger +Through the long grass its own strange virtue5 +Hath blinded up its crystal eye withal: +Make me a broad strong river coming down +With shouts from its high hills, whose rocky hearts +Throb forth the joy of their stability +In watery pulses from their inmost deeps, +And I shall be a vein upon thy world, +Circling perpetual from the parent deep. + O First and Last, O glorious all in all, +In vain my faltering human tongue would seek +To shape the vesture of the boundless thought, +Summing all causes in one burning word; +Give me the spirit's living tongue of fire, +Whose only voice is in an attitude +Of keenest tension, bent back on itself +With a strong upward force; even as thy bow +Of bended colour stands against the north, +And, in an attitude to spring to heaven, +Lays hold of the kindled hills. + + Most mighty One, +Confirm and multiply my thoughts of good; +Help me to wall each sacred treasure round +With the firm battlements of special action. +Alas my holy, happy thoughts of thee +Make not perpetual nest within my soul, +But like strange birds of dazzling colours stoop +The trailing glories of their sunward speed, +For one glad moment filling my blasted boughs +With the sunshine of their wings. + + Make me a forest +Of gladdest life, wherein perpetual spring +Lifts up her leafy tresses in the wind. + + Lo! now I see +Thy trembling starlight sit among my pines, +And thy young moon slide down my arching boughs +With a soft sound of restless eloquence. +And I can feel a joy as when thy hosts +Of trampling winds, gathering in maddened bands, +Roar upward through the blue and flashing day +Round my still depths of uncleft solitude. + + Hear me, O Lord, +When the black night draws down upon my soul, +And voices of temptation darken down +The misty wind, slamming thy starry doors, +With bitter jests. 'Thou fool!' they seem to say +'Thou hast no seed of goodness in thee; all +Thy nature hath been stung right through and through. +Thy sin hath blasted thee, and made thee old. +Thou hadst a will, but thou hast killed it--dead-- +And with the fulsome garniture of life +Built out the loathsome corpse. Thou art a child +Of night and death, even lower than a worm. +Gather the skirts up of thy shadowy self, +And with what resolution thou hast left, +Fall on the damned spikes of doom.' + + O take me like a child, +If thou hast made me for thyself, my God, +And lead me up thy hills. I shall not fear +So thou wilt make me pure, and beat back sin +With the terrors of thine eye. + + Lord hast thou sent +Thy moons to mock us with perpetual hope? +Lighted within our breasts the love of love, +To make us ripen for despair, my God? + + Oh, dost thou hold each individual soul +Strung clear upon thy flaming rods of purpose? +Or does thine inextinguishable will +Stand on the steeps of night with lifted hand, +Filling the yawning wells of monstrous space +With mixing thought--drinking up single life +As in a cup? and from the rending folds +Of glimmering purpose, the gloom do all thy navied stars +Slide through the gloom with mystic melody, +Like wishes on a brow? Oh, is my soul, +Hung like a dew-drop in thy grassy ways, +Drawn up again into the rack of change, +Even through the lustre which created it? +O mighty one, thou wilt not smite me through +With scorching wrath, because my spirit stands +Bewildered in thy circling mysteries. + +Here came the passage Robert had heard him repeat, and then the +following paragraph: + +Lord, thy strange mysteries come thickening down +Upon my head like snow-flakes, shutting out +The happy upper fields with chilly vapour. +Shall I content my soul with a weak sense +Of safety? or feed my ravenous hunger with +Sore-purged hopes, that are not hopes, but fears +Clad in white raiment? +I know not but some thin and vaporous fog, +Fed with the rank excesses of the soul, +Mocks the devouring hunger of my life +With satisfaction: lo! the noxious gas +Feeds the lank ribs of gaunt and ghastly death +With double emptiness, like a balloon, +Borne by its lightness o'er the shining lands, +A wonder and a laughter. + The creeds lie in the hollow of men's hearts +Like festering pools glassing their own corruption: +The slimy eyes stare up with dull approval, +And answer not when thy bright starry feet +Move on the watery floors. + + O wilt thou hear me when I cry to thee? +I am a child lost in a mighty forest; +The air is thick with voices, and strange hands +Reach through the dusk and pluck me by the skirts. +There is a voice which sounds like words from home, +But, as I stumble on to reach it, seems +To leap from rock to rock. Oh! if it is +Willing obliquity of sense, descend, +Heal all my wanderings, take me by the hand, +And lead me homeward through the shadows. + Let me not by my wilful acts of pride +Block up the windows of thy truth, and grow +A wasted, withered thing, that stumbles on +Down to the grave with folded hands of sloth +And leaden confidence. + +There was more of it, as my type indicates. Full of faults, I have +given so much to my reader, just as it stood upon Ericson's blotted +papers, the utterance of a true soul 'crying for the light.' But I +give also another of his poems, which Robert read at the same time, +revealing another of his moods when some one of the clouds of holy +doubt and questioning love which so often darkened his sky, did at +length + + Turn forth her silver lining on the night: + +SONG. + +They are blind and they are dead: + We will wake them as we go; +There are words have not been said; + There are sounds they do not know. + We will pipe and we will sing-- + With the music and the spring, + Set their hearts a wondering. + +They are tired of what is old: + We will give it voices new; +For the half hath not been told + Of the Beautiful and True. + Drowsy eyelids shut and sleeping! + Heavy eyes oppressed with weeping! + Flashes through the lashes leaping! + +Ye that have a pleasant voice, + Hither come without delay; +Ye will never have a choice + Like to that ye have to-day: + Round the wide world we will go, + Singing through the frost and snow, + Till the daisies are in blow. + +Ye that cannot pipe or sing, + Ye must also come with speed; +Ye must come and with you bring + Weighty words and weightier deed: + Helping hands and loving eyes, + These will make them truly wise-- + Then will be our Paradise. + +As Robert read, the sweetness of the rhythm seized upon him, and, +almost unconsciously, he read the last stanza aloud. Looking up +from the paper with a sigh of wonder and delight--there was the pale +face of Ericson gazing at him from the bed! He had risen on one +arm, looking like a dead man called to life against his will, who +found the world he had left already stranger to him than the one +into which he had but peeped. + +'Yes,' he murmured; 'I could say that once. It's all gone now. Our +world is but our moods.' + +He fell back on his pillow. After a little, he murmured again: + +'I might fool myself with faith again. So it is better not. I +would not be fooled. To believe the false and be happy is the very +belly of misery. To believe the true and be miserable, is to be +true--and miserable. If there is no God, let me know it. I will +not be fooled. I will not believe in a God that does not exist. +Better be miserable because I am, and cannot help it.--O God!' + +Yet in his misery, he cried upon God. + +These words came upon Robert with such a shock of sympathy, that +they destroyed his consciousness for the moment, and when he thought +about them, he almost doubted if he had heard them. He rose and +approached the bed. Ericson lay with his eyes closed, and his face +contorted as by inward pain. Robert put a spoonful of wine to his +lips. He swallowed it, opened his eyes, gazed at the boy as if he +did not know him, closed them again, and lay still. + +Some people take comfort from the true eyes of a dog--and a precious +thing to the loving heart is the love of even a dumb animal.6 What +comfort then must not such a boy as Robert have been to such a man +as Ericson! Often and often when he was lying asleep as Robert +thought, he was watching the face of his watcher. When the human +soul is not yet able to receive the vision of the God-man, God +sometimes--might I not say always?--reveals himself, or at least +gives himself, in some human being whose face, whose hands are the +ministering angels of his unacknowledged presence, to keep alive the +fire of love on the altar of the heart, until God hath provided the +sacrifice--that is, until the soul is strong enough to draw it from +the concealing thicket. Here were two, each thinking that God had +forsaken him, or was not to be found by him, and each the very love +of God, commissioned to tend the other's heart. In each was he +present to the other. The one thought himself the happiest of +mortals in waiting upon his big brother, whose least smile was joy +enough for one day; the other wondered at the unconscious goodness +of the boy, and while he gazed at his ruddy-brown face, believed in +God. + +For some time after Ericson was taken ill, he was too depressed and +miserable to ask how he was cared for. But by slow degrees it +dawned upon him that a heart deep and gracious, like that of a +woman, watched over him. True, Robert was uncouth, but his +uncouthness was that of a half-fledged angel. The heart of the man +and the heart of the boy were drawn close together. Long before +Ericson was well he loved Robert enough to be willing to be indebted +to him, and would lie pondering--not how to repay him, but how to +return his kindness. + +How much Robert's ambition to stand well in the eyes of Miss St. +John contributed to his progress I can only imagine; but certainly +his ministrations to Ericson did not interfere with his Latin and +Greek. I venture to think that they advanced them, for difficulty +adds to result, as the ramming of the powder sends the bullet the +further. I have heard, indeed, that when a carrier wants to help +his horse up hill, he sets a boy on his back. + +Ericson made little direct acknowledgment to Robert: his tones, his +gestures, his looks, all thanked him; but he shrunk from words, with +the maidenly shamefacedness that belongs to true feeling. He would +even assume the authoritative, and send him away to his studies, but +Robert knew how to hold his own. The relation of elder brother and +younger was already established between them. Shargar likewise took +his share in the love and the fellowship, worshipping in that he +believed. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +A FATHER AND A DAUGHTER. + +The presence at the street door of which Ericson's over-acute sense +had been aware on a past evening, was that of Mr. Lindsay, walking +home with bowed back and bowed head from the college library, where +he was privileged to sit after hours as long as he pleased over +books too big to be comfortably carried home to his cottage. He had +called to inquire after Ericson, whose acquaintance he had made in +the library, and cultivated until almost any Friday evening Ericson +was to be found seated by Mr. Lindsay's parlour fire. + +As he entered the room that same evening, a young girl raised +herself from a low seat by the fire to meet him. There was a faint +rosy flush on her cheek, and she held a volume in her hand as she +approached her father. They did not kiss: kisses were not a legal +tender in Scotland then: possibly there has been a depreciation in +the value of them since they were. + +'I've been to ask after Mr. Ericson,' said Mr. Lindsay. + +'And how is he?' asked the girl. + +'Very poorly indeed,' answered her father. + +'I am sorry. You'll miss him, papa.' + +'Yes, my dear. Tell Jenny to bring my lamp.' + +'Won't you have your tea first, papa?' + +'Oh yes, if it's ready.' + +'The kettle has been boiling for a long time, but I wouldn't make +the tea till you came in.' + +Mr. Lindsay was an hour later than usual, but Mysie was quite +unaware of that: she had been absorbed in her book, too much +absorbed even to ring for better light than the fire afforded. When +her father went to put off his long, bifurcated greatcoat, she +returned to her seat by the fire, and forgot to make the tea. It +was a warm, snug room, full of dark, old-fashioned, spider-legged +furniture; low-pitched, with a bay-window, open like an ear to the +cries of the German Ocean at night, and like an eye during the day +to look out upon its wide expanse. This ear or eye was now +curtained with dark crimson, and the room, in the firelight, with +the young girl for a soul to it, affected one like an ancient book +in which he reads his own latest thought. + +Mysie was nothing over the middle height--delicately-fashioned, at +once slender and round, with extremities neat as buds. Her +complexion was fair, and her face pale, except when a flush, like +that of a white rose, overspread it. Her cheek was lovelily curved, +and her face rather short. But at first one could see nothing for +her eyes. They were the largest eyes; and their motion reminded one +of those of Sordello in the Purgatorio: + + E nel muover degli occhi onesta e tarda: + +they seemed too large to move otherwise than with a slow turning +like that of the heavens. At first they looked black, but if one +ventured inquiry, which was as dangerous as to gaze from the +battlements of Elsinore, he found them a not very dark brown. In +her face, however, especially when flushed, they had all the effect +of what Milton describes as + + Quel sereno fulgor d'amabil nero. + +A wise observer would have been a little troubled in regarding her +mouth. The sadness of a morbid sensibility hovered about it--the +sign of an imagination wrought upon from the centre of self. Her +lips were neither thin nor compressed--they closed lightly, and were +richly curved; but there was a mobility almost tremulous about the +upper lip that gave sign of the possibility of such an oscillation +of feeling as might cause the whole fabric of her nature to rock +dangerously. + +The moment her father re-entered, she started from her stool on the +rug, and proceeded to make the tea. Her father took no notice of +her neglect, but drew a chair to the table, helped himself to a +piece of oat-cake, hastily loaded it with as much butter as it could +well carry, and while eating it forgot it and everything else in the +absorption of a volume he had brought in with him from his study, in +which he was tracing out some genealogical thread of which he +fancied he had got a hold. Mysie was very active now, and lost the +expression of far-off-ness which had hitherto characterized her +countenance; till, having poured out the tea, she too plunged at +once into her novel, and, like her father, forgot everything and +everybody near her. + +Mr. Lindsay was a mild, gentle man, whose face and hair seemed to +have grown gray together. He was very tall, and stooped much. He +had a mouth of much sensibility, and clear blue eyes, whose light +was rarely shed upon any one within reach except his daughter--they +were so constantly bent downwards, either on the road as he walked, +or on his book as he sat. He had been educated for the church, but +had never risen above the position of a parish school-master. He +had little or no impulse to utterance, was shy, genial, and, save in +reading, indolent. Ten years before this point of my history he had +been taken up by an active lawyer in Edinburgh, from information +accidentally supplied by Mr. Lindsay himself, as the next heir to a +property to which claim was laid by the head of a county family of +wealth. Probabilities were altogether in his favour, when he gave +up the contest upon the offer of a comfortable annuity from the +disputant. To leave his schooling and his possible estate together, +and sit down comfortably by his own fireside, with the means of +buying books, and within reach of a good old library--that of King's +College by preference--was to him the sum of all that was desirable. +The income offered him was such that he had no doubt of laying +aside enough for his only child, Mysie; but both were so ill-fitted +for saving, he from looking into the past, she from looking +into--what shall I call it? I can only think of negatives--what was +neither past, present, nor future, neither material nor eternal, +neither imaginative in any true sense, nor actual in any sense, that +up to the present hour there was nothing in the bank, and only the +money for impending needs in the house. He could not be called a +man of learning; he was only a great bookworm; for his reading lay +all in the nebulous regions of history. Old family records, +wherever he could lay hold upon them, were his favourite dishes; +old, musty books, that looked as if they knew something everybody +else had forgotten, made his eyes gleam, and his white +taper-fingered hand tremble with eagerness. With such a book in his +grasp he saw something ever beckoning him on, a dimly precious +discovery, a wonderful fact just the shape of some missing fragment +in the mosaic of one of his pictures of the past. To tell the +truth, however, his discoveries seldom rounded themselves into +pictures, though many fragments of the minutely dissected map would +find their places, whereupon he rejoiced like a mild giant refreshed +with soda-water. But I have already said more about him than his +place justifies; therefore, although I could gladly linger over the +portrait, I will leave it. He had taught his daughter next to +nothing. Being his child, he had the vague feeling that she +inherited his wisdom, and that what he knew she knew. So she sat +reading novels, generally trashy ones, while he knew no more of what +was passing in her mind than of what the Admirable Crichton might, +at the moment, be disputing with the angels. + +I would not have my reader suppose that Mysie's mind was corrupted. +It was so simple and childlike, leaning to what was pure, and +looking up to what was noble, that anything directly bad in the +books she happened--for it was all haphazard--to read, glided over +her as a black cloud may glide over a landscape, leaving it sunny as +before. + +I cannot therefore say, however, that she was nothing the worse. If +the darkening of the sun keep the fruits of the earth from growing, +the earth is surely the worse, though it be blackened by no deposit +of smoke. And where good things do not grow, the wild and possibly +noxious will grow more freely. There may be no harm in the yellow +tanzie--there is much beauty in the red poppy; but they are not good +for food. The result in Mysie's case would be this--not that she +would call evil good and good evil, but that she would take the +beautiful for the true and the outer shows of goodness for goodness +itself--not the worst result, but bad enough, and involving an awful +amount of suffering and possibly of defilement. He who thinks to +climb the hill of happiness thus, will find himself floundering in +the blackest bog that lies at the foot of its precipices. I say he, +not she, advisedly. All will acknowledge it of the woman: it is as +true of the man, though he may get out easier. Will he? I say, +checking myself. I doubt it much. In the world's eye, yes; but in +God's? Let the question remain unanswered. + +When he had eaten his toast, and drunk his tea, apparently without +any enjoyment, Mr. Lindsay rose with his book in his hand, and +withdrew to his study. + +He had not long left the room when Mysie was startled by a loud +knock at the back door, which opened on a lane, leading along the +top of the hill. But she had almost forgotten it again, when the +door of the room opened, and a gentleman entered without any +announcement--for Jenny had never heard of the custom. When she saw +him, Mysie started from her seat, and stood in visible +embarrassment. The colour went and came on her lovely face, and her +eyelids grew very heavy. She had never seen the visitor before: +whether he had ever seen her before, I cannot certainly say. She +felt herself trembling in his presence, while he advanced with +perfect composure. He was a man no longer young, but in the full +strength and show of manhood--the Baron of Rothie. Since the time +of my first description of him, he had grown a moustache, which +improved his countenance greatly, by concealing his upper lip with +its tusky curves. On a girl like Mysie, with an imagination so +cultivated, and with no opportunity of comparing its fancies with +reality, such a man would make an instant impression. + +'I beg your pardon, Miss--Lindsay, I presume?--for intruding upon +you so abruptly. I expected to see your father--not one of the +graces.' + +She blushed all the colour of her blood now. The baron was quite +enough like the hero of whom she had just been reading to admit of +her imagination jumbling the two. Her book fell. He lifted it and +laid it on the table. She could not speak even to thank him. Poor +Mysie was scarcely more than sixteen. + +'May I wait here till your father is informed of my visit?' he +asked. + +Her only answer was to drop again upon her low stool. + +Now Jenny had left it to Mysie to acquaint her father with the fact +of the baron's presence; but before she had time to think of the +necessity of doing something, he had managed to draw her into +conversation. He was as great a hypocrite as ever walked the earth, +although he flattered himself that he was none, because he never +pretended to cultivate that which he despised--namely, religion. +But he was a hypocrite nevertheless; for the falser he knew +himself, the more honour he judged it to persuade women of his +truth. + +It is unnecessary to record the slight, graceful, marrowless talk +into which he drew Mysie, and by which he both bewildered and +bewitched her. But at length she rose, admonished by her inborn +divinity, to seek her father. As she passed him, the baron took her +hand and kissed it. She might well tremble. Even such contact was +terrible. Why? Because there was no love in it. When the sense of +beauty which God had given him that he might worship, awoke in Lord +Rothie, he did not worship, but devoured, that he might, as he +thought, possess! The poison of asps was under those lips. His +kiss was as a kiss from the grave's mouth, for his throat was an +open sepulchre. This was all in the past, reader. Baron Rothie was +a foam-flake of the court of the Prince Regent. There are no such +men now-a-days! It is a shame to speak of such, and therefore they +are not! Decency has gone so far to abolish virtue. Would to God +that a writer could be decent and honest! St. Paul counted it a +shame to speak of some things, and yet he did speak of them--because +those to whom he spoke did them. + +Lord Rothie had, in five minutes, so deeply interested Mr. Lindsay +in a question of genealogy, that he begged his lordship to call +again in a few days, when he hoped to have some result of research +to communicate. + +One of the antiquarian's weaknesses, cause and result both of his +favourite pursuits, was an excessive reverence for rank. Had its +claims been founded on mediated revelation, he could not have +honoured it more. Hence when he communicated to his daughter the +name of their visitor, it was 'with bated breath and whispering +humbleness,' which deepened greatly the impression made upon her by +the presence and conversation of the baron. Mysie was in danger. + +Shargar was late that evening, for he had a job that detained him. +As he handed over his money to Robert, he said, + +'I saw Black Geordie the nicht again, stan'in' at a back door, an' +Jock Mitchell, upo' Reid Rorie, haudin' him.' + +'Wha's Jock Mitchell?' asked Robert. + +'My brither Sandy's ill-faured groom,' answered Shargar. 'Whatever +mischeef Sandy's up till, Jock comes in i' the heid or tail o' 't.' + +'I wonner what he's up till noo.' + +'Faith! nae guid. But I aye like waur to meet Sandy by himsel' upo' +that reekit deevil o' his. Man, it's awfu' whan Black Geordie turns +the white o' 's ee, an' the white o' 's teeth upo' ye. It's a' the +white 'at there is about 'im.' + +'Wasna yer brither i' the airmy, Shargar?' + +'Ow, 'deed ay. They tell me he was at Watterloo. He's a cornel, or +something like that.' + +'Wha tellt ye a' that?' + +'My mither whiles,' answered Shargar. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +ROBERT'S VOW. + +Ericson was recovering slowly. He could sit up in bed the greater +part of the day, and talk about getting out of it. He was able to +give Robert an occasional help with his Greek, and to listen with +pleasure to his violin. The night-watching grew less needful, and +Ericson would have dispensed with it willingly, but Robert would not +yet consent. + +But Ericson had seasons of great depression, during which he could +not away with music, or listen to the words of the New Testament. +During one of these Robert had begun to read a chapter to him, in +the faint hope that he might draw some comfort from it. + +'Shut the book,' he said. 'If it were the word of God to men, it +would have brought its own proof with it.' + +'Are ye sure it hasna?' asked Robert. + +'No,' answered Ericson. 'But why should a fellow that would give his +life--that's not much, but it's all I've got--to believe in God, not +be able? Only I confess that God in the New Testament wouldn't +satisfy me. There's no help. I must just die, and go and +see.--She'll be left without anybody. 'What does it matter? She +would not mind a word I said. And the God they talk about will just +let her take her own way. He always does.' + +He had closed his eyes and forgotten that Robert heard him. He +opened them now, and fixed them on him with an expression that +seemed to ask, 'Have I been saying anything I ought not?' + +Robert knelt by the bedside, and said, slowly, with strongly +repressed emotion, + +'Mr. Ericson, I sweir by God, gin there be ane, that gin ye dee, +I'll tak up what ye lea' ahin' ye. Gin there be onybody ye want +luikit efter, I'll luik efter her. I'll do what I can for her to +the best o' my abeelity, sae help me God--aye savin' what I maun do +for my ain father, gin he be in life, to fess (bring) him back to +the richt gait, gin there be a richt gait. Sae ye can think aboot +whether there's onything ye wad like to lippen till me.' + +A something grew in Ericson's eyes as Robert spoke. Before he had +finished, they beamed on the boy. + +'I think there must be a God somewhere after all,' he said, half +soliloquizing. 'I should be sorry you hadn't a God, Robert. Why +should I wish it for your sake? How could I want one for myself if +there never was one? If a God had nothing to do with my making, why +should I feel that nobody but God can set things right? Ah! but he +must be such a God as I could imagine--altogether, absolutely true +and good. If we came out of nothing, we could not invent the idea +of a God--could we, Robert? Nothing would be our God. If we come +from God, nothing is more natural, nothing so natural, as to want +him, and when we haven't got him, to try to find him.--What if he +should be in us after all, and working in us this way? just this +very way of crying out after him?' + +'Mr. Ericson,' cried Robert, 'dinna say ony mair 'at ye dinna +believe in God. Ye duv believe in 'im--mair, I'm thinkin', nor +onybody 'at I ken, 'cep', maybe, my grannie--only hers is a some +queer kin' o' a God to believe in. I dinna think I cud ever manage +to believe in him mysel'.' + +Ericson sighed and was silent. Robert remained kneeling by his +bedside, happier, clearer-headed, and more hopeful than he had ever +been. What if all was right at the heart of things--right, even as +a man, if he could understand, would say was right; right, so that a +man who understood in part could believe it to be ten times more +right than he did understand! Vaguely, dimly, yet joyfully, Robert +saw something like this in the possibility of things. His heart was +full, and the tears filled his eyes. Ericson spoke again. + +'I have felt like that often for a few moments,' he said; 'but +always something would come and blow it away. I remember one spring +morning--but if you will bring me that bundle of papers, I will show +you what, if I can find it, will let you understand--' + +Robert rose, went to the cupboard, and brought the pile of loose +leaves. Ericson turned them over, and, Robert was glad to see, now +and then sorted them a little. At length he drew out a sheet, +carelessly written, carelessly corrected, and hard to read. + +'It is not finished, or likely to be,' he said, as he put the paper +in Robert's hand. + +'Won't you read it to me yourself, Mr. Ericson?' suggested Robert. + +'I would sooner put it in the fire,' he answered--'it's fate, +anyhow. I don't know why I haven't burnt them all long ago. +Rubbish, and diseased rubbish! Read it yourself, or leave it.' + +Eagerly Robert took it, and read. The following was the best he +could make of it: + +Oh that a wind would call +>From the depths of the leafless wood! +Oh that a voice would fall +On the ear of my solitude! +Far away is the sea, +With its sound and its spirit-tone: +Over it white clouds flee, +But I am alone, alone. + +Straight and steady and tall +The trees stand on their feet; +Fast by the old stone wall +The moss grows green and sweet; +But my heart is full of fears, +For the sun shines far away; +And they look in my face through tears, +And the light of a dying day. + +My heart was glad last night, +As I pressed it with my palm; +Its throb was airy and light +As it sang some spirit-psalm; +But it died away in my breast +As I wandered forth to-day-- +As a bird sat dead on its nest, +While others sang on the spray. + +O weary heart of mine, +Is there ever a truth for thee? +Will ever a sun outshine +But the sun that shines on me? +Away, away through the air +The clouds and the leaves are blown; +And my heart hath need of prayer, +For it sitteth alone, alone. + +And Robert looked with sad reverence at Ericson,--nor ever thought +that there was one who, in the face of the fact, and in recognition +of it, had dared say, 'Not a sparrow shall fall on the ground +without your Father.' The sparrow does fall--but he who sees it is +yet the Father. + +And we know only the fall, and not the sparrow. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +THE GRANITE CHURCH. + +The next day was Sunday. Robert sat, after breakfast, by his +friend's bed. + +'You haven't been to church for a long time, Robert: wouldn't you +like to go to-day?' said Ericson. + +'I dinna want to lea' you, Mr. Ericson; I can bide wi' ye a' day the +day, an' that's better nor goin' to a' the kirks in Aberdeen.' + +'I should like you to go to-day, though; and see if, after all, +there may not be a message for us. If the church be the house of +God, as they call it, there should be, now and then at least, some +sign of a pillar of fire about it, some indication of the presence +of God whose house it is. I wish you would go and see. I haven't +been to church for a long time, except to the college-chapel, and I +never saw anything more than a fog there.' + +'Michtna the fog be the torn-edge like, o' the cloody pillar?' +suggested Robert. + +'Very likely,' assented Ericson; 'for, whatever truth there may be +in Christianity, I'm pretty sure the mass of our clergy have never +got beyond Judaism. They hang on about the skirts of that cloud for +ever.' + +'Ye see, they think as lang 's they see the fog, they hae a grup o' +something. But they canna get a grup o' the glory that excelleth, +for it's not to luik at, but to lat ye see a' thing.' + +Ericson regarded him with some surprise. Robert hastened to be +honest. + +'It's no that I ken onything aboot it, Mr. Ericson. I was only +bletherin' (talking nonsense)--rizzonin' frae the twa symbols o' the +cloud an' the fire--kennin' nothing aboot the thing itsel'. I'll +awa' to the kirk, an' see what it's like. Will I gie ye a buik +afore I gang?' + +'No, thank you. I'll just lie quiet till you come back--if I can.' + +Robert instructed Shargar to watch for the slightest sound from the +sick-room, and went to church. + +As he approached the granite cathedral, the only one in the world, I +presume, its stern solidity, so like the country and its men, laid +hold of his imagination for the first time. No doubt the necessity +imposed by the unyielding material had its share, and that a large +one, in the character of the building: whence else that simplest of +west windows, seven lofty, narrow slits of light, parted by granite +shafts of equal width, filling the space between the corner +buttresses of the nave, and reaching from door to roof? whence else +the absence of tracery in the windows--except the severely gracious +curves into which the mullions divide?--But this cause could not +have determined those towers, so strong that they might have borne +their granite weight soaring aloft, yet content with the depth of +their foundation, and aspiring not. The whole aspect of the +building is an outcome, an absolute blossom of the northern nature. + +There is but the nave of the church remaining. About 1680, more +than a century after the Reformation, the great tower fell, +destroying the choir, chancel, and transept, which have never been +rebuilt. May the reviving faith of the nation in its own history, +and God at the heart of it, lead to the restoration of this grand +old monument of the belief of their fathers. Deformed as the +interior then was with galleries, and with Gavin Dunbar's flat +ceiling, an awe fell upon Robert as he entered it. When in after +years he looked down from between the pillars of the gallery, that +creeps round the church through the thickness of the wall, like an +artery, and recalled the service of this Sunday morning, he felt +more strongly than ever that such a faith had not reared that +cathedral. The service was like the church only as a dead body is +like a man. There was no fervour in it, no aspiration. The great +central tower was gone. + +That morning prayers and sermon were philosophically dull, and +respectable as any after-dinner speech. Nor could it well be +otherwise: one of the favourite sayings of its minister was, that a +clergyman is nothing but a moral policeman. As such, however, he +more resembled one of Dogberry's watch. He could not even preach +hell with any vigour; for as a gentleman he recoiled from the +vulgarity of the doctrine, yielding only a few feeble words on the +subject as a sop to the Cerberus that watches over the dues of the +Bible--quite unaware that his notion of the doctrine had been drawn +from the Æneid, and not from the Bible. + +'Well, have you got anything, Robert?' asked Ericson, as he entered +his room. + +'Nothing,' answered Robert. + +'What was the sermon about?' + +'It was all to prove that God is a benevolent being.' + +'Not a devil, that is,' answered Ericson. 'Small consolation that.' + +'Sma' eneuch,' responded Robert. 'I cudna help thinkin' I kent mony +a tyke (dog) that God had made wi' mair o' what I wad ca' the divine +natur' in him nor a' that Dr. Soulis made oot to be in God himsel'. +He had no ill intentions wi' us--it amuntit to that. He wasna +ill-willy, as the bairns say. But the doctor had some sair wark, I +thoucht, to mak that oot, seein' we war a' the children o' wrath, +accordin' to him, born in sin, and inheritin' the guilt o' Adam's +first trespass. I dinna think Dr. Soulis cud say that God had dune +the best he cud for 's. But he never tried to say onything like +that. He jist made oot that he was a verra respectable kin' o' a +God, though maybe no a'thing we micht wuss. We oucht to be thankfu' +that he gae's a wee blink o' a chance o' no bein' brunt to a' +eternity, wi' nae chance ava. I dinna say that he said that, but +that's what it a' seemed to me to come till. He said a hantle aboot +the care o' Providence, but a' the gude that he did seemed to me to +be but a haudin' aff o' something ill that he had made as weel. Ye +wad hae thocht the deevil had made the warl', and syne God had +pitten us intil 't, and jist gied a bit wag o' 's han' whiles to +haud the deevil aff o' 's whan he was like to destroy the breed +a'thegither. For the grace that he spak aboot, that was less nor +the nature an' the providence. I cud see unco little o' grace intil +'t.' + +Here Ericson broke in--fearful, apparently, lest his boyfriend +should be actually about to deny the God in whom he did not himself +believe. + +'Robert,' he said solemnly, 'one thing is certain: if there be a God +at all, he is not like that. If there be a God at all, we shall +know him by his perfection--his grand perfect truth, fairness, +love--a love to make life an absolute good--not a mere accommodation +of difficulties, not a mere preponderance of the balance on the side +of well-being. Love only could have been able to create. But they +don't seem jealous for the glory of God, those men. They don't mind +a speck, or even a blot, here and there upon him. The world doesn't +make them miserable. They can get over the misery of their +fellow-men without being troubled about them, or about the God that +could let such things be.7 They represent a God who does wonderfully +well, on the whole, after a middling fashion. I want a God who +loves perfectly. He may kill; he may torture even; but if it be for +love's sake, Lord, here am I. Do with me as thou wilt.' + +Had Ericson forgotten that he had no proof of such a God? The next +moment the intellectual demon was awake. + +'But what's the good of it all?' he said. 'I don't even know that +there is anything outside of me.' + +'Ye ken that I'm here, Mr. Ericson,' suggested Robert. + +'I know nothing of the sort. You may be another phantom--only +clearer.' + +'Ye speik to me as gin ye thocht me somebody.' + +'So does the man to his phantoms, and you call him mad. It is but a +yielding to the pressure of constant suggestion. I do not know--I +cannot know if there is anything outside of me.' + +'But gin there warna, there wad be naebody for ye to love, Mr. +Ericson.' + +'Of course not.' + +'Nor naebody to love you, Mr. Ericson.' + +'Of course not.' + +'Syne ye wad be yer ain God, Mr. Ericson.' + +'Yes. That would follow.' + +'I canna imagine a waur hell--closed in amo' naething--wi' naething +a' aboot ye, luikin' something a' the time--kennin' 'at it 's a' a +lee, and nae able to win clear o' 't.' + +'It is hell, my boy, or anything worse you can call it.' + +'What for suld ye believe that, than, Mr. Ericson? I wadna believe +sic an ill thing as that. I dinna think I cud believe 't, gin ye +war to pruv 't to me.' + +'I don't believe it. Nobody could prove that either, even if it +were so. I am only miserable that I can't prove the contrary.' + +'Suppose there war a God, Mr. Ericson, do ye think ye bude (behoved) +to be able to pruv that? Do ye think God cud stan' to be pruved as +gin he war something sma' eneuch to be turned roon' and roon', and +luikit at upo' ilka side? Gin there war a God, wadna it jist be +sae--that we cudna prove him to be, I mean?' + +'Perhaps. That is something. I have often thought of that. But +then you can't prove anything about it.' + +'I canna help thinkin' o' what Mr. Innes said to me ance. I was but +a laddie, but I never forgot it. I plaguit him sair wi' wantin' to +unnerstan' ilka thing afore I wad gang on wi' my questons (sums). +Says he, ae day, "Robert, my man, gin ye will aye unnerstan' afore +ye du as ye're tellt, ye'll never unnerstan' onything. But gin ye +du the thing I tell ye, ye'll be i' the mids o' 't afore ye ken 'at +ye're gaein' intil 't." I jist thocht I wad try him. It was at +lang division that I boglet maist. Weel, I gaed on, and I cud du +the thing weel eneuch, ohn made ae mistak. And aye I thocht the +maister was wrang, for I never kent the rizzon o' a' that beginnin' +at the wrang en', an' takin' doon an' substrackin', an' a' that. Ye +wad hardly believe me, Mr. Ericson: it was only this verra day, as I +was sittin' i' the kirk--it was a lang psalm they war singin'--that +ane wi' the foxes i' the tail o' 't--lang division came into my heid +again; and first aye bit glimmerin' o' licht cam in, and syne +anither, an' afore the psalm was dune I saw throu' the haill process +o' 't. But ye see, gin I hadna dune as I was tauld, and learnt a' +aboot hoo it was dune aforehan', I wad hae had naething to gang +rizzonin' aboot, an' wad hae fun' oot naething.' + +'That's good, Robert. But when a man is dying for food, he can't +wait.' + +'He micht try to get up and luik, though. He needna bide in 's bed +till somebody comes an' sweirs till him 'at he saw a haddie +(haddock) i' the press.' + +'I have been looking, Robert--for years.' + +'Maybe, like me, only for the rizzon o' 't, Mr. Ericson--gin ye'll +forgie my impidence.' + +'But what's to be done in this case, Robert? Where's the work that +you can do in order to understand? Where's your long division, +man?' + +'Ye're ayont me noo. I canna tell that, Mr. Ericson. It canna be +gaein' to the kirk, surely. Maybe it micht be sayin' yer prayers +and readin' yer Bible.' + +Ericson did not reply, and the conversation dropped. Is it strange +that neither of these disciples should have thought of turning to +the story of Jesus, finding some word that he had spoken, and +beginning to do that as a first step towards a knowledge of the +doctrine that Jesus was the incarnate God, come to visit his +people--a very unlikely thing to man's wisdom, yet an idea that has +notwithstanding ascended above man's horizon, and shown itself the +grandest idea in his firmament? + +In the evening Ericson asked again for his papers, from which he +handed Robert the following poem:-- + +WORDS IN THE NIGHT. + +I woke at midnight, and my heart, +My beating heart said this to me: +Thou seest the moon how calm and bright +The world is fair by day and night, +But what is that to thee? +One touch to me--down dips the light +Over the land and sea. +All is mine, all is my own! +Toss the purple fountain high! +The breast of man is a vat of stone; +I am alive, I, only I! + +One little touch and all is dark; +The winter with its sparkling moons +The spring with all her violets, +The crimson dawns and rich sunsets, +The autumn's yellowing noons. +I only toss my purple jets, +And thou art one that swoons +Upon a night of gust and roar, +Shipwrecked among the waves, and seems +Across the purple hills to roam; +Sweet odours touch him from the foam, +And downward sinking still he dreams +He walks the clover field at home, +And hears the rattling teams. +All is mine; all is my own! +Toss the purple fountain high! +The breast of man is a vat of stone; +I am alive, I, only I! + +Thou hast beheld a throated fountain spout +Full in the air, and in the downward spray +A hovering Iris span the marble tank, +Which as the wind came, ever rose and sank +Violet and red; so my continual play +Makes beauty for the Gods with many a prank +Of human excellence, while they, +Weary of all the noon, in shadows sweet +Supine and heavy-eyed rest in the boundless heat: +Let the world's fountain play! +Beauty is pleasant in the eyes of Jove; +Betwixt the wavering shadows where he lies +He marks the dancing column with his eyes +Celestial, and amid his inmost grove +Upgathers all his limbs, serenely blest, +Lulled by the mellow noise of the great world's unrest. + +One heart beats in all nature, differing +But in the work it works; its doubts and clamours +Are but the waste and brunt of instruments +Wherewith a work is done; or as the hammers +On forge Cyclopean plied beneath the rents +Of lowest Etna, conquering into shape +The hard and scattered ore: +Choose thou narcotics, and the dizzy grape +Outworking passion, lest with horrid crash +Thy life go from thee in a night of pain. +So tutoring thy vision, shall the flash +Of dove white-breasted be to thee no more +Than a white stone heavy upon the plain. + +Hark the cock crows loud! +And without, all ghastly and ill, +Like a man uplift in his shroud, +The white white morn is propped on the hill; +And adown from the eaves, pointed and chill, +The icicles 'gin to glitter; +And the birds with a warble short and shrill, +Pass by the chamber-window still-- +With a quick uneasy twitter. +Let me pump warm blood, for the cold is bitter; +And wearily, wearily, one by one, +Men awake with the weary sun. + +Life is a phantom shut in thee; +I am the master and keep the key; +So let me toss thee the days of old, +Crimson and orange and green and gold; +So let me fill thee yet again +With a rush of dreams from my spout amain; +For all is mine; all is my own; +Toss the purple fountain high! +The breast of man is a vat of stone; +And I am alive, I, only I. + +Robert having read, sat and wept in silence. Ericson saw him, and +said tenderly, + +'Robert, my boy, I'm not always so bad as that. Read this +one--though I never feel like it now. Perhaps it may come again +some day, though. I may once more deceive myself and be happy.' + +'Dinna say that, Mr. Ericson. That's waur than despair. That's +flat unbelief. Ye no more ken that ye're deceivin' yersel' than ye +ken that ye're no doin' 't.' + +Ericson did not reply; and Robert read the following sonnet aloud, +feeling his way delicately through its mazes:-- + +Lie down upon the ground, thou hopeless one! +Press thy face in the grass, and do not speak. +Dost feel the green globe whirl? Seven times a week +Climbeth she out of darkness to the sun, +Which is her god; seven times she doth not shun +Awful eclipse, laying her patient cheek +Upon a pillow ghost-beset with shriek +Of voices utterless which rave and run +Through all the star-penumbra, craving light +And tidings of the dawn from East and West. +Calmly she sleepeth, and her sleep is blest +With heavenly visions, and the joy of Night +Treading aloft with moons. Nor hath she fright +Though cloudy tempests beat upon her breast. + +Ericson turned his face to the wall, and Robert withdrew to his own +chamber. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +SHARGAR'S ARM. + +Not many weeks passed before Shargar knew Aberdeen better than most +Aberdonians. From the Pier-head to the Rubislaw Road, he knew, if +not every court, yet every thoroughfare and short cut. And Aberdeen +began to know him. He was very soon recognized as trustworthy, and +had pretty nearly as much to do as he could manage. Shargar, +therefore, was all over the city like a cracker, and could have told +at almost any hour where Dr. Anderson was to be found--generally in +the lower parts of it, for the good man visited much among the poor; +giving them almost exclusively the benefit of his large experience. +Shargar delighted in keeping an eye upon the doctor, carefully +avoiding to show himself. + +One day as he was hurrying through the Green (a non virendo) on a +mission from the Rothieden carrier, he came upon the doctor's +chariot standing in one of the narrowest streets, and, as usual, +paused to contemplate the equipage and get a peep of the owner. The +morning was very sharp. There was no snow, but a cold fog, like +vaporized hoar-frost, filled the air. It was weather in which the +East Indian could not venture out on foot, else he could have +reached the place by a stair from Union Street far sooner than he +could drive thither. His horses apparently liked the cold as little +as himself. They had been moving about restlessly for some time +before the doctor made his appearance. The moment he got in and +shut the door, one of them reared, while the other began to haul on +his traces, eager for a gallop. Something about the chain gave way, +the pole swerved round under the rearing horse, and great confusion +and danger would have ensued, had not Shargar rushed from his coign +of vantage, sprung at the bit of the rearing horse, and dragged him +off the pole, over which he was just casting his near leg. As soon +as his feet touched the ground he too pulled, and away went the +chariot and down went Shargar. But in a moment more several men had +laid hold of the horses' heads, and stopped them. + +'Oh Lord!' cried Shargar, as he rose with his arm dangling by his +side, 'what will Donal' Joss say? I'm like to swarf (faint). Haud +awa' frae that basket, ye wuddyfous (withy-fowls, gallows-birds),' +he cried, darting towards the hamper he had left in the entry of a +court, round which a few ragged urchins had gathered; but just as he +reached it he staggered and fell. Nor did he know anything more +till he found the carriage stopping with himself and the hamper +inside it. + +As soon as the coachman had got his harness put to rights, the +doctor had driven back to see how the lad had fared, for he had felt +the carriage go over something. They had found him lying beside his +hamper, had secured both, and as a preliminary measure were +proceeding to deliver the latter. + +'Whaur am I? whaur the deevil am I?' cried Shargar, jumping up and +falling back again. + +'Don't you know me, Moray?' said the doctor, for he felt shy of +calling the poor boy by his nickname: he had no right to do so. + +'Na, I dinna ken ye. Lat me awa'.--I beg yer pardon, doctor: I +thocht ye was ane o' thae wuddyfous rinnin' awa' wi' Donal' Joss's +basket. Eh me! sic a stoun' i' my airm! But naebody ca's me Moray. +They a' ca' me Shargar. What richt hae I to be ca'd Moray?' added +the poor boy, feeling, I almost believe for the first time, the +stain upon his birth. Yet ye had as good a right before God to be +called Moray as any other son of that worthy sire, the Baron of +Rothie included. Possibly the trumpet-blowing angels did call him +Moray, or some better name. + +'The coachman will deliver your parcel, Moray,' said the doctor, +this time repeating the name with emphasis. + +'Deil a bit o' 't!' cried Shargar. 'He daurna lea' his box wi' thae +deevils o' horses. What gars he keep sic horses, doctor? They'll +play some mischeef some day.' + +'Indeed, they've played enough already, my poor boy. They've broken +your arm.' + +'Never min' that. That's no muckle. Ye're welcome, doctor, to my +twa airms for what ye hae dune for Robert an' that lang-leggit +frien' o' his--the Lord forgie me--Mr. Ericson. But ye maun jist +pay him what I canna mak for a day or twa, till 't jines again--to +haud them gaein', ye ken.--It winna be muckle to you, doctor,' added +Shargar, beseechingly. + +'Trust me for that, Moray,' returned Dr. Anderson. 'I owe you a good +deal more than that. My brains might have been out by this time.' + +'The Lord be praised!' said Shargar, making about his first +profession of Christianity. 'Robert 'ill think something o' me noo.' + +During this conversation the coachman sat expecting some one to +appear from the shop, and longing to pitch into the 'camstary' +horse, but not daring to lift his whip beyond its natural angle. No +one came. All at once Shargar knew where he was. + +'Guid be here! we're at Donal's door! Guid day to ye, doctor; an' +I'm muckle obleeged to ye. Maybe, gin ye war comin' oor gait, the +morn, or the neist day, to see Maister Ericson, ye wad tie up my +airm, for it gangs wallopin' aboot, an' that canna be guid for the +stickin' o' 't thegither again.' + +'My poor boy! you don't think I'm going to leave you here, do you?' +said the doctor, proceeding to open the carriage-door. + +'But whaur's the hamper?' said Shargar, looking about him in dismay. + +'The coachman has got it on the box,' answered the doctor. + +'Eh! that'll never do. Gin thae rampaugin' brutes war to tak a +start again, what wad come o' the bit basket? I maun get it doon +direckly.' + +'Sit still. I will get it down, and deliver it myself.' As he +spoke the doctor got out. + +'Tak care o' 't, sir; tak care o' 't. William Walker said there was +a jar o' drained hinney i' the basket; an' the bairns wad miss 't +sair gin 't war spult.' + +'I will take good care of it,' responded the doctor. + +He delivered the basket, returned to the carriage, and told the +coachman to drive home. + +'Whaur are ye takin' me till?' exclaimed Shargar. 'Willie hasna +payed me for the parcel.' + +'Never mind Willie. I'll pay you,' said the doctor. + +'But Robert wadna like me to tak siller whaur I did nae wark for +'t,' objected Shargar. 'He's some pernickety (precise)--Robert. But +I'll jist say 'at ye garred me, doctor. Maybe that 'll saitisfee +him. An' faith! I'm queer aboot my left fin here.' + +'We'll soon set it all right,' said the doctor. + +When they reached his house he led the way to his surgery, and there +put the broken limb in splints. He then told Johnston to help the +patient to bed. + +'I maun gang hame,' objected Shargar. 'What wad Robert think?' + +'I will tell him all about it,' said the doctor. + +'Yersel, sir?' stipulated Shargar. + +'Yes, myself.' + +'Afore nicht?' + +'Directly,' answered the doctor, and Shargar yielded. + +'But what will Robert say?' were his last words, as he fell asleep, +appreciating, no doubt, the superiority of the bed to his usual lair +upon the hearthrug. + +Robert was delighted to hear how well Shargar had acquitted himself. +Followed a small consultation about him; for the accident had +ripened the doctor's intentions concerning the outcast. + +'As soon as his arm is sound again, he shall go to the +grammar-school,' he said. + +'An' the college?' asked Robert. + +'I hope so,' answered the doctor. 'Do you think he will do well? He +has plenty of courage, at all events, and that is a fine thing.' + +'Ow ay,' answered Robert; 'he's no ill aff for smeddum +(spirit)--that is, gin it be for ony ither body. He wad never lift +a han' for himsel'; an' that's what garred me tak till him sae +muckle. He's a fine crater. He canna gang him lane, but he'll gang +wi' onybody--and haud up wi' him.' + +'What do you think him fit for, then?' + +Now Robert had been building castles for Shargar out of the hopes +which the doctor's friendliness had given him. Therefore he was +ready with his answer. + +'Gin ye cud ensure him no bein' made a general o', he wad mak a +gran' sojer. Set's face foret, and say "quick mairch," an' he'll ca +his bagonet throu auld Hornie. But lay nae consequences upo' him, +for he cudna stan' unner them.' + +Dr. Anderson laughed, but thought none the less, and went home to +see how his patient was getting on. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +MYSIE'S FACE. + +Meantime Ericson grew better. A space of hard, clear weather, in +which everything sparkled with frost and sunshine, did him good. +But not yet could he use his brain. He turned with dislike even +from his friend Plato. He would sit in bed or on his chair by the +fireside for hours, with his hands folded before him, and his +eyelids drooping, and let his thoughts flow, for he could not think. +And that these thoughts flowed not always with other than sweet +sounds over the stones of question, the curves of his lip would +testify to the friendly, furtive glance of the watchful Robert. +None but the troubled mind knows its own consolations; and I +believe the saddest life has its own presence--however it may be +unrecognized as such--of the upholding Deity. Doth God care for the +hairs that perish from our heads? To a mind like Ericson's the +remembered scent, the recurring vision of a flower loved in +childhood, is enough to sustain anxiety with beauty, for the lovely +is itself healing and hope-giving, because it is the form and +presence of the true. To have such a presence is to be; and while a +mind exists in any high consciousness, the intellectual trouble that +springs from the desire to know its own life, to be assured of its +rounded law and security, ceases, for the desire itself falls into +abeyance. + +But although Ericson was so weak, he was always able and ready to +help Robert in any difficulty not unfrequently springing from his +imperfect preparation in Greek; for while Mr. Innes was an excellent +Latin scholar, his knowledge of Greek was too limited either to +compel learning or inspire enthusiasm, And with the keen instinct he +possessed in everything immediate between man and man, Robert would +sometimes search for a difficulty in order to request its solution; +for then Ericson would rouse himself to explain as few men could +have explained: where a clear view was to be had of anything, +Ericson either had it or knew that he had it not. Hence Robert's +progress was good; for one word from a wise helper will clear off a +whole atmosphere of obstructions. + +At length one day when Robert came home he found him seated at the +table, with his slate, working away at the Differential Calculus. +After this he recovered more rapidly, and ere another week was over +began to attend one class a day. He had been so far in advance +before, that though he could not expect prizes, there was no fear of +his passing. + +One morning, Robert, coming out from a lecture, saw Ericson in the +quadrangle talking to an elderly gentleman. When they met in the +afternoon Ericson told him that that was Mr. Lindsay, and that he +had asked them both to spend the evening at his house. Robert would +go anywhere to be with his friend. + +He got out his Sunday clothes, and dressed himself with anxiety: he +had visited scarcely at all, and was shy and doubtful. He then sat +down to his books, till Ericson came to his door--dressed, and hence +in Robert's eyes ceremonial--a stately, graceful gentleman. Renewed +awe came upon him at the sight, and renewed gratitude. There was a +flush on Ericson's cheek, and a fire in his eye. Robert had never +seen him look so grand. But there was a something about him that +rendered him uneasy--a look that made Ericson seem strange, as if +his life lay in some far-off region. + +'I want you to take your violin with you, Robert,' he said. + +'Hoots!' returned Robert, 'hoo can I do that? To tak her wi' me the +first time I gang to a strange hoose, as gin I thocht a'body wad +think as muckle o' my auld wife as I do mysel'! That wadna be +mainners--wad it noo, Mr. Ericson?' + +'But I told Mr. Lindsay that you could play well. The old gentleman +is fond of Scotch tunes, and you will please him if you take it.' + +'That maks a' the differ,' answered Robert. + +'Thank you,' said Ericson, as Robert went towards his instrument; +and, turning, would have walked from the house without any +additional protection. + +'Whaur are ye gaein' that gait, Mr. Ericson? Tak yer plaid, or +ye'll be laid up again, as sure's ye live.' + +'I'm warm enough,' returned Ericson. + +'That's naething. The cauld 's jist lyin' i' the street like a +verra deevil to get a grup o' ye. Gin ye dinna pit on yer plaid, I +winna tak my fiddle.' + +Ericson yielded; and they set out together. + +I will account for Ericson's request about the violin. + +He went to the episcopal church on Sundays, and sat where he could +see Mysie--sat longing and thirsting ever till the music returned. +Yet the music he never heard; he watched only its transmutation +into form, never taking his eyes off Mysie's face. Reflected thence +in a metamorphosed echo, he followed all its changes. Never was one +powerless to produce it more strangely responsive to its influence. +She had no voice; she had never been taught the use of any +instrument. A world of musical feeling was pent up in her, and +music raised the suddener storms in her mobile nature, that she was +unable to give that feeling utterance. The waves of her soul dashed +the more wildly against their shores, inasmuch as those shores were +precipitous, and yielded no outlet to the swelling waters. It was +that his soul might hover like a bird of Paradise over the lovely +changes of her countenance, changes more lovely and frequent than +those of an English May, that Ericson persuaded Robert to take his +violin. + +The last of the sunlight was departing, and a large full moon was +growing through the fog on the horizon. The sky was almost clear of +clouds, and the air was cold and penetrating. Robert drew Eric's +plaid closer over his chest. Eric thanked him lightly, but his +voice sounded eager; and it was with a long hasty stride that he +went up the hill through the gathering of the light frosty mist. He +stopped at the stair upon which Robert had found him that memorable +night. They went up. The door had been left on the latch for their +entrance. They went up more steps between rocky walls. When in +after years he read the Purgatorio, as often as he came to one of +its ascents, Robert saw this stair with his inward eye. At the top +of the stair was the garden, still ascending, and at the top of the +garden shone the glow of Mr. Lindsay's parlour through the +red-curtained window. To Robert it shone a refuge for Ericson from +the night air; to Ericson it shone the casket of the richest jewel +of the universe. Well might the ruddy glow stream forth to meet +him! Only in glowing red could such beauty be rightly closed. With +trembling hand he knocked at the door. + +They were shown at once into the parlour. Mysie was putting away +her book as they entered, and her back was towards them. When she +turned, it seemed even to Robert as if all the light in the room +came only from her eyes. But that light had been all gathered out +of the novel she had just laid down. She held out her hand to Eric, +and her sweet voice was yet more gentle than wont, for he had been +ill. His face flushed at the tone. But although she spoke kindly, +he could hardly have fancied that she showed him special favour. + +Robert stood with his violin under his arm, feeling as awkward as if +he had never handled anything more delicate than a pitchfork. But +Mysie sat down to the table, and began to pour out the tea, and he +came to himself again. Presently her father entered. His greeting +was warm and mild and sleepy. He had come from poring over +Spotiswood, in search of some Will o' the wisp or other, and had +grown stupid from want of success. But he revived after a cup of +tea, and began to talk about northern genealogies; and Ericson did +his best to listen. Robert wondered at the knowledge he displayed: +he had been tutor the foregoing summer in one of the oldest and +poorest, and therefore proudest families in Caithness. But all the +time his host talked Ericson's eyes hovered about Mysie, who sat +gazing before her with look distraught, with wide eyes and +scarce-moving eyelids, beholding something neither on sea or shore; +and Mr. Lindsay would now and then correct Ericson in some egregious +blunder; while Mysie would now and then start awake and ask Robert +or Ericson to take another cup of tea. Before the sentence was +finished, however, she would let it die away, speaking the last +words mechanically, as her consciousness relapsed into dreamland. +Had not Robert been with Ericson, he would have found it wearisome +enough; and except things took a turn, Ericson could hardly be +satisfied with the pleasure of the evening. Things did take a turn. + +'Robert has brought his fiddle,' said Ericson, as the tea was +removed. + +'I hope he will be kind enough to play something,' said Mr. Lindsay. + +'I'll do that,' answered Robert, with alacrity. 'But ye maunna +expec' ower muckle, for I'm but a prentice-han',' he added, as he +got the instrument ready. + +Before he had drawn the bow once across it, attention awoke in +Mysie's eyes; and before he had finished playing, Ericson must have +had quite as much of the 'beauty born of murmuring sound' as was +good for him. Little did Mysie think of the sky of love, alive with +silent thoughts, that arched over her. The earth teems with love +that is unloved. The universe itself is one sea of infinite love, +from whose consort of harmonies if a stray note steal across the +sense, it starts bewildered. + +Robert played better than usual. His touch grew intense, and put on +all its delicacy, till it was like that of the spider, which, as +Pope so admirably says, + + Feels at each thread, and lives along the line. + +And while Ericson watched its shadows, the music must have taken +hold of him too; for when Robert ceased, he sang a wild ballad of +the northern sea, to a tune strange as itself. It was the only time +Robert ever heard him sing. Mysie's eyes grew wider and wider as +she listened. When it was over, + +'Did ye write that sang yersel', Mr. Ericson?' asked Robert. + +'No,' answered Ericson. 'An old shepherd up in our parts used to say +it to me when I was a boy.' + +'Didna he sing 't?' Robert questioned further. + +'No, he didn't. But I heard an old woman crooning it to a child in +a solitary cottage on the shore of Stroma, near the Swalchie +whirlpool, and that was the tune she sang it to, if singing it could +be called.' + +'I don't quite understand it, Mr. Ericson,' said Mysie. 'What does +it mean?' + +'There was once a beautiful woman lived there-away,' began +Ericson.--But I have not room to give the story as he told it, +embellishing it, no doubt, as with such a mere tale was lawful +enough, from his own imagination. The substance was that a young +man fell in love with a beautiful witch, who let him go on loving +her till he cared for nothing but her, and then began to kill him by +laughing at him. For no witch can fall in love herself, however +much she may like to be loved. She mocked him till he drowned +himself in a pool on the seashore. Now the witch did not know that; +but as she walked along the shore, looking for things, she saw his +hand lying over the edge of a rocky basin. Nothing is more useful +to a witch than the hand of a man, so she went to pick it up. When +she found it fast to an arm, she would have chopped it off, but +seeing whose it was, she would, for some reason or other best known +to a witch, draw off his ring first. For it was an enchanted ring +which she had given him to bewitch his love, and now she wanted both +it and the hand to draw to herself the lover of a young maiden whom +she hated. But the dead hand closed its fingers upon hers, and her +power was powerless against the dead. And the tide came rushing up, +and the dead hand held her till she was drowned. She lies with her +lover to this day at the bottom of the Swalchie whirlpool; and when +a storm is at hand, strange moanings rise from the pool, for the +youth is praying the witch lady for her love, and she is praying him +to let go her hand. + +While Ericson told the story the room still glimmered about Robert +as if all its light came from Mysie's face, upon which the +flickering firelight alone played. Mr. Lindsay sat a little back +from the rest, with an amused expression: legends of such sort did +not come within the scope of his antiquarian reach, though he was +ready enough to believe whatever tempted his own taste, let it be as +destitute of likelihood as the story of the dead hand. When Ericson +ceased, Mysie gave a deep sigh, and looked full of thought, though I +daresay it was only feeling. Mr. Lindsay followed with an old tale +of the Sinclairs, of which he said Ericson's reminded him, though +the sole association was that the foregoing was a Caithness story, +and the Sinclairs are a Caithness family. As soon as it was over, +Mysie, who could not hide all her impatience during its lingering +progress, asked Robert to play again. He took up his violin, and +with great expression gave the air of Ericson's ballad two or three +times over, and then laid down the instrument. He saw indeed that +it was too much for Mysie, affecting her more, thus presented after +the story, than the singing of the ballad itself. Thereupon +Ericson, whose spirits had risen greatly at finding that he could +himself secure Mysie's attention, and produce the play of soul in +feature which he so much delighted to watch, offered another story; +and the distant rush of the sea, borne occasionally into the +'grateful gloom' upon the cold sweep of a February wind, mingled +with one tale after another, with which he entranced two of his +audience, while the third listened mildly content. + +The last of the tales Ericson told was as follows:-- + +'One evening-twilight in spring, a young English student, who had +wandered northwards as far as the outlying fragments of Scotland +called the Orkney and Shetland islands, found himself on a small +island of the latter group, caught in a storm of wind and hail, +which had come on suddenly. It was in vain to look about for any +shelter; for not only did the storm entirely obscure the landscape, +but there was nothing around him save a desert moss. + +'At length, however, as he walked on for mere walking's sake, he +found himself on the verge of a cliff, and saw, over the brow of it, +a few feet below him, a ledge of rock, where he might find some +shelter from the blast, which blew from behind. Letting himself +down by his hands, he alighted upon something that crunched beneath +his tread, and found the bones of many small animals scattered about +in front of a little cave in the rock, offering the refuge he +sought, He went in, and sat upon a stone. The storm increased in +violence, and as the darkness grew he became uneasy, for he did not +relish the thought of spending the night in the cave. He had parted +from his companions on the opposite side of the island, and it added +to his uneasiness that they must be full of apprehension about him. +At last there came a lull in the storm, and the same instant he +heard a footfall, stealthy and light as that of a wild beast, upon +the bones at the mouth of the cave. He started up in some fear, +though the least thought might have satisfied him that there could +be no very dangerous animals upon the island. Before he had time to +think, however, the face of a woman appeared in the opening. +Eagerly the wanderer spoke. She started at the sound of his voice. +He could not see her well, because she was turned towards the +darkness of the cave. + +'"Will you tell me how to find my way across the moor to Shielness?" +he asked. + +'"You cannot find it to-night," she answered, in a sweet tone, and +with a smile that bewitched him, revealing the whitest of teeth. + +'"What am I to do, then?" he asked. + +'"My mother will give you shelter, but that is all she has to +offer." + +'"And that is far more than I expected a minute ago," he replied. "I +shall be most grateful." + +'She turned in silence and left the cave. The youth followed. + +'She was barefooted, and her pretty brown feet went catlike over the +sharp stones, as she led the way down a rocky path to the shore. +Her garments were scanty and torn, and her hair blew tangled in the +wind. She seemed about five-and-twenty, lithe and small. Her long +fingers kept clutching and pulling nervously at her skirts as she +went. Her face was very gray in complexion, and very worn, but +delicately formed, and smooth-skinned. Her thin nostrils were +tremulous as eyelids, and her lips, whose curves were faultless, had +no colour to give sign of indwelling blood. What her eyes were like +he could not see, for she had never lifted the delicate films of her +eyelids. + +'At the foot of the cliff they came upon a little hut leaning +against it, and having for its inner apartment a natural hollow +within it. Smoke was spreading over the face of the rock, and the +grateful odour of food gave hope to the hungry student. His guide +opened the door of the cottage; he followed her in, and saw a woman +bending over a fire in the middle of the floor. On the fire lay a +large fish boiling. The daughter spoke a few words, and the mother +turned and welcomed the stranger. She had an old and very wrinkled, +but honest face, and looked troubled. She dusted the only chair in +the cottage, and placed it for him by the side of the fire, opposite +the one window, whence he saw a little patch of yellow sand over +which the spent waves spread themselves out listlessly. Under this +window was a bench, upon which the daughter threw herself in an +unusual posture, resting her chin upon her hand. A moment after the +youth caught the first glimpse of her blue eyes. They were fixed +upon him with a strange look of greed, amounting to craving, but as +if aware that they belied or betrayed her, she dropped them +instantly. The moment she veiled them, her face, notwithstanding +its colourless complexion, was almost beautiful. + +'When the fish was ready the old woman wiped the deal table, +steadied it upon the uneven floor, and covered it with a piece of +fine table-linen. She then laid the fish on a wooden platter, and +invited the guest to help himself. Seeing no other provision, he +pulled from his pocket a hunting-knife, and divided a portion from +the fish, offering it to the mother first. + +'"Come, my lamb," said the old woman; and the daughter approached +the table. But her nostrils and mouth quivered with disgust. + +'The next moment she turned and hurried from the hut. + +'"She doesn't like fish," said the old woman, "and I haven't +anything else to give her." + +'"She does not seem in good health," he rejoined. + +'The woman answered only with a sigh, and they ate their fish with +the help of a little rye-bread. As they finished their supper, the +youth heard the sound as of the pattering of a dog's feet upon the +sand close to the door; but ere he had time to look out of the +window, the door opened and the young woman entered. She looked +better, perhaps from having just washed her face. She drew a stool +to the corner of the fire opposite him. But as she sat down, to his +bewilderment, and even horror, the student spied a single drop of +blood on her white skin within her torn dress. The woman brought +out a jar of whisky, put a rusty old kettle on the fire, and took +her place in front of it. As soon as the water boiled, she +proceeded to make some toddy in a wooden bowl. + +'Meantime the youth could not take his eyes off the young woman, so +that at length he found himself fascinated, or rather bewitched. +She kept her eyes for the most part veiled with the loveliest +eyelids fringed with darkest lashes, and he gazed entranced; for the +red glow of the little oil-lamp covered all the strangeness of her +complexion. But as soon as he met a stolen glance out of those eyes +unveiled, his soul shuddered within him. Lovely face and craving +eyes alternated fascination and repulsion. + +'The mother placed the bowl in his hands. He drank sparingly, and +passed it to the girl. She lifted it to her lips, and as she +tasted--only tasted it--looked at him. He thought the drink must +have been drugged and have affected his brain. Her hair smoothed +itself back, and drew her forehead backwards with it; while the +lower part of her face projected towards the bowl, revealing, ere +she sipped, her dazzling teeth in strange prominence. But the same +moment the vision vanished; she returned the vessel to her mother, +and rising, hurried out of the cottage. + +'Then, the old woman pointed to a bed of heather in one corner with +a murmured apology; and the student, wearied both with the fatigues +of the day and the strangeness of the night, threw himself upon it, +wrapped in his cloak. The moment he lay down, the storm began +afresh, and the wind blew so keenly through the crannies of the hut, +that it was only by drawing his cloak over his head that he could +protect himself from its currents. Unable to sleep, he lay +listening to the uproar which grew in violence, till the spray was +dashing against the window. At length the door opened, and the +young woman came in, made up the fire, drew the bench before it, and +lay down in the same strange posture, with her chin propped on her +hand and elbow, and her face turned towards the youth. He moved a +little; she dropped her head, and lay on her face, with her arms +crossed beneath her forehead. The mother had disappeared. + +'Drowsiness crept over him. A movement of the bench roused him, and +he fancied he saw some four-footed creature as tall as a large dog +trot quietly out of the door. He was sure he felt a rush of cold +wind. Gazing fixedly through the darkness, he thought he saw the +eyes of the damsel encountering his, but a glow from the falling +together of the remnants of the fire, revealed clearly enough that +the bench was vacant. Wondering what could have made her go out in +such a storm, he fell fast asleep. + +'In the middle of the night he felt a pain in his shoulder, came +broad awake, and saw the gleaming eyes and grinning teeth of some +animal close to his face. Its claws were in his shoulder, and its +mouth was in the act of seeking his throat. Before it had fixed its +fangs, however, he had its throat in one hand, and sought his knife +with the other. A terrible struggle followed; but regardless of the +tearing claws, he found and opened his knife. He had made one +futile stab, and was drawing it for a surer, when, with a spring of +the whole body, and one wildly-contorted effort, the creature +twisted its neck from his hold, and with something betwixt a scream +and a howl, darted from him. Again he heard the door open; again +the wind blew in upon him, and it continued blowing; a sheet of +spray dashed across the floor, and over his face. He sprung from +his couch and bounded to the door. + +'It was a wild night--dark, but for the flash of whiteness from the +waves as they broke within a few yards of the cottage; the wind was +raving, and the rain pouring down the air. A gruesome sound as of +mingled weeping and howling came from somewhere in the dark. He +turned again into the hut and closed the door, but could find no way +of securing it. + +'The lamp was nearly out, and he could not be certain whether the +form of the young woman was upon the bench or not. Overcoming a +strong repugnance, he approached it, and put out his hands--there +was nothing there. He sat down and waited for the daylight: he +dared not sleep any more. + +'When the day dawned at length, he went out yet again, and looked +around. The morning was dim and gusty and gray. The wind had +fallen, but the waves were tossing wildly. He wandered up and down +the little strand, longing for more light. + +'At length he heard a movement in the cottage. By and by the voice +of the old woman called to him from the door. + +'"You're up early, sir. I doubt you didn't sleep well." + +'"Not very well," he answered. "But where is your daughter?" + +'"She's not awake yet," said the mother. "I'm afraid I have but a +poor breakfast for you. But you'll take a dram and a bit of fish. +It's all I've got." + +'Unwilling to hurt her, though hardly in good appetite, he sat down +at the table. While they were eating the daughter came in, but +turned her face away and went to the further end of the hut. When +she came forward after a minute or two, the youth saw that her hair +was drenched, and her face whiter than before. She looked ill and +faint, and when she raised her eyes, all their fierceness had +vanished, and sadness had taken its place. Her neck was now covered +with a cotton handkerchief. She was modestly attentive to him, and +no longer shunned his gaze. He was gradually yielding to the +temptation of braving another night in the hut, and seeing what +would follow, when the old woman spoke. + +'"The weather will be broken all day, sir," she said. "You had +better be going, or your friends will leave without you." + +'Ere he could answer, he saw such a beseeching glance on the face of +the girl, that he hesitated, confused. Glancing at the mother, he +saw the flash of wrath in her face. She rose and approached her +daughter, with her hand lifted to strike her. The young woman +stooped her head with a cry. He darted round the table to interpose +between them. But the mother had caught hold of her; the +handkerchief had fallen from her neck; and the youth saw five blue +bruises on her lovely throat--the marks of the four fingers and the +thumb of a left hand. With a cry of horror he rushed from the +house, but as he reached the door he turned. His hostess was lying +motionless on the floor, and a huge gray wolf came bounding after +him.' + +An involuntary cry from Mysie interrupted the story-teller. He +changed his tone at once. + +'I beg your pardon, Miss Lindsay, for telling you such a horrid +tale. Do forgive me. I didn't mean to frighten you more than a +little.' + +'Only a case of lycanthropia,' remarked Mr. Lindsay, as coolly as if +that settled everything about it and lycanthropia, horror and all, +at once. + +'Do tell us the rest,' pleaded Mysie, and Ericson resumed. + +'There was no weapon at hand; and if there had been, his inborn +chivalry would never have allowed him to harm a woman even under the +guise of a wolf. Instinctively, he set himself firm, leaning a +little forward, with half outstretched arms, and hands curved ready +to clutch again at the throat upon which he had left those pitiful +marks. But the creature as she sprang eluded his grasp, and just as +he expected to feel her fangs, he found a woman weeping on his +bosom, with her arms around his neck. The next instant, the gray +wolf broke from him, and bounded howling up the cliff. Recovering +himself as he best might, the youth followed, for it was the only +way to the moor above, across which he must now make his way to find +his companions. + +'All at once he heard the sound of a crunching of bones--not as if a +creature was eating them, but as if they were ground by the teeth of +rage and disappointment: looking up, he saw close above him the +mouth of the little cavern in which he had taken refuge the day +before. Summoning all his resolution, he passed it slowly and +softly. From within came the sounds of a mingled moaning and +growling. + +'Having reached the top, he ran at full speed for some distance +across the moor before venturing to look behind him. When at length +he did so he saw, against the sky, the girl standing on the edge of +the cliff, wringing her hands. One solitary wail crossed the space +between. She made no attempt to follow him, and he reached the +opposite shore in safety.' + +Mysie tried to laugh, but succeeded badly. Robert took his violin, +and its tones had soon swept all the fear from her face, leaving in +its stead a trouble that has no name--the trouble of wanting one +knows not what--or how to seek it. + +It was now time to go home. Mysie gave each an equally warm +good-night and thanks, Mr. Lindsay accompanied them to the door, and +the students stepped into the moonlight. Across the links the sound +of the sea came with a swell. + +As they went down the garden, Ericson stopped. Robert thought he +was looking back to the house, and went on. When Ericson joined +him, he was pale as death. + +'What is the maitter wi' ye, Mr. Ericson?' he asked in terror. + +'Look there!' said Ericson, pointing, not to the house, but to the +sky. + +Robert looked up. Close about the moon were a few white clouds. +Upon these white clouds, right over the moon, and near as the +eyebrow to an eye, hung part of an opalescent halo, bent into the +rude, but unavoidable suggestion of an eyebrow; while, close around +the edge of the moon, clung another, a pale storm-halo. To this +pale iris and faint-hued eyebrow the full moon itself formed the +white pupil: the whole was a perfect eye of ghastly death, staring +out of the winter heaven. The vision may never have been before, +may never have been again, but this Ericson and Robert saw that +night. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +THE LAST OF THE COALS. + +The next Sunday Robert went with Ericson to the episcopal chapel, +and for the first time in his life heard the epic music of the +organ. It was a new starting-point in his life. The worshipping +instrument flooded his soul with sound, and he stooped beneath it as +a bather on the shore stoops beneath the broad wave rushing up the +land. But I will not linger over this portion of his history. It +is enough to say that he sought the friendship of the organist, was +admitted to the instrument; touched, trembled, exulted; grew +dissatisfied, fastidious, despairing; gathered hope and tried again, +and yet again; till at last, with constantly-recurring fits of +self-despite, he could not leave the grand creature alone. It +became a rival even to his violin. And once before the end of +March, when the organist was ill, and another was not to be had, he +ventured to occupy his place both at morning and evening service. + +Dr. Anderson kept George Moray in bed for a few days, after which he +went about for a while with his arm in a sling. But the season of +bearing material burdens was over for him now. Dr. Anderson had an +interview with the master of the grammar-school; a class was +assigned to Moray, and with a delight, resting chiefly on his social +approximation to Robert, which in one week elevated the whole +character of his person and countenance and bearing, George Moray +bent himself to the task of mental growth. Having good helpers at +home, and his late-developed energy turning itself entirely into the +new channel, he got on admirably. As there was no other room to be +had in Mrs. Fyvie's house, he continued for the rest of the session +to sleep upon the rug, for he would not hear of going to another +house. The doctor had advised Robert to drop the nickname as much +as possible; but the first time he called him Moray, Shargar +threatened to cut his throat, and so between the two the name +remained. + +I presume that by this time Doctor Anderson had made up his mind to +leave his money to Robert, but thought it better to say nothing +about it, and let the boy mature his independence. He had him often +to his house. Ericson frequently accompanied him; and as there was +a good deal of original similarity between the doctor and Ericson, +the latter soon felt his obligation no longer a burden. Shargar +likewise, though more occasionally, made one of the party, and soon +began, in his new circumstances, to develop the manners of a +gentleman. I say develop advisedly, for Shargar had a deep humanity +in him, as abundantly testified by his devotion to Robert, and +humanity is the body of which true manners is the skin and ordinary +manifestation: true manners are the polish which lets the internal +humanity shine through, just as the polish on marble reveals its +veined beauty. Many talks did the elderly man hold with the three +youths, and his experience of life taught Ericson and Robert much, +especially what he told them about his Brahmin friend in India. +Moray, on the other hand, was chiefly interested in his tales of +adventure when on service in the Indian army, or engaged in the +field sports of that region so prolific in monsters. His gipsy +blood and lawless childhood, spent in wandering familiarity with +houseless nature, rendered him more responsive to these than the +others, and his kindled eye and pertinent remarks raised in the +doctor's mind an early question whether a commission in India might +not be his best start in life. + +Between Ericson and Robert, as the former recovered his health, +communication from the deeper strata of human need became less +frequent. Ericson had to work hard to recover something of his +leeway; Robert had to work hard that prizes might witness for him to +his grandmother and Miss St. John. To the latter especially, as I +think I have said before, he was anxious to show well, wiping out +the blot, as he considered it, of his all but failure in the matter +of a bursary. For he looked up to her as to a goddess who just came +near enough to the earth to be worshipped by him who dwelt upon it. + +The end of the session came nigh. Ericson passed his examinations +with honour. Robert gained the first Greek and third Latin prize. +The evening of the last day arrived, and on the morrow the students +would be gone--some to their homes of comfort and idleness, others +to hard labour in the fields; some to steady reading, perhaps to +school again to prepare for the next session, and others to be +tutors all the summer months, and return to the wintry city as to +freedom and life. Shargar was to remain at the grammar-school. + +That last evening Robert sat with Ericson in his room. It was a +cold night--the night of the last day of March. A bitter wind blew +about the house, and dropped spiky hailstones upon the skylight. +The friends were to leave on the morrow, but to leave together; for +they had already sent their boxes, one by the carrier to Rothieden, +the other by a sailing vessel to Wick, and had agreed to walk +together as far as Robert's home, where he was in hopes of inducing +his friend to remain for a few days if he found his grandmother +agreeable to the plan. Shargar was asleep on the rug for the last +time, and Robert had brought his coal-scuttle into Ericson's room to +combine their scanty remains of well-saved fuel in a common glow, +over which they now sat. + +'I wonder what my grannie 'ill say to me,' said Robert. + +'She'll be very glad to see you, whatever she may say,' remarked +Ericson. + +'She'll say "Noo, be dooce," the minute I hae shacken hands wi' +her,' said Robert. + +'Robert,' returned Ericson solemnly, 'if I had a grandmother to go +home to, she might box my ears if she liked--I wouldn't care. You +do not know what it is not to have a soul belonging to you on the +face of the earth. It is so cold and so lonely!' + +'But you have a cousin, haven't you?' suggested Robert. + +Ericson laughed, but good-naturedly. + +'Yes,' he answered, 'a little man with a fishy smell, in a blue +tail-coat with brass buttons, and a red and black nightcap.' + +'But,' Robert ventured to hint, 'he might go in a kilt and +top-boots, like Satan in my grannie's copy o' the Paradise Lost, for +onything I would care.' + +'Yes, but he's just like his looks. The first thing he'll do the +next morning after I go home, will be to take me into his office, or +shop, as he calls it, and get down his books, and show me how many +barrels of herring I owe him, with the price of each. To do him +justice, he only charges me wholesale.' + +'What'll he do that for?' + +'To urge on me the necessity of diligence, and the choice of a +profession,' answered Ericson, with a smile of mingled sadness and +irresolution. 'He will set forth what a loss the interest of the +money is, even if I should pay the principal; and remind me that +although he has stood my friend, his duty to his own family imposes +limits. And he has at least a couple of thousand pounds in the +county bank. I don't believe he would do anything for me but for +the honour it will be to the family to have a professional man in +it. And yet my father was the making of him.' + +'Tell me about your father. What was he?' + +'A gentle-minded man, who thought much and said little. He farmed +the property that had been his father's own, and is now leased by my +fishy cousin afore mentioned.' + +'And your mother?' + +'She died just after I was born, and my father never got over it.' + +'And you have no brothers or sisters?' + +'No, not one. Thank God for your grandmother, and do all you can to +please her.' + +A silence followed, during which Robert's heart swelled and heaved +with devotion to Ericson; for notwithstanding his openness, there +was a certain sad coldness about him that restrained Robert from +letting out all the tide of his love. The silence became painful, +and he broke it abruptly. + +'What are you going to be, Mr. Ericson?' + +'I wish you could tell me, Robert. What would you have me to be? +Come now.' + +Robert thought for a moment. + +'Weel, ye canna be a minister, Mr. Ericson, 'cause ye dinna believe +in God, ye ken,' he said simply. + +'Don't say that, Robert,' Ericson returned, in a tone of pain with +which no displeasure was mingled. 'But you are right. At best I +only hope in God; I don't believe in him.' + +'I'm thinkin' there canna be muckle differ atween houp an' faith,' +said Robert. 'Mony a ane 'at says they believe in God has unco +little houp o' onything frae 's han', I'm thinkin'.' + +My reader may have observed a little change for the better in +Robert's speech. Dr. Anderson had urged upon him the necessity of +being able at least to speak English; and he had been trying to +modify the antique Saxon dialect they used at Rothieden with the +newer and more refined English. But even when I knew him, he would +upon occasion, especially when the subject was religion or music, +fall back into the broadest Scotch. It was as if his heart could +not issue freely by any other gate than that of his grandmother +tongue. + +Fearful of having his last remark contradicted--for he had an +instinctive desire that it should lie undisturbed where he had cast +it in the field of Ericson's mind, he hurried to another question. + +'What for shouldna ye be a doctor?' + +'Now you'll think me a fool, Robert, if I tell you why.' + +'Far be it frae me to daur think sic a word, Mr. Ericson!' said +Robert devoutly. + +'Well, I'll tell you, whether or not,' returned Ericson. 'I could, I +believe, amputate a living limb with considerable coolness; but put +a knife in a dead body I could not.' + +'I think I know what you mean. Then you must he a lawyer.' + +'A lawyer! O Lord!' said Ericson. + +'Why not?' asked Robert, in some wonderment; for he could not +imagine Ericson acting from mere popular prejudice or fancy. + +'Just think of spending one's life in an atmosphere of squabbles. +It's all very well when one gets to be a judge and dispense +justice; but--well, it's not for me. I could not do the best for my +clients. And a lawyer has nothing to do with the kingdom of +heaven--only with his clients. He must be a party-man. He must +secure for one so often at the loss of the rest. My duty and my +conscience would always be at strife.' + +'Then what will you be, Mr. Ericson?' + +'To tell the truth, I would rather be a watchmaker than anything +else I know. I might make one watch that would go right, I suppose, +if I lived long enough. But no one would take an apprentice of my +age. So I suppose I must be a tutor, knocked about from one house +to another, patronized by ex-pupils, and smiled upon as harmless by +mammas and sisters to the end of the chapter. And then something of +a pauper's burial, I suppose. Che sara sara.' + +Ericson had sunk into one of his worst moods. But when he saw +Robert looking unhappy, he changed his tone, and would be--what he +could not be--merry. + +'But what's the use of talking about it?' he said. 'Get your fiddle, +man, and play The Wind that shakes the Barley.' + +'No, Mr. Ericson,' answered Robert; 'I have no heart for the fiddle. +I would rather have some poetry.' + +'Oh!--Poetry!' returned Ericson, in a tone of contempt--yet not very +hearty contempt. + +'We're gaein' awa', Mr. Ericson,' said Robert; 'an' the Lord 'at we +ken naething aboot alane kens whether we'll ever meet again i' this +place. And sae--' + +'True enough, my boy,' interrupted Ericson. 'I have no need to +trouble myself about the future. I believe that is the real secret +of it after all. I shall never want a profession or anything else.' + +'What do you mean, Mr. Ericson?' asked Robert, in half-defined +terror. + +'I mean, my boy, that I shall not live long. I know that--thank +God!' + +'How do you know it?' + +'My father died at thirty, and my mother at six-and-twenty, both of +the same disease. But that's not how I know it.' + +'How do you know it then?' + +Ericson returned no answer. He only said-- + +'Death will be better than life. One thing I don't like about it +though,' he added, 'is the coming on of unconsciousness. I cannot +bear to lose my consciousness even in sleep. It is such a terrible +thing!' + +'I suppose that's ane o' the reasons that we canna be content +withoot a God,' responded Robert. 'It's dreidfu' to think even o' +fa'in' asleep withoot some ane greater an' nearer than the me +watchin' ower 't. But I'm jist sayin' ower again what I hae read in +ane o' your papers, Mr. Ericson. Jist lat me luik.' + +Venturing more than he had ever yet ventured, Robert rose and went +to the cupboard where Ericson's papers lay. His friend did not +check him. On the contrary, he took the papers from his hand, and +searched for the poem indicated. + +'I'm not in the way of doing this sort of thing, Robert,' he said. + +'I know that,' answered Robert. + +And Ericson read. + +SLEEP. + +Oh, is it Death that comes +To have a foretaste of the whole? + To-night the planets and the stars + Will glimmer through my window-bars, +But will not shine upon my soul. + +For I shall lie as dead, +Though yet I am above the ground; + All passionless, with scarce a breath, + With hands of rest and eyes of death, +I shall be carried swiftly round. + +Or if my life should break +The idle night with doubtful gleams + Through mossy arches will I go, + Through arches ruinous and low, +And chase the true and false in dreams. + +Why should I fall asleep? +When I am still upon my bed, + The moon will shine, the winds will rise, + And all around and through the skies +The light clouds travel o'er my head. + +O, busy, busy things! +Ye mock me with your ceaseless life; + For all the hidden springs will flow, + And all the blades of grass will grow, +When I have neither peace nor strife. + +And all the long night through, +The restless streams will hurry by; + And round the lands, with endless roar, + The white waves fall upon the shore, +And bit by bit devour the dry. + +Even thus, but silently, +Eternity, thy tide shall flow-- + And side by side with every star + Thy long-drawn swell shall bear me far, +An idle boat with none to row. + +My senses fail with sleep; +My heart beats thick; the night is noon; + And faintly through its misty folds + I hear a drowsy clock that holds +Its converse with the waning moon. + +Oh, solemn mystery! +That I should be so closely bound + With neither terror nor constraint + Without a murmur of complaint, +And lose myself upon such ground! + +'Rubbish!' said Ericson, as he threw down the sheets, disgusted with +his own work, which so often disappoints the writer, especially if +he is by any chance betrayed into reading it aloud. + +'Dinna say that, Mr. Ericson,' returned Robert. 'Ye maunna say that. +Ye hae nae richt to lauch at honest wark, whether it be yer ain or +ony ither body's. The poem noo--' + +'Don't call it a poem,' interrupted Ericson. 'It's not worthy of the +name.' + +'I will ca' 't a poem,' persisted Robert; 'for it's a poem to me, +whatever it may be to you. An' hoo I ken 'at it's a poem is jist +this: it opens my een like music to something I never saw afore.' + +'What is that?' asked Ericson, not sorry to be persuaded that there +might after all be some merit in the productions painfully despised +of himself. + +'Jist this: it's only whan ye dinna want to fa' asleep 'at it luiks +fearsome to ye. An' maybe the fear o' death comes i' the same way: +we're feared at it 'cause we're no a'thegither ready for 't; but +whan the richt time comes, it'll be as nat'ral as fa'in' asleep whan +we're doonricht sleepy. Gin there be a God to ca' oor Father in +heaven, I'm no thinkin' that he wad to sae mony bonny tunes pit a +scraich for the hinder end. I'm thinkin', gin there be onything in +'t ava--ye ken I'm no sayin', for I dinna ken--we maun jist lippen +till him to dee dacent an' bonny, an' nae sic strange awfu' fash +aboot it as some fowk wad mak a religion o' expeckin'.' + +Ericson looked at Robert with admiration mingled with something akin +to merriment. + +'One would think it was your grandfather holding forth, Robert,' he +said. 'How came you to think of such things at your age?' + +'I'm thinkin',' answered Robert, 'ye warna muckle aulder nor mysel' +whan ye took to sic things, Mr. Ericson. But, 'deed, maybe my +luckie-daddie (grandfather) pat them i' my heid, for I had a heap +ado wi' his fiddle for a while. She's deid noo.' + +Not understanding him, Ericson began to question, and out came the +story of the violins. They talked on till the last of their coals +was burnt out, and then they went to bed. + +Shargar had undertaken to rouse them early, that they might set out +on their long walk with a long day before them. But Robert was +awake before Shargar. The all but soulless light of the dreary +season awoke him, and he rose and looked out. Aurora, as aged now +as her loved Tithonus, peered, gray-haired and desolate, over the +edge of the tossing sea, with hardly enough of light in her dim eyes +to show the broken crests of the waves that rushed shorewards before +the wind of her rising. Such an east wind was the right breath to +issue from such a pale mouth of hopeless revelation as that which +opened with dead lips across the troubled sea on the far horizon. +While he gazed, the east darkened; a cloud of hail rushed against +the window; and Robert retreated to his bed. But ere he had fallen +asleep, Ericson was beside him; and before he was dressed, Ericson +appeared again, with his stick in his hand. They left Shargar still +asleep, and descended the stairs, thinking to leave the house +undisturbed. But Mrs. Fyvie was watching for them, and insisted on +their taking the breakfast she had prepared. They then set out on +their journey of forty miles, with half a loaf in their pockets, and +money enough to get bread and cheese, and a bottle of the poorest +ale, at the far-parted roadside inns. + +When Shargar awoke, he wept in desolation, then crept into Robert's +bed, and fell fast asleep again. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +A STRANGE NIGHT. + +The youths had not left the city a mile behind, when a thick +snowstorm came on. It did not last long, however, and they fought +their way through it into a glimpse of sun. To Robert, healthy, +powerful, and except at rare times, hopeful, it added to the +pleasure of the journey to contend with the storm, and there was a +certain steely indifference about Ericson that carried him through. +They trudged on steadily for three hours along a good turnpike +road, with great black masses of cloud sweeping across the sky, +which now sent them a glimmer of sunlight, and now a sharp shower of +hail. The country was very dreary--a succession of undulations +rising into bleak moorlands, and hills whose heather would in autumn +flush the land with glorious purple, but which now looked black and +cheerless, as if no sunshine could ever warm them. Now and then the +moorland would sweep down to the edge of the road, diversified with +dark holes from which peats were dug, and an occasional quarry of +gray granite. At one moment endless pools would be shining in the +sunlight, and the next the hail would be dancing a mad fantastic +dance all about them: they pulled their caps over their brows, bent +their heads, and struggled on. + +At length they reached their first stage, and after a meal of bread +and cheese and an offered glass of whisky, started again on their +journey. They did not talk much, for their force was spent on their +progress. + +After some consultation whether to keep the road or take a certain +short cut across the moors, which would lead them into it again with +a saving of several miles, the sun shining out with a little +stronger promise than he had yet given, they resolved upon the +latter. But in the middle of the moorland the wind and the hail +came on with increased violence, and they were glad to tack from one +to another of the huge stones that lay about, and take a short +breathing time under the lee of each; so that when they recovered +the road, they had lost as many miles in time and strength as they +had saved in distance. They did not give in, however, but after +another rest and a little more refreshment, started again. + +The evening was now growing dusk around them, and the fatigue of the +day was telling so severely on Ericson, that when in the twilight +they heard the blast of a horn behind them, and turning saw the two +flaming eyes of a well-known four-horse coach come fluctuating +towards them, Robert insisted on their getting up and riding the +rest of the way. + +'But I can't afford it,' said Ericson. + +'But I can,' said Robert. + +'I don't doubt it,' returned Ericson. 'But I owe you too much +already.' + +'Gin ever we win hame--I mean to the heart o' hame--ye can pay me +there.' + +'There will be no need then.' + +'Whaur's the need than to mak sic a wark aboot a saxpence or twa +atween this and that? I thocht ye cared for naething that time or +space or sense could grip or measure. Mr. Ericson, ye're no half +sic a philosopher as ye wad set up for.--Hillo!' + +Ericson laughed a weary laugh, and as the coach stopped in obedience +to Robert's hail, he scrambled up behind. + +The guard knew Robert, was pitiful over the condition of the +travellers, would have put them inside, but that there was a lady +there, and their clothes were wet, got out a great horse-rug and +wrapped Robert in it, put a spare coat of his own, about an inch +thick, upon Ericson, drew out a flask, took a pull at it, handed it +to his new passengers, and blew a vigorous blast on his long horn, +for they were approaching a desolate shed where they had to change +their weary horses for four fresh thorough-breds. + +Away they went once more, careering through the gathering darkness. +It was delightful indeed to have to urge one weary leg past the +other no more, but be borne along towards food, fire, and bed. But +their adventures were not so nearly over as they imagined. Once +more the hail fell furiously--huge hailstones, each made of many, +half-melted and welded together into solid lumps of ice. The +coachman could scarcely hold his face to the shower, and the blows +they received on their faces and legs, drove the thin-skinned, +high-spirited horses nearly mad. At length they would face it no +longer. At a turn in the road, where it crossed a brook by a bridge +with a low stone wall, the wind met them right in the face with +redoubled vehemence; the leaders swerved from it, and were just +rising to jump over the parapet, when the coachman, whose hands were +nearly insensible with cold, threw his leg over the reins, and +pulled them up. One of the leaders reared, and fell backwards; one +of the wheelers kicked vigorously; a few moments, and in spite of +the guard at their heads, all was one struggling mass of bodies and +legs, with a broken pole in the midst. The few passengers got down; +and Robert, fearing that yet worse might happen and remembering the +lady, opened the door. He found her quite composed. As he helped +her out, + +'What is the matter?' asked the voice dearest to him in the +world--the voice of Miss St. John. + +He gave a cry of delight. Wrapped in the horse-cloth, Miss St. John +did not know him. + +'What is the matter?' she repeated. + +'Ow, naething, mem--naething. Only I doobt we winna get ye hame the +nicht.' + +'Is it you, Robert?' she said, gladly recognizing his voice. + +'Ay, it's me, and Mr. Ericson. We'll tak care o' ye, mem.' + +'But surely we shall get home!' + +Robert had heard the crack of the breaking pole. + +''Deed, I doobt no.' + +'What are we to do, then?' + +'Come into the lythe (shelter) o' the bank here, oot o' the gait o' +thae brutes o' horses,' said Robert, taking off his horse-cloth and +wrapping her in it. + +The storm hissed and smote all around them. She took Robert's arm. +Followed by Ericson, they left the coach and the struggling horses, +and withdrew to a bank that overhung the road. As soon as they were +out of the wind, Robert, who had made up his mind, said, + +'We canna be mony yairds frae the auld hoose o' Bogbonnie. We micht +win throu the nicht there weel eneuch. I'll speir at the gaird, the +minute the horses are clear. We war 'maist ower the brig, I heard +the coachman say.' + +'I know quite well where the old house is,' said Ericson. 'I went in +the last time I walked this way.' + +'Was the door open?' asked Robert. + +'I don't know,' answered Ericson. 'I found one of the windows open +in the basement.' + +'We'll get the len' o' ane o' the lanterns, an' gang direckly. It +canna be mair nor the breedth o' a rig or twa frae the burn.' + +'I can take you by the road,' said Ericson. + +'It will be very cold,' said Miss St. John,--already shivering, +partly from disquietude. + +'There's timmer eneuch there to haud 's warm for a twalmonth,' said +Robert. + +He went back to the coach. By this time the horses were nearly +extricated. Two of them stood steaming in the lamplight, with their +sides going at twenty bellows' speed. The guard would not let him +have one of the coach lamps, but gave him a small lantern of his +own. When he returned with it, he found Ericson and Miss St. John +talking together. + +Ericson led the way, and the others followed. + +'Whaur are ye gaein', gentlemen?' asked the guard, as they passed +the coach. + +'To the auld hoose,' answered Robert. + +'Ye canna do better. I maun bide wi' the coch till the lave gang +back to Drumheid wi' the horses, on' fess anither pole. Faith, +it'll be weel into the mornin' or we win oot o' this. Tak care hoo +ye gang. There's holes i' the auld hoose, I doobt.' + +'We'll tak gude care, ye may be sure, Hector,' said Robert, as they +left the bridge. + +The house to which Ericson was leading them was in the midst of a +field. There was just light enough to show a huge mass standing in +the dark, without a tree or shelter of any sort. When they reached +it, all that Miss St. John could distinguish was a wide broken stair +leading up to the door, with glimpses of a large, plain, ugly, +square front. The stones of the stair sloped and hung in several +directions; but it was plain to a glance that the place was +dilapidated through extraordinary neglect, rather than by the usual +wear of time. In fact, it belonged only to the beginning of the +preceding century, somewhere in Queen Anne's time. There was a +heavy door to it, but fortunately for Miss St. John, who would not +quite have relished getting in at the window of which Ericson had +spoken, it stood a little ajar. The wind roared in the gap and +echoed in the empty hall into which they now entered. Certainly +Robert was right: there was wood enough to keep them warm; for that +hall, and every room into which they went, from top to bottom of the +huge house, was lined with pine. No paint-brush had ever passed +upon it. Neither was there a spot to be seen upon the grain of the +wood: it was clean as the day when the house was finished, only it +had grown much browner. A close gallery, with window-frames which +had never been glazed, at one story's height, leading across from +the one side of the first floor to the other, looked down into the +great echoing hall, which rose in the centre of the building to the +height of two stories; but this was unrecognizable in the poor light +of the guard's lantern. All the rooms on every floor opened each +into the other;--but why should I give such a minute description, +making my reader expect a ghost story, or at least a nocturnal +adventure? I only want him to feel something of what our party felt +as they entered this desolate building, which, though some hundred +and twenty years old, bore not a single mark upon the smooth floors +or spotless walls to indicate that article of furniture had ever +stood in it, or human being ever inhabited it. There was a strange +and unusual horror about the place--a feeling quite different from +that belonging to an ancient house, however haunted it might be. It +was like a body that had never had a human soul in it. There was no +sense of a human history about it. Miss St. John's feeling of +eeriness rose to the height when, in wandering through the many +rooms in search of one where the windows were less broken, she came +upon one spot in the floor. It was only a hole worn down through +floor after floor, from top to bottom, by the drip of the rains from +the broken roof: it looked like the disease of the desolate place, +and she shuddered. + +Here they must pass the night, with the wind roaring awfully through +the echoing emptiness, and every now and then the hail clashing +against what glass remained in the windows. They found one room +with the window well boarded up, for until lately some care had been +taken of the place to keep it from the weather. There Robert left +his companions, who presently heard the sounds of tearing and +breaking below, necessity justifying him in the appropriation of +some of the wood-work for their own behoof. He tore a panel or two +from the walls, and returning with them, lighted a fire on the empty +hearth, where, from the look of the stone and mortar, certainly +never fire had blazed before. The wood was dry as a bone, and burnt +up gloriously. + +Then first Robert bethought himself that they had nothing to eat. +He himself was full of merriment, and cared nothing about eating; +for had he not Miss St. John and Ericson there? but for them +something must be provided. He took his lantern and went back +through the storm. The hail had ceased, but the wind blew +tremendously. The coach stood upon the bridge like a stranded +vessel, its two lamps holding doubtful battle with the wind, now +flaring out triumphantly, now almost yielding up the ghost. Inside, +the guard was snoring in defiance of the pother o'er his head. + +'Hector! Hector!' cried Robert. + +'Ay, ay,' answered Hector. 'It's no time to wauken yet.' + +'Hae ye nae basket, Hector, wi' something to eat in 't--naething +gaein' to Rothieden 'at a body micht say by yer leave till?' + +'Ow! it's you, is 't?' returned Hector, rousing himself. 'Na. Deil +ane. An' gin I had, I daurna gie ye 't.' + +'I wad mak free to steal 't, though, an' tak my chance,' said +Robert. 'But ye say ye hae nane?' + +'Nane, I tell ye. Ye winna hunger afore the mornin', man.' + +'I'll stan' hunger as weel 's you ony day, Hector. It's no for +mysel'. There's Miss St. John.' + +'Hoots!' said Hector, peevishly, for he wanted to go to sleep again, +'gang and mak luve till her. Nae lass 'll think o' meat as lang 's +ye do that. That 'll haud her ohn hungert.' + +The words were like blasphemy in Robert's ear. He make love to Miss +St. John! He turned from the coach-door in disgust. But there was +no place he knew of where anything could be had, and he must return +empty-handed. + +The light of the fire shone through a little hole in the boards that +closed the window. His lamp had gone out, but, guided by that, he +found the road again, and felt his way up the stairs. When he +entered the room he saw Miss St. John sitting on the floor, for +there was nowhere else to sit, with the guard's coat under her. She +had taken off her bonnet. Her back leaned against the side of the +chimney, and her eyes were bent thoughtfully on the ground. In +their shine Robert read instinctively that Ericson had said +something that had set her thinking. He lay on the floor at some +distance, leaning on his elbow, and his eye had the flash in it that +indicates one who has just ceased speaking. They had not found his +absence awkward at least. + +'I hae been efter something to eat,' said Robert; 'but I canna fa' +in wi' onything. We maun jist tell stories or sing sangs, as fowk +do in buiks, or else Miss St. John 'ill think lang.' + +They did sing songs, and they did tell stories. I will not trouble +my reader with more than the sketch of one which Robert told--the +story of the old house wherein they sat--a house without a history, +save the story of its no history. It had been built for the +jointure-house of a young countess, whose husband was an old man. A +lover to whom she had turned a deaf ear had left the country, +begging ere he went her acceptance of a lovely Italian grayhound. +She was weak enough to receive the animal. Her husband died the +same year, and before the end of it the dog went mad, and bit her. +According to the awful custom of the time they smothered her +between two feather-beds, just as the house of Bogbonnie was ready +to receive her furniture, and become her future dwelling. No one +had ever occupied it. + +If Miss St. John listened to story and song without as much show of +feeling as Mysie Lindsay would have manifested, it was not that she +entered into them less deeply. It was that she was more, not felt +less. + +Listening at her window once with Robert, Eric Ericson had heard +Mary St. John play: this was their first meeting. Full as his mind +was of Mysie, he could not fail to feel the charm of a noble, +stately womanhood that could give support, instead of rousing +sympathy for helplessness. There was in the dignified simplicity of +Mary St. John that which made every good man remember his mother; +and a good man will think this grand praise, though a fast girl will +take it for a doubtful compliment. + +Seeing her begin to look weary, the young men spread a couch for her +as best they could, made up the fire, and telling her they would be +in the hall below, retired, kindled another fire, and sat down to +wait for the morning. They held a long talk. At length Robert fell +asleep on the floor. + +Ericson rose. One of his fits of impatient doubt was upon him. In +the dying embers of the fire he strode up and down the waste hall, +with the storm raving around it. He was destined to an early death; +he would leave no one of his kin to mourn for him; the girl whose +fair face had possessed his imagination, would not give one sigh to +his memory, wandering on through the regions of fancy all the same; +and the death-struggle over, he might awake in a godless void, +where, having no creative power in himself, he must be tossed about, +a conscious yet helpless atom, to eternity. It was not annihilation +he feared, although he did shrink from the thought of +unconsciousness; it was life without law that he dreaded, existence +without the bonds of a holy necessity, thought without faith, being +without God. + +For all her fatigue Miss St. John could not sleep. The house +quivered in the wind which howled more and more madly through its +long passages and empty rooms; and she thought she heard cries in +the midst of the howling. In vain she reasoned with herself: she +could not rest. She rose and opened the door of her room, with a +vague notion of being nearer to the young men. + +It opened upon the narrow gallery, already mentioned as leading from +one side of the first floor to the other at mid-height along the end +of the hall. The fire below shone into this gallery, for it was +divided from the hall only by a screen of crossing bars of wood, +like unglazed window-frames, possibly intended to hold glass. Of +the relation of the passage to the hall Mary St. John knew nothing, +till, approaching the light, she found herself looking down into the +red dusk below. She stood riveted; for in the centre of the hall, +with his hands clasped over his head like the solitary arch of a +ruined Gothic aisle, stood Ericson. + +His agony had grown within him--the agony of the silence that +brooded immovable throughout the infinite, whose sea would ripple to +no breath of the feeble tempest of his prayers. At length it broke +from him in low but sharp sounds of words. + +'O God,' he said, 'if thou art, why dost thou not speak? If I am +thy handiwork--dost thou forget that which thou hast made?' + +He paused, motionless, then cried again: + +'There can be no God, or he would hear.' + +'God has heard me!' said a full-toned voice of feminine tenderness +somewhere in the air. Looking up, Ericson saw the dim form of Mary +St. John half-way up the side of the lofty hall. The same moment +she vanished--trembling at the sound of her own voice. + +Thus to Ericson as to Robert had she appeared as an angel. + +And was she less of a divine messenger because she had a human body, +whose path lay not through the air? The storm of misery folded its +wings in Eric's bosom, and, at the sound of her voice, there was a +great calm. Nor if we inquire into the matter shall we find that +such an effect indicated anything derogatory to the depth of his +feelings or the strength of his judgment. It is not through the +judgment that a troubled heart can be set at rest. It needs a +revelation, a vision; a something for the higher nature that breeds +and infolds the intellect, to recognize as of its own, and lay hold +of by faithful hope. And what fitter messenger of such hope than +the harmonious presence of a woman, whose form itself tells of +highest law, and concord, and uplifting obedience; such a one whose +beauty walks the upper air of noble loveliness; whose voice, even in +speech, is one of the 'sphere-born harmonious sisters? The very +presence of such a being gives Unbelief the lie, deep as the throat +of her lying. Harmony, which is beauty and law, works necessary +faith in the region capable of truth. It needs the intervention of +no reasoning. It is beheld. This visible Peace, with that voice of +woman's truth, said, 'God has heard me!' What better testimony +could an angel have brought him? Or why should an angel's testimony +weigh more than such a woman's? The mere understanding of a man +like Ericson would only have demanded of an angel proof that he was +an angel, proof that angels knew better than he did in the matter in +question, proof that they were not easy-going creatures that took +for granted the rumours of heaven. The best that a miracle can do +is to give hope; of the objects of faith it can give no proof; one +spiritual testimony is worth a thousand of them. For to gain the +sole proof of which these truths admit, a man must grow into harmony +with them. If there are no such things he cannot become conscious +of a harmony that has no existence; he cannot thus deceive himself; +if there are, they must yet remain doubtful until the harmony +between them and his own willing nature is established. The +perception of this harmony is their only and incommunicable proof. +For this process time is needful; and therefore we are saved by +hope. Hence it is no wonder that before another half-hour was over, +Ericson was asleep by Robert's side. + +They were aroused in the cold gray light of the morning by the blast +of Hector's horn. Miss St. John was ready in a moment. The coach +was waiting for them at the end of the grassy road that led from the +house. Hector put them all inside. Before they reached Rothieden +the events of the night began to wear the doubtful aspect of a +dream. No allusion was made to what had occurred while Robert +slept; but all the journey Ericson felt towards Miss St. John as +Wordsworth felt towards the leech-gatherer, who, he says, was + + like a man from some far region sent, + To give me human strength, by apt admonishment. + +And Robert saw a certain light in her eyes which reminded him of how +she looked when, having repented of her momentary hardness towards +him, she was ministering to his wounded head. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +HOME AGAIN. + +When Robert opened the door of his grandmother's parlour, he found +the old lady seated at breakfast. She rose, pushed back her chair, +and met him in the middle of the room; put her old arms round him, +offered her smooth white cheek to him, and wept. Robert wondered +that she did not look older; for the time he had been away seemed an +age, although in truth only eight months. + +'Hoo are ye, laddie?' she said. 'I'm richt glaid, for I hae been +thinkin' lang to see ye. Sit ye doon.' + +Betty rushed in, drying her hands on her apron. She had not heard +him enter. + +'Eh losh!' she cried, and put her wet apron to her eyes. 'Sic a man +as ye're grown, Robert! A puir body like me maunna be speykin to ye +noo.' + +'There's nae odds in me, Betty,' returned Robert. + +''Deed but there is. Ye're sax feet an' a hairy ower, I s' +warran'.' + +'I said there was nae odds i' me, Betty,' persisted Robert, +laughing. + +'I kenna what may be in ye,' retorted Betty; 'but there's an unco' +odds upo' ye.' + +'Haud yer tongue, Betty,' said her mistress. 'Ye oucht to ken better +nor stan' jawin' wi' young men. Fess mair o' the creamy cakes.' + +'Maybe Robert wad like a drappy o' parritch.' + +'Onything, Betty,' said Robert. 'I'm at deith's door wi' hunger.' + +'Rin, Betty, for the cakes. An' fess a loaf o' white breid; we +canna bide for the parritch.' + +Robert fell to his breakfast, and while he ate--somewhat +ravenously--he told his grandmother the adventures of the night, and +introduced the question whether he might not ask Ericson to stay a +few days with him. + +'Ony frien' o' yours, laddie,' she replied, qualifying her words +only with the addition--'gin he be a frien'.--Whaur is he noo?' + +'He's up at Miss Naper's.' + +'Hoots! What for didna ye fess him in wi' ye?--Betty!' + +'Na, na, grannie. The Napers are frien's o' his. We maunna +interfere wi' them. I'll gang up mysel' ance I hae had my +brakfast.' + +'Weel, weel, laddie. Eh! I'm blythe to see ye! Hae ye gotten ony +prizes noo?' + +'Ay have I. I'm sorry they're nae baith o' them the first. But I +hae the first o' ane an' the third o' the ither.' + +'I am pleased at that, Robert. Ye'll be a man some day gin ye haud +frae drink an' frae--frae leein'.' + +'I never tellt a lee i' my life, grannie.' + +'Na. I dinna think 'at ever ye did.--An' what's that crater Shargar +aboot?' + +'Ow, jist gaein' to be a croon o' glory to ye, grannie. He vroucht +like a horse till Dr. Anderson took him by the han', an' sent him to +the schuil. An' he's gaein' to mak something o' 'im, or a' be dune. +He's a fine crater, Shargar.' + +'He tuik a munelicht flittin' frae here,' rejoined the old lady, in +a tone of offence. 'He micht hae said gude day to me, I think.' + +'Ye see he was feart at ye, grannie.' + +'Feart at me, laddie! Wha ever was feart at me? I never feart +onybody i' my life.' + +So little did the dear old lady know that she was a terror to her +neighbourhood!--simply because, being a law to herself, she would +therefore be a law to other people,--a conclusion that cannot be +concluded. + +Mrs. Falconer's courtesy did not fail. Her grandson had ceased to +be a child; her responsibility had in so far ceased; her conscience +was relieved at being rid of it; and the humanity of her great heart +came out to greet the youth. She received Ericson with perfect +hospitality, made him at home as far as the stately respect she +showed him would admit of his being so, and confirmed in him the +impression of her which Robert had given him. They held many talks +together; and such was the circumspection of Ericson that, not +saying a word he did not believe, he so said what he did believe, or +so avoided the points upon which they would have differed seriously, +that although his theology was of course far from satisfying her, +she yet affirmed her conviction that the root of the matter was in +him. This distressed Ericson, however, for he feared he must have +been deceitful, if not hypocritical. + +It was with some grumbling that the Napiers, especially Miss Letty, +parted with him to Mrs. Falconer. The hearts of all three had so +taken to the youth, that he found himself more at home in that +hostelry than anywhere else in the world. Miss Letty was the only +one that spoke lightly of him--she even went so far as to make +good-natured game of him sometimes--all because she loved him more +than the others--more indeed than she cared to show, for fear of +exposing 'an old woman's ridiculous fancy,' as she called her +predilection.--'A lang-leggit, prood, landless laird,' she would +say, with a moist glimmer in her loving eyes, 'wi' the maist +ridiculous feet ye ever saw--hardly room for the five taes atween +the twa! Losh!' + +When Robert went forth into the streets, he was surprised to find +how friendly every one was. Even old William MacGregor shook him +kindly by the hand, inquired after his health, told him not to study +too hard, informed him that he had a copy of a queer old book that +he would like to see, &c., &c. Upon reflection Robert discovered +the cause: though he had scarcely gained a bursary, he had gained +prizes; and in a little place like Rothieden--long may there be such +places!--everybody with any brains at all took a share in the +distinction he had merited. + +Ericson stayed only a few days. He went back to the twilight of the +north, his fishy cousin, and his tutorship at Sir Olaf Petersen's. +Robert accompanied him ten miles on his journey, and would have +gone further, but that he was to play on his violin before Miss St. +John the next day for the first time. + +When he told his grandmother of the appointment he had made, she +only remarked, in a tone of some satisfaction, + +'Weel, she's a fine lass, Miss St. John; and gin ye tak to ane +anither, ye canna do better.' + +But Robert's thoughts were so different from Mrs. Falconer's that he +did not even suspect what she meant. He no more dreamed of marrying +Miss St. John than of marrying his forbidden grandmother. Yet she +was no loss at this period the ruling influence of his life; and if +it had not been for the benediction of her presence and power, this +part of his history too would have been torn by inward troubles. It +is not good that a man should batter day and night at the gate of +heaven. Sometimes he can do nothing else, and then nothing else is +worth doing; but the very noise of the siege will sometimes drown +the still small voice that calls from the open postern. There is a +door wide to the jewelled wall not far from any one of us, even when +he least can find it. + +Robert, however, notwithstanding the pedestal upon which Miss St. +John stood in his worshipping regard, began to be aware that his +feeling towards her was losing something of its placid flow, and I +doubt whether Miss St. John did not now and then see that in his +face which made her tremble a little, and doubt whether she stood on +safe ground with a youth just waking into manhood--tremble a little, +not for herself, but for him. Her fear would have found itself more +than justified, if she had surprised him kissing her glove, and then +replacing it where he had found it, with the air of one consciously +guilty of presumption. + +Possibly also Miss St. John may have had to confess to herself that +had she not had her history already, and been ten years his senior, +she might have found no little attraction in the noble bearing and +handsome face of young Falconer. The rest of his features had now +grown into complete harmony of relation with his whilom premature +and therefore portentous nose; his eyes glowed and gleamed with +humanity, and his whole countenance bore self-evident witness of +being a true face and no mask, a revelation of his individual being, +and not a mere inheritance from a fine breed of fathers and mothers. +As it was, she could admire and love him without danger of falling +in love with him; but not without fear lest he should not assume the +correlative position. She saw no way of prevention, however, +without running a risk of worse. She shrunk altogether from putting +on anything; she abhorred tact, and pretence was impracticable with +Mary St. John. She resolved that if she saw any definite ground for +uneasiness she would return to England, and leave any impression she +might have made to wear out in her absence and silence. Things did +not seem to render this necessary yet. + +Meantime the violin of the dead shoemaker blended its wails with the +rich harmonies of Mary St. John's piano, and the soul of Robert went +forth upon the level of the sound and hovered about the beauty of +his friend. Oftener than she approved was she drawn by Robert's +eagerness into these consorts. + +But the heart of the king is in the hands of the Lord. + +While Robert thus once more for a season stood behind the cherub +with the flaming sword, Ericson was teaching two stiff-necked youths +in a dreary house in the midst of one of the moors of Caithness. +One day he had a slight attack of blood-spitting, and welcomed it +as a sign from what heaven there might be beyond the grave. + +He had not received the consolation of Miss St. John without, +although unconsciously, leaving something in her mind in return. No +human being has ever been allowed to occupy the position of a pure +benefactor. The receiver has his turn, and becomes the giver. From +her talk with Ericson, and even more from the influence of his sad +holy doubt, a fresh touch of the actinism of the solar truth fell +upon the living seed in her heart, and her life burst forth afresh, +began to bud in new questions that needed answers, and new prayers +that sought them. + +But she never dreamed that Robert was capable of sympathy with such +thoughts and feelings: he was but a boy. Nor in power of dealing +with truth was he at all on the same level with her, for however +poor he might have considered her theories, she had led a life +hitherto, had passed through sorrow without bitterness, had done her +duty without pride, had hoped without conceit of favour, had, as she +believed, heard the voice of God saying, 'This is the way.' Hence +she was not afraid when the mists of prejudice began to rise from +around her path, and reveal a country very different from what she +had fancied it. She was soon able to perceive that it was far more +lovely and full of righteousness and peace than she had supposed. +But this anticipates; only I shall have less occasion to speak of +Miss St. John by the time she has come into this purer air of the +uphill road. + +Robert was happier than he ever could have expected to be in his +grandmother's house. She treated him like an honoured guest, let +him do as he would, and go where he pleased. Betty kept the +gable-room in the best of order for him, and, pattern of housemaids, +dusted his table without disturbing his papers. For he began to +have papers; nor were they occupied only with the mathematics to +which he was now giving his chief attention, preparing, with the +occasional help of Mr. Innes, for his second session. + +He had fits of wandering, though; visited all the old places; spent +a week or two more than once at Bodyfauld; rode Mr. Lammie's +half-broke filly; revelled in the glories of the summer once more; +went out to tea occasionally, or supped with the school-master; and, +except going to church on Sunday, which was a weariness to every +inch of flesh upon his bones, enjoyed everything. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +A GRAVE OPENED. + +One thing that troubled Robert on this his return home, was the +discovery that the surroundings of his childhood had deserted him. +There they were, as of yore, but they seemed to have nothing to say +to him--no remembrance of him. It was not that everything looked +small and narrow; it was not that the streets he saw from his new +quarters, the gable-room, were awfully still after the roar of +Aberdeen, and a passing cart seemed to shudder at the loneliness of +the noise itself made; it was that everything seemed to be conscious +only of the past and care nothing for him now. The very chairs with +their inlaid backs had an embalmed look, and stood as in a dream. +He could pass even the walled-up door without emotion, for all the +feeling that had been gathered about the knob that admitted him to +Mary St. John, had transferred itself to the brass bell-pull at her +street-door. + +But one day, after standing for a while at the window, looking down +on the street where he had first seen the beloved form of Ericson, a +certain old mood began to revive in him. He had been working at +quadratic equations all the morning; he had been foiled in the +attempt to find the true algebraic statement of a very tough +question involving various ratios; and, vexed with himself, he had +risen to look out, as the only available zeitvertreib. It was one +of those rainy days of spring which it needs a hopeful mood to +distinguish from autumnal ones--dull, depressing, persistent: there +might be sunshine in Mercury or Venus--but on the earth could be +none, from his right hand round by India and America to his left; +and certainly there was none between--a mood to which all sensitive +people are liable who have not yet learned by faith in the +everlasting to rule their own spirits. Naturally enough his +thoughts turned to the place where he had suffered most--his old +room in the garret. Hitherto he had shrunk from visiting it; but +now he turned away from the window, went up the steep stairs, with +their one sharp corkscrew curve, pushed the door, which clung +unwillingly to the floor, and entered. It was a nothing of a +place--with a window that looked only to heaven. There was the +empty bedstead against the wall, where he had so often kneeled, +sending forth vain prayers to a deaf heaven! Had they indeed been +vain prayers, and to a deaf heaven? or had they been prayers which a +hearing God must answer not according to the haste of the praying +child, but according to the calm course of his own infinite law of +love? + +Here, somehow or other, the things about him did not seem so much +absorbed in the past, notwithstanding those untroubled rows of +papers bundled in red tape. True, they looked almost awful in their +lack of interest and their non-humanity, for there is scarcely +anything that absolutely loses interest save the records of money; +but his mother's workbox lay behind them. And, strange to say, the +side of that bed drew him to kneel down: he did not yet believe that +prayer was in vain. If God had not answered him before, that gave +no certainty that he would not answer him now. It was, he found, +still as rational as it had ever been to hope that God would answer +the man that cried to him. This came, I think, from the fact that +God had been answering him all the time, although he had not +recognized his gifts as answers. Had he not given him Ericson, his +intercourse with whom and his familiarity with whose doubts had done +anything but quench his thirst after the higher life? For +Ericson's, like his own, were true and good and reverent doubts, not +merely consistent with but in a great measure springing from +devoutness and aspiration. Surely such doubts are far more precious +in the sight of God than many beliefs? + +He kneeled and sent forth one cry after the Father, arose, and +turned towards the shelves, removed some of the bundles of letters, +and drew out his mother's little box. + +There lay the miniature, still and open-eyed as he had left it. +There too lay the bit of paper, brown and dry, with the hymn and +the few words of sorrow written thereon. He looked at the portrait, +but did not open the folded paper. Then first he thought whether +there might not be something more in the box: what he had taken for +the bottom seemed to be a tray. He lifted it by two little ears of +ribbon, and there, underneath, lay a letter addressed to his father, +in the same old-fashioned handwriting as the hymn. It was sealed +with brown wax, full of spangles, impressed with a bush of +something--he could not tell whether rushes or reeds or flags. Of +course he dared not open it. His holy mother's words to his erring +father must be sacred even from the eyes of their son. But what +other or fitter messenger than himself could bear it to its +destination? It was for this that he had been guided to it. + +For years he had regarded the finding of his father as the first +duty of his manhood: it was as if his mother had now given her +sanction to the quest, with this letter to carry to the husband who, +however he might have erred, was yet dear to her. He replaced it in +the box, but the box no more on the forsaken shelf with its dreary +barricade of soulless records. He carried it with him, and laid it +in the bottom of his box, which henceforth he kept carefully locked: +there lay as it were the pledge of his father's salvation, and his +mother's redemption from an eternal grief. + +He turned to his equation: it had cleared itself up; he worked it +out in five minutes. Betty came to tell him that the dinner was +ready, and he went down, peaceful and hopeful, to his grandmother. + +While at home he never worked in the evenings: it was bad enough to +have to do so at college. Hence nature had a chance with him again. +Blessings on the wintry blasts that broke into the first youth of +Summer! They made him feel what summer was! Blessings on the +cheerless days of rain, and even of sleet and hail, that would shove +the reluctant year back into January. The fair face of Spring, with +her tears dropping upon her quenchless smiles, peeped in suppressed +triumph from behind the growing corn and the budding sallows on the +river-bank. Nay, even when the snow came once more in defiance of +calendars, it was but a background from which the near genesis +should 'stick fiery off.' + +In general he had a lonely walk after his lesson with Miss St. John +was over: there was no one at Rothieden to whom his heart and +intellect both were sufficiently drawn to make a close friendship +possible. He had companions, however: Ericson had left his papers +with him. The influence of these led him into yet closer sympathy +with Nature and all her moods; a sympathy which, even in the stony +heart of London, he not only did not lose but never ceased to feel. +Even there a breath of wind would not only breathe upon him, it +would breathe into him; and a sunset seen from the Strand was lovely +as if it had hung over rainbow seas. On his way home he would often +go into one of the shops where the neighbours congregated in the +evenings, and hold a little talk; and although, with Miss St. John +filling his heart, his friend's poems his imagination, and geometry +and algebra his intellect, great was the contrast between his own +inner mood and the words by which he kept up human relations with +his townsfolk, yet in after years he counted it one of the greatest +blessings of a lowly birth and education that he knew hearts and +feelings which to understand one must have been young amongst them. +He would not have had a chance of knowing such as these if he had +been the son of Dr. Anderson and born in Aberdeen. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + +ROBERT MEDIATES. + +One lovely evening in the first of the summer Miss St. John had +dismissed him earlier than usual, and he had wandered out for a +walk. After a round of a couple of miles, he returned by a +fir-wood, through which went a pathway. He had heard Mary St. John +say that she was going to see the wife of a labourer who lived at +the end of this path. In the heart of the trees it was growing very +dusky; but when he came to a spot where they stood away from each +other a little space, and the blue sky looked in from above with one +cloud floating in it from which the rose of the sunset was fading, +he seated himself on a little mound of moss that had gathered over +an ancient stump by the footpath, and drew out his friend's papers. +Absorbed in his reading, he was not aware of an approach till the +rustle of silk startled him. He lifted up his eyes, and saw Miss +St. John a few yards from him on the pathway. He rose. + +'It's almost too dark to read now, isn't it, Robert?' she said. + +'Ah!' said. Robert, 'I know this writing so well that I could read +it by moonlight. I wish I might read some of it to you. You would +like it.' + +'May I ask whose it is, then? Poetry, too!' + +'It's Mr. Ericson's. But I'm feared he wouldna like me to read it +to anybody but myself. And yet--' + +'I don't think he would mind me,' returned Miss St. John. 'I do know +him a little. It is not as if I were quite a stranger, you know. +Did he tell you not?' + +'No. But then he never thought of such a thing. I don't know if +it's fair, for they are carelessly written, and there are words and +lines here and there that I am sure he would alter if he cared for +them ae hair.' + +'Then if he doesn't care for them, he won't mind my hearing them. +There!' she said, seating herself on the stump. 'You sit down on +the grass and read me--one at least.' + +'You'll remember they were never intended to be read?' urged Robert, +not knowing what he was doing, and so fulfilling his destiny. + +'I will be as jealous of his honour as ever you can wish,' answered +Miss St. John gaily. + +Robert laid himself on the grass at her feet, and read:-- + +MY TWO GENIUSES. + +One is a slow and melancholy maid: +I know not if she cometh from the skies, +Or from the sleepy gulfs, but she will rise +Often before me in the twilight shade +Holding a bunch of poppies, and a blade +Of springing wheat: prostrate my body lies +Before her on the turf, the while she ties +A fillet of the weed about my head; +And in the gaps of sleep I seem to hear +A gentle rustle like the stir of corn, +And words like odours thronging to my ear: +'Lie still, beloved, still until the morn; +Lie still with me upon this rolling sphere, +Still till the judgment--thou art faint and worn.' + +The other meets me in the public throng: +Her hair streams backward from her loose attire; +She hath a trumpet and an eye of fire; +She points me downward steadily and long-- +'There is thy grave--arise, my son, be strong! +Hands are upon thy crown; awake, aspire +To immortality; heed not the lyre +Of the enchantress, nor her poppy-song; +But in the stillness of the summer calm, +Tremble for what is godlike in thy being. +Listen awhile, and thou shalt hear the psalm +Of victory sung by creatures past thy seeing; +And from far battle-fields there comes the neighing +Of dreadful onset, though the air is balm.' + +Maid with the poppies, must I let thee go? +Alas! I may not; thou art likewise dear; +I am but human, and thou hast a tear, +When she hath nought but splendour, and the glow +Of a wild energy that mocks the flow +Of the poor sympathies which keep us here. +Lay past thy poppies, and come twice as near, +And I will teach thee, and thou too shalt grow; +And thou shalt walk with me in open day +Through the rough thoroughfares with quiet grace; +And the wild-visaged maid shall lead the way, +Timing her footsteps to a gentler pace, +As her great orbs turn ever on thy face, +Drinking in draughts of loving help alway. + +Miss St. John did not speak. + +'War ye able to follow him?' asked Robert. + +'Quite, I assure you,' she answered, with a tremulousness in her +voice which delighted Robert as evidence of his friend's success. + +'But they're nae a' so easy to follow, I can tell ye, mem. Just +hearken to this,' he said, with some excitement. + + When the storm was proudest, + And the wind was loudest, +I heard the hollow caverns drinking down below; + When the stars were bright, + And the ground was white, +I heard the grasses springing underneath the snow. + + Many voices spake-- + The river to the lake, +The iron-ribbed sky was talking to the sea; + And every starry spark + Made music with the dark, +And said how bright and beautiful everything must be. + +'That line, mem,' remarked Robert, ''s only jist scrattit in, as gin +he had no intention o' leavin' 't, an' only set it there to keep +room for anither. But we'll jist gang on wi' the lave o' 't. I +ouchtna to hae interruppit it.' + + When the sun was setting, + All the clouds were getting +Beautiful and silvery in the rising moon; + Beneath the leafless trees + Wrangling in the breeze, +I could hardly see them for the leaves of June. + + When the day had ended, + And the night descended, +I heard the sound of streams that I heard not through the day + And every peak afar, + Was ready for a star, +And they climbed and rolled around until the morning gray. + + Then slumber soft and holy + Came down upon me slowly; +And I went I know not whither, and I lived I know not how; + My glory had been banished, + For when I woke it vanished, +But I waited on it's coming, and I am waiting now. + +'There!' said Robert, ending, 'can ye mak onything o' that, Miss St. +John?' + +'I don't say I can in words,' she answered; 'but I think I could put +it all into music.' + +'But surely ye maun hae some notion o' what it's aboot afore you can +do that.' + +'Yes; but I have some notion of what it's about, I think. Just lend +it to me; and by the time we have our next lesson, you will see +whether I'm not able to show you I understand it. I shall take good +care of it,' she added, with a smile, seeing Robert's reluctance to +part with it. 'It doesn't matter my having it, you know, now that +you've read it to me, I want to make you do it justice.--But it's +quite time I were going home. Besides, I really don't think you can +see to read any more.' + +'Weel, it's better no to try, though I hae them maistly upo' my +tongue: I might blunder, and that wad blaud them.--Will you let me +go home with you?' he added, in pure tremulous English. + +'Certainly, if you like,' she answered; and they walked towards the +town. + +Robert opened the fountain of his love for Ericson, and let it gush +like a river from a hillside. He talked on and on about him, with +admiration, gratitude, devotion. And Miss St. John was glad of the +veil of the twilight over her face as she listened, for the boy's +enthusiasm trembled through her as the wind through an Æolian harp. +Poor Robert! He did not know, I say, what he was doing, and so was +fulfilling his sacred destiny. + +'Bring your manuscripts when you come next,' she said, as they +walked along--gently adding, 'I admire your friend's verses very +much, and should like to hear more of them.' + +'I'll be sure an' do that,' answered Robert, in delight that he had +found one to sympathize with him in his worship of Ericson, and that +one his other idol. + +When they reached the town, Miss St. John, calling to mind its +natural propensity to gossip, especially on the evening of a +market-day, when the shopkeepers, their labours over, would be +standing in a speculative mood at their doors, surrounded by groups +of friends and neighbours, felt shy of showing herself on the square +with Robert, and proposed that they should part, giving as a +by-the-bye reason that she had a little shopping to do as she went +home. Too simple to suspect the real reason, but with a heart that +delighted in obedience, Robert bade her good-night at once, and took +another way. + +As he passed the door of Merson the haberdasher's shop, there stood +William MacGregor, the weaver, looking at nothing and doing nothing. +We have seen something of him before: he was a remarkable compound +of good nature and bad temper. People were generally afraid of him, +because he had a biting satire at his command, amounting even to +wit, which found vent in verse--not altogether despicable even from +a literary point of view. The only person he, on his part, was +afraid of, was his own wife; for upon her, from lack of +apprehension, his keenest irony fell, as he said, like water on a +duck's back, and in respect of her he had, therefore, no weapon of +offence to strike terror withal. Her dulness was her defence. He +liked Robert. When he saw him, he wakened up, laid hold of him by +the button, and drew him in. + +'Come in, lad,' he said, 'an' tak a pinch. I'm waitin' for Merson.' +As he spoke he took from his pocket his mull, made of the end of a +ram's horn, and presented it to Robert, who accepted the pledge of +friendship. While he was partaking, MacGregor drew himself with +some effort upon the counter, saying in a half-comical, +half-admonitory tone, + +'Weel, and hoo's the mathematics, Robert?' + +'Thrivin',' answered Robert, falling into his humour. + +'Weel, that's verra weel. Duv ye min', Robert, hoo, whan ye was +aboot the age o' aucht year aul', ye cam to me ance at my shop aboot +something yer gran'mither, honest woman, wantit, an' I, by way o' +takin' my fun o' ye, said to ye, "Robert, ye hae grown desperate; +ye're a man clean; ye hae gotten the breeks on." An' says ye, "Ay, +Mr. MacGregor, I want naething noo but a watch an' a wife"?' + +'I doobt I've forgotten a' aboot it, Mr. MacGregor,' answered +Robert. 'But I've made some progress, accordin' to your story, for +Dr. Anderson, afore I cam hame, gae me a watch. An' a fine crater +it is, for it aye does its best, an' sae I excuse its shortcomin's.' + +'There's just ae thing, an' nae anither,' returned the manufacturer, +'that I cannot excuse in a watch. Gin a watch gangs ower fest, ye +fin' 't oot. Gin she gangs ower slow, ye fin' 't oot, an' ye can +aye calculate upo' 't correck eneuch for maitters sublunairy, as Mr. +Maccleary says. An' gin a watch stops a'thegither, ye ken it's +failin', an' ye ken whaur it sticks, an' a' 'at ye say 's "Tut, tut, +de'il hae 't for a watch!" But there's ae thing that God nor man +canna bide in a watch, an' that's whan it stan's still for a +bittock, an' syne gangs on again. Ay, ay! tic, tic, tic! wi' a fair +face and a leein' hert. It wad gar ye believe it was a' richt, and +time for anither tum'ler, whan it's twal o'clock, an' the kirkyaird +fowk thinkin' aboot risin'. Fegs, I had a watch o' my father's, an' +I regairdit it wi' a reverence mair like a human bein': the second +time it played me that pliskie, I dang oot its guts upo' the +loupin'-on-stane at the door o' the chop. But lat the watch sit: +whaur's the wife? Ye canna be a man yet wantin' the wife--by yer +ain statement.' + +'The watch cam unsoucht, Mr. MacGregor, an' I'm thinkin' sae maun +the wife,' answered Robert, laughing. + +'Preserve me for ane frae a wife that comes unsoucht,' returned the +weaver. 'But, my lad, there may be some wives that winna come whan +they are soucht. Preserve me frae them too!--Noo, maybe ye dinna +ken what I mean--but tak ye tent what ye're aboot. Dinna ye think +'at ilka bonnie lass 'at may like to haud a wark wi' ye 's jist +ready to mairry ye aff han' whan ye say, "Noo, my dawtie."--An' ae +word mair, Robert: Young men, especially braw lads like yersel', 's +unco ready to fa' in love wi' women fit to be their mithers. An' +sae ye see--' + +He was interrupted by the entrance of a girl. She had a shawl over +her head, notwithstanding it was summer weather, and crept in +hesitatingly, as if she were not quite at one with herself as to her +coming purchase. Approaching a boy behind the counter on the +opposite side of the shop, she asked for something, and he proceeded +to serve her. Robert could not help thinking, from the one glimpse +of her face he had got through the dusk, that he had seen her +before. Suddenly the vision of an earthen floor with a pool of +brown sunlight upon it, bare feet, brown hair, and soft eyes, +mingled with a musk odour wafted from Arabian fairyland, rose before +him: it was Jessie Hewson. + +'I ken that lassie,' he said, and moved to get down from the counter +on which he too had seated himself. + +'Na, na,' whispered the manufacturer, laying, like the Ancient +Mariner, a brown skinny hand of restraint upon Robert's arm--'na, +na, never heed her. Ye maunna speyk to ilka lass 'at ye ken.--Poor +thing! she's been doin' something wrang, to gang slinkin' aboot i' +the gloamin' like a baukie (bat), wi' her plaid ower her heid. +Dinna fash wi' her.' + +'Nonsense!' returned Robert, with indignation. 'What for shouldna I +speik till her? She's a decent lassie--a dochter o' James Hewson, +the cottar at Bodyfauld. I ken her fine.' + +He said this in a whisper; but the girl seemed to hear it, for she +left the shop with a perturbation which the dimness of the late +twilight could not conceal. Robert hesitated no longer, but +followed her, heedless of the louder expostulations of MacGregor. +She was speeding away down the street, but he took longer strides +than she, and was almost up with her, when she drew her shawl closer +about her head, and increased her pace. + +'Jessie!' said Robert, in a tone of expostulation. But she made no +answer. Her head sunk lower on her bosom, and she hurried yet +faster. He gave a long stride or two and laid his hand on her +shoulder. She stood still, trembling. + +'Jessie, dinna ye ken me--Robert Faukner? Dinna be feart at me. +What's the maitter wi' ye, 'at ye winna speik till a body? Hoo's +a' the fowk at hame?' + +She burst out crying, cast one look into Robert's face, and fled. +What a change was in that face? The peach-colour was gone from her +cheek; it was pale and thin. Her eyes were hollow, with dark +shadows under them, the shadows of a sad sunset. A foreboding of +the truth arose in his heart, and the tears rushed up into his eyes. +The next moment the eidolon of Mary St. John, moving gracious and +strong, clothed in worship and the dignity which is its own defence, +appeared beside that of Jessie Hewson, her bowed head shaken with +sobs, and her weak limbs urged to ungraceful flight. As if walking +in the vision of an eternal truth, he went straight to Captain +Forsyth's door. + +'I want to speak to Miss St. John, Isie,' said Robert. + +'She'll be doon in a minit.' + +'But isna yer mistress i' the drawin'-room?--I dinna want to see +her.' + +'Ow, weel,' said the girl, who was almost fresh from the country, +'jist rin up the stair, an' chap at the door o' her room.' + +With the simplicity of a child, for what a girl told him to do must +be right, Robert sped up the stair, his heart going like a +fire-engine. He had never approached Mary's room from this side, +but instinct or something else led him straight to her door. He +knocked. + +'Come in,' she said, never doubting it was the maid, and Robert +entered. + +She was brushing her hair by the light of a chamber candle. Robert +was seized with awe, and his limbs trembled. He could have kneeled +before her--not to beg forgiveness, he did not think of that--but to +worship, as a man may worship a woman. It is only a strong, pure +heart like Robert's that ever can feel all the inroad of the divine +mystery of womanhood. But he did not kneel. He had a duty to +perform. A flush rose in Miss St. John's face, and sank away, +leaving it pale. It was not that she thought once of her own +condition, with her hair loose on her shoulders, but, able only to +conjecture what had brought him thither, she could not but regard +Robert's presence with dismay. She stood with her ivory brush in +her right hand uplifted, and a great handful of hair in her left. +She was soon relieved, however, although what with his contemplated +intercession, the dim vision of Mary's lovely face between the +masses of her hair, and the lavender odour that filled the +room--perhaps also a faint suspicion of impropriety sufficient to +give force to the rest--Robert was thrown back into the abyss of his +mother-tongue, and out of this abyss talked like a Behemoth. + +'Robert!' said Mary, in a tone which, had he not been so eager after +his end, he might have interpreted as one of displeasure. + +'Ye maun hearken till me, mem.--Whan I was oot at Bodyfauld,' he +began methodically, and Mary, bewildered, gave one hasty brush to +her handful of hair and again stood still: she could imagine no +connection between this meeting and their late parting--'Whan I was +was oot at Bodyfauld ae simmer, I grew acquant wi' a bonnie lassie +there, the dochter o' Jeames Hewson, an honest cottar, wi' +Shakspeare an' the Arabian Nichts upo' a skelf i' the hoose wi' 'im. +I gaed in ae day whan I wasna weel; an' she jist ministert to me, +as nane ever did but yersel', mem. An' she was that kin' an' +mither-like to the wee bit greitin' bairnie 'at she had to tak care +o' 'cause her mither was oot wi' the lave shearin'! Her face was +jist like a simmer day, an' weel I likit the luik o' the lassie!--I +met her again the nicht. Ye never saw sic a change. A white face, +an' nothing but greitin' to come oot o' her. She ran frae me as gin +I had been the de'il himsel'. An' the thocht o' you, sae bonnie an' +straucht an' gran', cam ower me.' + +Yielding to a masterful impulse, Robert did kneel now. As if +sinner, and not mediator, he pressed the hem of her garment to his +lips. + +'Dinna be angry at me, Miss St. John,' he pleaded, 'but be mercifu' +to the lassie. Wha's to help her that can no more luik a man i' the +face, but the clear-e'ed lass that wad luik the sun himsel' oot o' +the lift gin he daured to say a word against her. It's ae woman +that can uphaud anither. Ye ken what I mean, an' I needna say +mair.' + +He rose and turned to leave the room. + +Bewildered and doubtful, Miss St. John did not know what to answer, +but felt that she must make some reply. + +'You haven't told me where to find the girl, or what you want me to +do with her.' + +'I'll fin' oot whaur she bides,' he said, moving again towards the +door. + +'But what am I to do with her, Robert?' + +'That's your pairt. Ye maun fin' oot what to do wi' her. I canna +tell ye that. But gin I was you, I wad gie her a kiss to begin wi'. +She's nane o' yer brazen-faced hizzies, yon. A kiss wad be the +savin' o' her.' + +'But you may be--. But I have nothing to go upon. She would resent +my interference.' + +'She's past resentin' onything. She was gaein' aboot the toon like +ane o' the deid 'at hae naething to say to onybody, an' naebody +onything to say to them. Gin she gangs on like that she'll no be +alive lang.' + +That night Jessie Hewson disappeared. A mile or two up the river +under a high bank, from which the main current had receded, lay an +awful, swampy place--full of reeds, except in the middle where was +one round space full of dark water and mud. Near this Jessie Hewson +was seen about an hour after Robert had thus pled for her with his +angel. + +The event made a deep impression upon Robert. The last time that he +saw them, James and his wife were as cheerful as usual, and gave him +a hearty welcome. Jessie was in service, and doing well, they said. +The next time he opened the door of the cottage it was like the +entrance to a haunted tomb. Not a smile was in the place. James's +cheeriness was all gone. He was sitting at the table with his head +leaning on his hand. His Bible was open before him, but he was not +reading a word. His wife was moving listlessly about. They looked +just as Jessie had looked that night--as if they had died long ago, +but somehow or other could not get into their graves and be at rest. +The child Jessie had nursed with such care was toddling about, +looking rueful with loss. George had gone to America, and the whole +of that family's joy had vanished from the earth. + +The subject was not resumed between Miss St. John and Robert. The +next time he saw her, he knew by her pale troubled face that she had +heard the report that filled the town; and she knew by his silence +that it had indeed reference to the same girl of whom he had spoken +to her. The music would not go right that evening. Mary was +distraite, and Robert was troubled. It was a week or two before +there came a change. When the turn did come, over his being love +rushed up like a spring-tide from the ocean of the Infinite. + +He was accompanying her piano with his violin. He made blunders, +and her playing was out of heart. They stopped as by consent, and a +moment's silence followed. All at once she broke out with something +Robert had never heard before. He soon found that it was a fantasy +upon Ericson's poem. Ever through a troubled harmony ran a silver +thread of melody from far away. It was the caverns drinking from +the tempest overhead, the grasses growing under the snow, the stars +making music with the dark, the streams filling the night with the +sounds the day had quenched, the whispering call of the dreams left +behind in 'the fields of sleep,'--in a word, the central life +pulsing in aeonian peace through the outer ephemeral storms. At +length her voice took up the theme. The silvery thread became song, +and through all the opposing, supporting harmonies she led it to the +solution of a close in which the only sorrow was in the music +itself, for its very life is an 'endless ending.' She found Robert +kneeling by her side. As she turned from the instrument his head +drooped over her knee. She laid her hand on his clustering curls, +bethought herself, and left the room. Robert wandered out as in a +dream. At midnight he found himself on a solitary hill-top, seated +in the heather, with a few tiny fir-trees about him, and the sounds +of a wind, ethereal as the stars overhead, flowing through their +branches: he heard the sound of it, but it did not touch him. + +Where was God? + +In him and his question. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + +ERICSON LOSES TO WIN. + +If Mary St. John had been an ordinary woman, and if, +notwithstanding, Robert had been in love with her, he would have +done very little in preparation for the coming session. But +although she now possessed him, although at times he only knew +himself as loving her, there was such a mountain air of calm about +her, such an outgoing divinity of peace, such a largely moulded +harmony of being, that he could not love her otherwise than grandly. +For her sake, weary with loving her, he would yet turn to his work, +and, to be worthy of her, or rather, for he never dreamed of being +worthy of her, to be worthy of leave to love her, would forget her +enough to lay hold of some abstract truth of lines, angles, or +symbols. A strange way of being in love, reader? You think so? I +would there were more love like it: the world would be centuries +nearer its redemption if a millionth part of the love in it were of +the sort. All I insist, however, on my reader's believing is, that +it showed, in a youth like Robert, not less but more love that he +could go against love's sweetness for the sake of love's greatness. +Literally, not figuratively, Robert would kiss the place where her +foot had trod; but I know that once he rose from such a kiss 'to +trace the hyperbola by means of a string.' + +It had been arranged between Ericson and Robert, in Miss Napier's +parlour, the old lady knitting beside, that Ericson should start, if +possible, a week earlier than usual, and spend the difference with +Robert at Rothieden. But then the old lady had opened her mouth and +spoken. And I firmly believe, though little sign of tenderness +passed between them, it was with an elder sister's feeling for +Letty's admiration of the 'lan'less laird,' that she said as +follows:-- + +'Dinna ye think, Mr. Ericson, it wad be but fair to come to us neist +time? Mistress Faukner, honest lady, an' lang hae I kent her, 's no +sae auld a frien' to you, Mr. Ericson, as oorsel's--nae offence to +her, ye ken. A'body canna be frien's to a'body, ane as lang 's +anither, ye ken.' + +''Deed I maun alloo, Miss Naper,' interposed Robert, 'it's only +fair. Ye see, Mr. Ericson, I cud see as muckle o' ye almost, the +tae way as the tither. Miss Naper maks me welcome as weel's you.' + +'An' I will mak ye welcome, Robert, as lang's ye're a gude lad, as +ye are, and gang na efter--nae ill gait. But lat me hear o' yer +doin' as sae mony young gentlemen do, espeacially whan they're ta'en +up by their rich relations, an', public-hoose as this is, I'll close +the door o' 't i' yer face.' + +'Bless me, Miss Naper!' said Robert, 'what hae I dune to set ye at +me that gait? Faith, I dinna ken what ye mean.' + +'Nae mair do I, laddie. I hae naething against ye whatever. Only +ye see auld fowk luiks aheid, an' wad fain be as sure o' what's to +come as o' what's gane.' + +'Ye maun bide for that, I doobt,' said Robert. + +'Laddie,' retorted Miss Napier, 'ye hae mair sense nor ye hae ony +richt till. Haud the tongue o' ye. Mr. Ericson 's to come here +neist.' + +And the old lady laughed such good humour into her stocking-sole, +that the foot destined to wear it ought never to have been cold +while it lasted. So it was then settled; and a week before Robert +was to start for Aberdeen, Ericson walked into The Boar's Head. +Half-an-hour after that, Crookit Caumill was shown into the +ga'le-room with the message to Maister Robert that Maister Ericson +was come, and wanted to see him. + +Robert pitched Hutton's Mathematics into the grate, sprung to his +feet, all but embraced Crookit Caumill on the spot, and was deterred +only by the perturbed look the man wore. Crookit Caumill was a very +human creature, and hadn't a fault but the drink, Miss Napier said. +And very little of that he would have had if she had been as active +as she was willing. + +'What's the maitter, Caumill?' asked Robert, in considerable alarm. + +'Ow, naething, sir,' returned Campbell. + +'What gars ye look like that, than?' insisted Robert. + +'Ow, naething. But whan Miss Letty cried doon the close upo' me, +she had her awpron till her een, an' I thocht something bude to be +wrang; but I hadna the hert to speir.' + +Robert darted to the door, and rushed to the inn, leaving Caumill +describing iambi on the road behind him. + +When he reached The Boar's Head there was nobody to be seen. He +darted up the stair to the room where he had first waited upon +Ericson. + +Three or four maids stood at the door. He asked no question, but +went in, a dreadful fear at his heart. Two of the sisters and Dr. +Gow stood by the bed. + +Ericson lay upon it, clear-eyed, and still. His cheek was flushed. +The doctor looked round as Robert entered. + +'Robert,' he said, 'you must keep your friend here quiet. He's +broken a blood-vessel--walked too much, I suppose. He'll be all +right soon, I hope; but we can't be too careful. Keep him +quiet--that's the main thing. He mustn't speak a word.' + +So saying he took his leave. + +Ericson held out his thin hand. Robert grasped it. Ericson's lips +moved as if he would speak. + +'Dinna speik, Mr. Ericson,' said Miss Letty, whose tears were +flowing unheeded down her cheeks, 'dinna speik. We a' ken what ye +mean an' what ye want wi'oot that.' + +Then she turned to Robert, and said in a whisper, + +'Dr. Gow wadna hae ye sent for; but I kent weel eneuch 'at he wad be +a' the quaieter gin ye war here. Jist gie a chap upo' the flure gin +ye want onything, an' I'll be wi' ye in twa seconds.' + +The sisters went away. Robert drew a chair beside the bed, and once +more was nurse to his friend. The doctor had already bled him at +the arm: such was the ordinary mode of treatment then. + +Scarcely was he seated, when Ericson spoke--a smile flickering over +his worn face. + +'Robert, my boy,' he said. + +'Dinna speak,' said Robert, in alarm; 'dinna speak, Mr. Ericson.' + +'Nonsense,' returned Ericson, feebly. 'They're making a work about +nothing. I've done as much twenty times since I saw you last, and +I'm not dead yet. But I think it's coming.' + +'What's coming?' asked Robert, rising in alarm. + +'Nothing,' answered Ericson, soothingly,--'only death.--I should +like to see Miss St. John once before I die. Do you think she would +come and see me if I were really dying?' + +'I'm sure she wad. But gin ye speik like this, Miss Letty winna lat +me come near ye, no to say her. Oh, Mr. Ericson! gin ye dee, I +sanna care to live.' + +Bethinking himself that such was not the way to keep Ericson quiet, +he repressed his emotion, sat down behind the curtain, and was +silent. Ericson fell fast asleep. Robert crept from the room, and +telling Miss Letty that he would return presently, went to Miss St. +John. + +'How can I go to Aberdeen without him?' he thought as he walked down +the street. + +Neither was a guide to the other; but the questioning of two may +give just the needful points by which the parallax of a truth may be +gained. + +'Mr. Ericson's here, Miss St. John,' he said, the moment he was +shown into her presence. + +Her face flushed. Robert had never seen her look so beautiful. + +'He's verra ill,' he added. + +Her face grew pale--very pale. + +'He asked if I thought you would go and see him--that is if he were +going to die.' + +A sunset flush, but faint as on the clouds of the east, rose over +her pallor. + +'I will go at once,' she said, rising. + +'Na, na,' returned Robert, hastily. 'It has to be manage. It's no +to be dune a' in a hurry. For ae thing, there's Dr. Gow says he +maunna speak ae word; and for anither, there's Miss Letty 'ill jist +be like a watch-dog to haud a'body oot ower frae 'im. We maun bide +oor time. But gin ye say ye'll gang, that 'll content him i' the +meantime. I'll tell him.' + +'I will go any moment,' she said. 'Is he very ill?' + +'I'm afraid he is. I doobt I'll hae to gang to Aberdeen withoot +him.' + +A week after, though he was better, his going was out of the +question. Robert wanted to stay with him, but he would not hear of +it. He would follow in a week or so, he said, and Robert must start +fair with the rest of the semies. + +But all the removal he was ever able to bear was to the 'red room,' +the best in the house, opening, as I have already mentioned, from an +outside stair in the archway. They put up a great screen inside the +door, and there the lan'less laird lay like a lord. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + +SHARGAR ASPIRES. + +Robert's heart was dreary when he got on the box-seat of the +mail-coach at Rothieden--it was yet drearier when he got down at The +Royal Hotel in the street of Ben Accord--and it was dreariest of all +when he turned his back on Ericson's, and entered his own room at +Mrs. Fyvie's. + +Shargar had met him at the coach. Robert had scarcely a word to say +to him. And Shargar felt as dreary as Robert when he saw him sit +down, and lay his head on the table without a word. + +'What's the maitter wi' ye, Robert?' he faltered out at last. 'Gin +ye dinna speyk to me, I'll cut my throat. I will, faith!' + +'Haud yer tongue wi' yer nonsense, Shargar. Mr. Ericson's deein'.' + +'O lord!' said Shargar, and said nothing more for the space of ten +minutes. + +Then he spoke again--slowly and sententiously. + +'He hadna you to tak care o' him, Robert. Whaur is he?' + +'At The Boar's Heid.' + +'That's weel. He'll be luikit efter there.' + +'A body wad like to hae their ain han' in 't, Shargar.' + +'Ay. I wiss we had him here again.' + +The ice of trouble thus broken, the stream of talk flowed more +freely. + +'Hoo are ye gettin' on at the schule, man?' asked Robert. + +'Nae that ill,' answered Shargar. 'I was at the heid o' my class +yesterday for five meenits.' + +'An' hoo did ye like it?' + +'Man, it was fine. I thocht I was a gentleman a' at ance.' + +'Haud ye at it, man,' said Robert, as if from the heights of age and +experience, 'and maybe ye will be a gentleman some day.' + +'Is 't poassible, Robert? A crater like me grow intil a gentleman?' +said Shargar, with wide eyes. + +'What for no?' returned Robert. + +'Eh, man!' said Shargar. + +He stood up, sat down again, and was silent. + +'For ae thing,' resumed Robert, after a pause, during which he had +been pondering upon the possibilities of Shargar's future--'for ae +thing, I doobt whether Dr. Anderson wad hae ta'en ony fash aboot ye, +gin he hadna thocht ye had the makin' o' a gentleman i' ye.' + +'Eh, man!' said Shargar. + +He stood up again, sat down again, and was finally silent. + +Next day Robert went to see Dr. Anderson, and told him about +Ericson. The doctor shook his head, as doctors have done in such +cases from Æsculapius downwards. Robert pressed no further +questions. + +'Will he be taken care of where he is?' asked the doctor. + +'Guid care o',' answered Robert. + +'Has he any money, do you think?' + +'I hae nae doobt he has some, for he's been teachin' a' the summer. +The like o' him maun an' will work whether they're fit or no.' + +'Well, at all events, you write, Robert, and give him the hint that +he's not to fash himself about money, for I have more than he'll +want. And you may just take the hint yourself at the same time, +Robert, my boy,' he added in, if possible, a yet kinder tone. + +Robert's way of showing gratitude was the best way of all. He +returned kindness with faith. + +'Gin I be in ony want, doctor, I'll jist rin to ye at ance. An' gin +I want ower muckle ye maun jist say na.' + +'That's a good fellow. You take things as a body means them.' + +'But hae ye naething ye wad like me to do for ye this session, sir?' + +'No. I won't have you do anything but your own work. You have more +to do than you had last year. Mind your work; and as often as you +get tired over your books, shut them up and come to me. You may +bring Shargar with you sometimes, but we must take care and not make +too much of him all at once.' + +'Ay, ay, doctor. But he's a fine crater, Shargar, an' I dinna think +he'll be that easy to blaud. What do you think he's turnin' ower i' +that reid heid o' his noo?' + +'I can't tell that. But there's something to come out of the red +head, I do believe. What is he thinking of?' + +'Whether it be possible for him ever to be a gentleman. Noo I tak +that for a good sign i' the likes o' him.' + +'No doubt of it. What did you say to him?' + +'I tellt him 'at hoo I didna think ye wad hae ta'en sae muckle fash +gin ye hadna had some houps o' the kin' aboot him.' + +'You said well. Tell him from me that I expect him to be a +gentleman. And by the way, Robert, do try a little, as I think I +said to you once before, to speak English. I don't mean that you +should give up Scotch, you know.' + +'Weel, sir, I hae been tryin'; but what am I to do whan ye speyk to +me as gin ye war my ain father? I canna min' upo' a word o' English +whan ye do that.' + +Dr. Anderson laughed, but his eyes glittered. + +Robert found Shargar busy over his Latin version. With a 'Weel, +Shargar,' he took his books and sat down. A few moments after, +Shargar lifted his head, stared a while at Robert, and then said, + +'Duv you railly think it, Robert?' + +'Think what? What are ye haverin' at, ye gowk?' + +'Duv ye think 'at I ever could grow intil a gentleman?' + +'Dr. Anderson says he expecs 't o' ye.' + +'Eh, man!' + +A long pause followed, and Shargar spoke again. + +'Hoo am I to begin, Robert?' + +'Begin what?' + +'To be a gentleman.' + +Robert scratched his head, like Brutus, and at length became +oracular. + +'Speyk the truth,' he said. + +'I'll do that. But what aboot--my father?' + +'Naebody 'ill cast up yer father to ye. Ye need hae nae fear o' +that.' + +'My mither, than?' suggested Shargar, with hesitation. + +'Ye maun haud yer face to the fac'.' + +'Ay, ay. But gin they said onything, ye ken--aboot her.' + +'Gin ony man-body says a word agen yer mither, ye maun jist knock +him doon upo' the spot.' + +'But I michtna be able.' + +'Ye could try, ony gait.' + +'He micht knock me down, ye ken.' + +'Weel, gae doon than.' + +'Ay.' + +This was all the instruction Robert ever gave Shargar in the duties +of a gentleman. And I doubt whether Shargar sought further +enlightenment by direct question of any one. He worked harder than +ever; grew cleanly in his person, even to fastidiousness; tried to +speak English; and a wonderful change gradually, but rapidly, passed +over his outer man. He grew taller and stronger, and as he grew +stronger, his legs grew straighter, till the defect of approximating +knees, the consequence of hardship, all but vanished. His hair +became darker, and the albino look less remarkable, though still he +would remind one of a vegetable grown in a cellar. + +Dr. Anderson thought it well that he should have another year at the +grammar-school before going to college.--Robert now occupied +Ericson's room, and left his own to Shargar. + +Robert heard every week from Miss St. John about Ericson. Her +reports varied much; but on the whole he got a little better as the +winter went on. She said that the good women at The Boar's Head +paid him every attention: she did not say that almost the only way +to get him to eat was to carry him delicacies which she had prepared +with her own hands. + +She had soon overcome the jealousy with which Miss Letty regarded +her interest in their guest, and before many days had passed she +would walk into the archway and go up to his room without seeing any +one, except the sister whom she generally found there. By what +gradations their intimacy grew I cannot inform my reader, for on the +events lying upon the boundary of my story, I have received very +insufficient enlightenment; but the result it is easy to imagine. I +have already hinted at an early disappointment of Miss St. John. She +had grown greatly since, and her estimate of what she had lost had +altered considerably in consequence. But the change was more rapid +after she became acquainted with Ericson. She would most likely +have found the young man she thought she was in love with in the +days gone by a very commonplace person now. The heart which she had +considered dead to the world had, even before that stormy night in +the old house, begun to expostulate against its owner's mistake, by +asserting a fair indifference to that portion of its past history. +And now, to her large nature the simplicity, the suffering, the +patience, the imagination, the grand poverty of Ericson, were +irresistibly attractive. Add to this that she became his nurse, and +soon saw that he was not indifferent to her--and if she fell in love +with him as only a full-grown woman can love, without Ericson's lips +saying anything that might not by Love's jealousy be interpreted as +only of grateful affection, why should she not? + +And what of Marjory Lindsay? Ericson had not forgotten her. But +the brightest star must grow pale as the sun draws near; and on +Ericson there were two suns rising at once on the low sea-shore of +life whereon he had been pacing up and down moodily for +three-and-twenty years, listening evermore to the unprogressive rise +and fall of the tidal waves, all talking of the eternal, all unable +to reveal it--the sun of love and the sun of death. Mysie and he +had never met. She pleased his imagination; she touched his heart +with her helplessness; but she gave him no welcome to the shrine of +her beauty: he loved through admiration and pity. He broke no faith +to her; for he had never offered her any save in looks, and she had +not accepted it. She was but a sickly plant grown in a hot-house. +On his death-bed he found a woman a hiding-place from the wind, a +covert from the tempest, the shadow of a great rock in a weary land! +A strong she-angel with mighty wings, Mary St. John came behind him +as he fainted out of life, tempered the burning heat of the Sun of +Death, and laid him to sleep in the cool twilight of her glorious +shadow. In the stead of trouble about a wilful, thoughtless girl, +he found repose and protection and motherhood in a great-hearted +woman. + +For Ericson's sake, Robert made some effort to preserve the +acquaintance of Mr. Lindsay and his daughter. But he could hardly +keep up a conversation with Mr. Lindsay, and Mysie showed herself +utterly indifferent to him even in the way of common friendship. He +told her of Ericson's illness: she said she was sorry to hear it, +and looked miles away. He could never get within a certain +atmosphere of--what shall I call it? avertedness that surrounded +her. She had always lived in a dream of unrealities; and the dream +had almost devoured her life. + +One evening Shargar was later than usual in coming home from the +walk, or ramble rather, without which he never could settle down to +his work. He knocked at Robert's door. + +'Whaur do ye think I've been, Robert?' + +'Hoo suld I ken, Shargar?' answered Robert, puzzling over a problem. + +'I've been haein' a glaiss wi' Jock Mitchell.' + +'Wha's Jock Mitchell?' + +'My brither Sandy's groom, as I tellt ye afore.' + +'Ye dinna think I can min' a' your havers, Shargar. Whaur was the +comin' gentleman whan ye gaed to drink wi' a chield like that, wha, +gin my memory serves me, ye tauld me yersel' was i' the mids o' a' +his maister's deevilry?' + +'Yer memory serves ye weel eneuch to be doon upo' me,' said Shargar. +'But there's a bit wordy 'at they read at the cathedral kirk the +last Sunday 'at's stucken to me as gin there was something by +ordinar' in 't.' + +'What's that?' asked Robert, pretending to go on with his +calculations all the time. + +'Ow, nae muckle; only this: "Judge not, that ye be not judged."--I +took a lesson frae Jeck the giant-killer, wi' the Welsh giant--was +'t Blunderbore they ca'd him?--an' poored the maist o' my glaiss +doon my breist. It wasna like ink; it wadna du my sark ony ill.' + +'But what garred ye gang wi' 'im at a'? He wasna fit company for a +gentleman.' + +'A gentleman 's some saft gin he be ony the waur o' the company he +gangs in till. There may be rizzons, ye ken. Ye needna du as they +du. Jock Mitchell was airin' Reid Rorie an' Black Geordie. An' +says I--for I wantit to ken whether I was sic a breme-buss +(broom-bush) as I used to be--says I, "Hoo are ye, Jock Mitchell?" +An' says Jock, "Brawly. Wha the deevil are ye?" An' says I, "Nae +mair o' a deevil nor yersel', Jock Mitchell, or Alexander, Baron +Rothie, either--though maybe that's no little o' ane." "Preserve +me!" cried Jock, "it's Shargar."--"Nae mair o' that, Jock," says I. +"Gin I bena a gentleman, or a' be dune,"--an' there I stack, for I +saw I was a muckle fule to lat oot onything o' the kin' to Jock. And +sae he seemed to think, too, for he brak oot wi' a great guffaw; an' +to win ower 't, I jined, an' leuch as gin naething was farrer aff +frae my thochts than ever bein' a gentleman. "Whaur do ye pit up, +Jock?" I said. "Oot by here," he answert, "at Luckie +Maitlan's."--"That's a queer place for a baron to put up, Jock," +says I. "There's rizzons," says he, an' lays his forefinger upo' the +side o' 's nose, o' whilk there was hardly eneuch to haud it ohn +gane intil the opposit ee. "We're no far frae there," says I--an' +deed I can hardly tell ye, Robert, what garred me say sae, but I +jist wantit to ken what that gentleman-brither o' mine was efter; +"tak the horse hame," says I--"I'll jist loup upo' Black +Geordie--an' we'll hae a glaiss thegither. I'll stan' treat." Sae +he gae me the bridle, an' I lap on. The deevil tried to get a +moufu' o' my hip, but, faith! I was ower swack for 'im; an' awa we +rade.' + +'I didna ken 'at ye cud ride, Shargar.' + +'Hoots! I cudna help it. I was aye takin' the horse to the watter +at The Boar's Heid, or The Royal Oak, or Lucky Happit's, or The +Aucht an' Furty. That's hoo I cam to ken Jock sae weel. We war +guid eneuch frien's whan I didna care for leein' or sweirin', an' +sic like.' + +'And what on earth did ye want wi' 'im noo?' + +'I tell ye I wantit to ken what that ne'er-do-weel brither o' mine +was efter. I had seen the horses stan'in' aboot twa or three times +i' the gloamin'; an' Sandy maun be aboot ill gin he be aboot +onything.' + +'What can 't maitter to you, Shargar, what a man like him 's aboot?' + +'Weel, ye see, Robert, my mither aye broucht me up to ken a' 'at +fowk was aboot, for she said ye cud never tell whan it micht turn +oot to the weelfaur o' yer advantage--gran' words!--I wonner whaur +she forgathert wi' them. But she was a terrible wuman, my mither, +an' kent a heap o' things--mair nor 'twas gude to ken, maybe. She +gaed aboot the country sae muckle, an' they say the gipsies she gaed +amang 's a dreadfu' auld fowk, an' hae the wisdom o' the Egyptians +'at Moses wad hae naething to do wi'.' + +'Whaur is she noo?' + +'I dinna ken. She may turn up ony day.' + +'There's ae thing, though, Shargar: gin ye want to be a gentleman, +ye maunna gang keekin' that gate intil ither fowk's affairs.' + +'Weel, I maun gie 't up. I winna say a word o' what Jock Mitchell +tellt me aboot Lord Sandy.' + +'Ow, say awa'.' + +'Na, na; ye wadna like to hear aboot ither fowk's affairs. My +mither tellt me he did verra ill efter Watterloo till a fremt +(stranger) lass at Brussels. But that's neither here nor there. I +maun set aboot my version, or I winna get it dune the nicht.' + +'What is Lord Sandy after? What did the rascal tell you? Why do +you make such a mystery of it?' said Robert, authoritatively, and in +his best English. + +''Deed I cudna mak naething o' 'm. He winkit an' he mintit (hinted) +an' he gae me to unnerstan' 'at the deevil was efter some lass or +ither, but wha--my lad was as dumb 's the graveyard about that. Gin +I cud only win at that, maybe I cud play him a plisky. But he +coupit ower three glasses o' whusky, an' the mair he drank the less +he wad say. An' sae I left him.' + +'Well, take care what you're about, Shargar. I don't think Dr. +Anderson would like you to be in such company,' said Robert; and +Shargar departed to his own room and his version. + +Towards the end of the session Miss St. John's reports of Ericson +were worse. Yet he was very hopeful himself, and thought he was +getting better fast. Every relapse he regarded as temporary; and +when he got a little better, thought he had recovered his original +position. It was some relief to Miss St. John to communicate her +anxiety to Robert. + +After the distribution of the prizes, of which he gained three, +Robert went the same evening to visit Dr. Anderson, intending to go +home the next day. The doctor gave him five golden sovereigns--a +rare sight in Scotland. Robert little thought in what service he +was about to spend them. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + +ROBERT IN ACTION. + +It was late when he left his friend. As he walked through the +Gallowgate, an ancient narrow street, full of low courts, some one +touched him upon the arm. He looked round. It was a young woman. +He turned again to walk on. + +'Mr Faukner,' she said, in a trembling voice, which Robert thought +he had heard before. + +He stopped. + +'I don't know you,' he said. 'I can't see your face. Tell me who +you are.' + +She returned no answer, but stood with her head aside. He could see +that her hands shook. + +'What do you want with me--if you won't say who you are?' + +'I want to tell you something,' she said; 'but I canna speyk here. +Come wi' me.' + +'I won't go with you without knowing who you are or where you're +going to take me.' + +'Dinna ye ken me?' she said pitifully, turning a little towards the +light of the gas-lamp, and looking up in his face. + +'It canna be Jessie Hewson?' said Robert, his heart swelling at the +sight of the pale worn countenance of the girl. + +'I was Jessie Hewson ance,' she said, 'but naebody here kens me by +that name but yersel'. Will ye come in? There's no a crater i' the +hoose but mysel'.' + +Robert turned at once. 'Go on,' he said. + +She led the way up a narrow stone stair between two houses. A door +high up in the gable admitted them. The boards bent so much under +his weight that Robert feared the floor would fall. + +'Bide ye there, sir, till I fess a licht,' she said. + +This was Robert's first introduction to a phase of human life with +which he became familiar afterwards. + +'Mind hoo ye gang, sir,' she resumed, returning with a candle. +'There's nae flurin' there. Haud i' the middle efter me, or ye'll +gang throu.' + +She led him into a room, with nothing in it but a bed, a table, and +a chair. On the table was a half-made shirt. In the bed lay a tiny +baby, fast asleep. It had been locked up alone in the dreary +garret. Robert approached to look at the child, for his heart felt +very warm to poor Jessie. + +'A bonnie bairnie,' he said, + +'Isna he, sir? Think o' 'im comin' to me! Nobody can tell the +mercy o' 't. Isna it strange that the verra sin suld bring an angel +frae haven upo' the back o' 't to uphaud an' restore the sinner? +Fowk thinks it's a punishment; but eh me! it's a mercifu' ane. +It's a wonner he didna think shame to come to me. But he cam to +beir my shame.' + +Robert wondered at her words. She talked of her sin with such a +meek openness! She looked her shame in the face, and acknowledged +it hers. Had she been less weak and worn, perhaps she could not +have spoken thus. + +'But what am I aboot!' she said, checking herself. 'I didna fess ye +here to speyk aboot mysel'. He's efter mair mischeef, and gin +onything cud be dune to haud him frae 't--' + +'Wha's efter mischeef, Jessie?' interrupted Robert. + +'Lord Rothie. He's gaein' aff the nicht in Skipper Hornbeck's boat +to Antwerp, I think they ca' 't, an' a bonnie young leddy wi' 'im. +They war to sail wi' the first o' the munelicht.--Surely I'm nae +ower late,' she added, going to the window. 'Na, the mune canna be +up yet.' + +'Na,' said Robert; 'I dinna think she rises muckle afore twa o'clock +the nicht. But hoo ken ye? Are ye sure o' 't? It's an awfu' thing +to think o'.' + +'To convence ye, I maun jist tell ye the trowth. The hoose we're in +hasna a gude character. We're middlin' dacent up here; but the lave +o' the place is dreadfu'. Eh for the bonnie leys o' Bodyfauld! Gin +ye see my father, tell him I'm nane waur than I was.' + +'They think ye droont i' the Dyer's Pot, as they ca' 't.' + +'There I am again!' she said--'miles awa' an' nae time to be +lost!--My lord has a man they ca' Mitchell. Ower weel I ken him. +There's a wuman doon the stair 'at he comes to see whiles; an' twa +or three nichts ago, I heard them lauchin' thegither. Sae I +hearkened. They war baith some fou, I'm thinkin'. I cudna tell ye +a' 'at they said. That's a punishment noo, gin ye like--to see and +hear the warst o' yer ain ill doin's. He tellt the limmer a heap o' +his lord's secrets. Ay, he tellt her aboot me, an' hoo I had gane +and droont mysel'. I could hear 'maist ilka word 'at he said; for +ye see the flurin' here 's no verra soon', and I was jist 'at I +cudna help hearkenin'. My lord's aff the nicht, as I tell ye. It's +a queer gait, but a quaiet, he thinks, nae doobt. Gin onybody wad +but tell her hoo mony een the baron's made sair wi' greitin'!' + +'But hoo's that to be dune?' said Robert. + +'I dinna ken. But I hae been watchin' to see you ever sin' syne. I +hae seen ye gang by mony a time. Ye're the only man I ken 'at I +could speyk till aboot it. Ye maun think what ye can do. The warst +o' 't is I canna tell wha she is or whaur she bides.' + +'In that case, I canna see what's to be dune.' + +'Cudna ye watch them aboord, an' slip a letter intil her han'? Or +ye cud gie 't to the skipper to gie her.' + +'I ken the skipper weel eneuch. He's a respectable man. Gin he +kent what the baron was efter, he wadna tak him on boord.' + +'That wad do little guid. He wad only hae her aff some ither gait.' + +'Weel,' said Robert, rising, 'I'll awa' hame, an' think aboot it as +I gang.--Wad ye tak a feow shillin's frae an auld frien'?' he added +with hesitation, putting his hand in his pocket. + +'Na--no a baubee,' she answered. 'Nobody sall say it was for mysel' +I broucht ye here. Come efter me, an' min' whaur ye pit doon yer +feet. It's no sicker.' + +She led him to the door. He bade her good-night. + +'Tak care ye dinna fa' gaein' doon the stair. It's maist as steep +'s a wa'.' + +As Robert came from between the houses, he caught a glimpse of a man +in a groom's dress going in at the street door of that he had left. + +All the natural knighthood in him was roused. But what could he do? +To write was a sneaking way. He would confront the baron. The +baron and the girl would both laugh at him. The sole conclusion he +could arrive at was to consult Shargar. + +He lost no time in telling him the story. + +'I tauld ye he was up to some deevilry or ither,' said Shargar. 'I +can shaw ye the verra hoose he maun be gaein' to tak her frae.' + +'Ye vratch! what for didna ye tell me that afore?' + +'Ye wadna hear aboot ither fowk's affairs. Na, not you! But some +fowk has no richt to consideration. The verra stanes they say 'ill +cry oot ill secrets like brither Sandy's.' + +'Whase hoose is 't?' + +'I dinna ken. I only saw him come oot o' 't ance, an' Jock Mitchell +was haudin' Black Geordie roon' the neuk. It canna be far frae Mr. +Lindsay's 'at you an' Mr. Ericson used to gang till.' + +'Come an' lat me see 't direckly,' cried Robert, starting up, with a +terrible foreboding at his heart. + +They were in the street in a moment. Shargar led the way by a +country lane to the top of the hill on the right, and then turning +to the left, brought him to some houses standing well apart from +each other. It was a region unknown to Robert. They were the backs +of the houses of which Mr. Lindsay's was one. + +'This is the hoose,' said Shargar. + +Robert rushed into action. He knocked at the door. Mr. Lindsay's +Jenny opened it. + +'Is yer mistress in, Jenny?' he asked at once. + +'Na. Ay. The maister's gane to Bors Castle.' + +'It's Miss Lindsay I want to see.' + +'She's up in her ain room wi' a sair heid.' + +Robert looked her hard in the face, and knew she was lying. + +'I want to see her verra partic'lar,' he said. + +'Weel, ye canna see her,' returned Jenny angrily. 'I'll tell her +onything ye like.' + +Concluding that little was to be gained by longer parley, but quite +uncertain whether Mysie was in the house or not, Robert turned to +Shargar, took him by the arm, and walked away in silence. When they +were beyond earshot of Jenny, who stood looking after them, + +'Ye're sure that's the hoose, Shargar?' said Robert quietly. + +'As sure's deith, and maybe surer, for I saw him come oot wi' my ain +een.' + +'Weel, Shargar, it's grown something awfu' noo. It's Miss Lindsay. +Was there iver sic a villain as that Lord Rothie--that brither o' +yours!' + +'I disoun 'im frae this verra 'oor,' said Shargar solemnly. + +'Something maun be dune. We'll awa' to the quay, an' see what'll +turn up. I wonner hoo's the tide.' + +'The tide's risin'. They'll never try to win oot till it's slack +watter--furbye 'at the Amphitrite, for as braid 's she is, and her +bows modelled efter the cheeks o' a resurrection cherub upo' a +gravestane, draws a heap o' watter: an' the bar they say 's waur to +win ower nor usual: it's been gatherin' again.' + +As they spoke, the boys were making for the new town, eagerly. Just +opposite where the Amphitrite lay was a public-house: into that they +made up their minds to go, and there to write a letter, which they +would give to Miss Lindsay if they could, or, if not, leave with +Skipper Hoornbeek. Before they reached the river, a thick rain of +minute drops began to fall, rendering the night still darker, so +that they could scarcely see the vessels from the pavement on the +other side of the quay, along which they were hurrying, to avoid the +cables, rings, and stone posts that made its margin dangerous in the +dim light. When they came to The Smack Inn they crossed right over +to reach the Amphitrite. A growing fear kept them silent as they +approached her berth. It was empty. They turned and stared at each +other in dismay. + +One of those amphibious animals that loiter about the borders of the +water was seated on a stone smoking, probably fortified against the +rain by the whisky inside him. + +'Whaur's the Amphitrite, Alan?' asked Shargar, for Robert was dumb +with disappointment and rage. + +'Half doon to Stanehive by this time, I'm thinkin',' answered Alan. +'For a brewin' tub like her, she fummles awa nae ill wi' a licht +win' astarn o' her. But I'm doobtin' afore she win across the +herrin-pot her fine passengers 'll win at the boddom o' their +stamacks. It's like to blaw a bonnetfu', and she rows awfu' in ony +win'. I dinna think she cud capsize, but for wamlin' she's waur nor +a bairn with the grips.' + +In absolute helplessness, the boys had let him talk on: there was +nothing more to be done; and Alan was in a talkative mood. + +'Fegs! gin 't come on to blaw,' he resumed, 'I wadna wonner gin they +got the skipper to set them ashore at Stanehive. I heard auld Horny +say something aboot lyin' to there for a bit, to tak a keg or +something aboord.' + +The boys looked at each other, bade Alan good-night, and walked +away. + +'Hoo far is 't to Stonehaven, Shargar?' said Robert. + +'I dinna richtly ken. Maybe frae twal to fifteen mile.' + +Robert stood still. Shargar saw his face pale as death, and +contorted with the effort to control his feelings. + +'Shargar,' he said, 'what am I to do? I vowed to Mr. Ericson that, +gin he deid, I wad luik efter that bonny lassie. An' noo whan he's +lyin' a' but deid, I hae latten her slip throu' my fingers wi' clean +carelessness. What am I to do? Gin I cud only win to Stonehaven +afore the Amphitrite! I cud gang aboord wi' the keg, and gin I cud +do naething mair, I wad hae tried to do my best. Gin I do naething, +my hert 'll brak wi' the weicht o' my shame.' + +Shargar burst into a roar of laughter. Robert was on the point of +knocking him down, but took him by the throat as a milder +proceeding, and shook him. + +'Robert! Robert!' gurgled Shargar, as soon as his choking had +overcome his merriment, 'ye're an awfu' Hielan'man. Hearken to me. +I beg--g--g yer pardon. What I was thinkin' o' was--' + +Robert relaxed his hold. But Shargar, notwithstanding the lesson +Robert had given him, could hardly speak yet for the enjoyment of +his own device. + +'Gin we could only get rid o' Jock Mitchell!--' he crowed; and burst +out again. + +'He's wi' a wuman i' the Gallowgate,' said Robert. + +'Losh, man!' exclaimed Shargar, and started off at full speed. + +He was no match for his companion, however. + +'Whaur the deevil are ye rinnin' till, ye wirrycow (scarecrow)?' +panted Robert, as he laid hold of his collar. + +'Lat me gang, Robert,' gasped Shargar. 'Losh, man! ye'll be on Black +Geordie in anither ten meenits, an' me ahin' ye upo' Reid Rorie. +An' faith gin we binna at Stanehive afore the Dutchman wi' 's +boddom foremost, it'll be the faut o' the horse and no o' the men.' + +Robert's heart gave a bound of hope. + +'Hoo 'ill ye get them, Shargar?' he asked eagerly. + +'Steal them,' answered Shargar, struggling to get away from the +grasp still upon his collar. + +'We micht be hanged for that.' + +'Weel, Robert, I'll tak a' the wyte o' 't. Gin it hadna been for +you, I micht ha' been hangt by this time for ill doin': for your +sake I'll be hangt for weel doin', an' welcome. Come awa'. To +steal a mairch upo' brither Sandy wi' aucht (eight) horse-huves o' +'s ain! Ha! ha! ha!' + +They sped along, now running themselves out of breath, now walking +themselves into it again, until they reached a retired hostelry +between the two towns. Warning Robert not to show himself, Shargar +disappeared round the corner of the house. + +Robert grew weary, and then anxious. At length Shargar's face came +through the darkness. + +'Robert,' he whispered, 'gie 's yer bonnet. I'll be wi' ye in a +moment noo.' + +Robert obeyed, too anxious to question him. In about three minutes +more Shargar reappeared, leading what seemed the ghost of a black +horse; for Robert could see only his eyes, and his hoofs made +scarcely any noise. How he had managed it with a horse of Black +Geordie's temper, I do not know, but some horses will let some +persons do anything with them: he had drawn his own stockings over +his fore feet, and tied their two caps upon his hind hoofs. + +'Lead him awa' quaietly up the road till I come to ye,' said +Shargar, as he took the mufflings off the horse's feet. 'An' min' +'at he doesna tak a nip o' ye. He's some ill for bitin'. I'll be +efter ye direckly. Rorie's saiddlet an' bridled. He only wants his +carpet-shune.' + +Robert led the horse a few hundred yards, then stopped and waited. +Shargar soon joined him, already mounted on Red Roderick. + +'Here's yer bonnet, Robert. It's some foul, I doobt. But I cudna +help it. Gang on, man. Up wi' ye. Maybe I wad hae better keepit +Geordie mysel'. But ye can ride. Ance ye're on, he canna bite ye.' + +But Robert needed no encouragement from Shargar. In his present +mood he would have mounted a griffin. He was on horseback in a +moment. They trotted gently through the streets, and out of the +town. Once over the Dee, they gave their horses the rein, and off +they went through the dark drizzle. Before they got half-way they +were wet to the skin; but little did Robert, or Shargar either, care +for that. Not many words passed between them. + +'Hoo 'ill ye get the horse (plural) in again, Shargar?' asked +Robert. + +'Afore I get them back,' answered Shargar, 'they'll be tired eneuch +to gang hame o' themsel's. Gin we had only had the luck to meet +Jock!--that wad hae been gran'.' + +'What for that?' + +'I wad hae cawed Reid Rorie ower the heid o' 'm, an' left him +lyin'--the coorse villain!' + +The horses never flagged till they drew up in the main street of +Stonehaven. Robert ran down to the harbour to make inquiry, and +left Shargar to put them up. + +The moon had risen, but the air was so full of vapour that she only +succeeded in melting the darkness a little. The sea rolled in +front, awful in its dreariness, under just light enough to show a +something unlike the land. But the rain had ceased, and the air was +clearer. Robert asked a solitary man, with a telescope in his hand, +whether he was looking out for the Amphitrite. The man asked him +gruffly in return what he knew of her. Possibly the nature of the +keg to be put on board had something to do with his Scotch reply. +Robert told him he was a friend of the captain, had missed the +boat, and would give any one five shillings to put him on board. +The man went away and returned with a companion. After some +further questioning and bargaining, they agreed to take him. Robert +loitered about the pier full of impatience. Shargar joined him. + +Day began to break over the waves. They gleamed with a blue-gray +leaden sheen. The men appeared coming along the harbour, and +descended by a stair into a little skiff, where a barrel, or +something like one, lay under a tarpaulin. Robert bade Shargar +good-bye, and followed. They pushed off, rowed out into the bay, +and lay on their oars waiting for the vessel. The light grew apace, +and Robert fancied he could distinguish the two horses with one +rider against the sky on the top of the cliffs, moving northwards. +Turning his eyes to the sea, he saw the canvas of the brig, and his +heart beat fast. The men bent to their oars. She drew nearer, and +lay to. When they reached her he caught the rope the sailors threw, +was on board in a moment, and went aft to the captain. The Dutchman +stared. In a few words Robert made him understand his object, +offering to pay for his passage, but the good man would not hear of +it. He told him that the lady and gentleman had come on board as +brother and sister: the baron was too knowing to run his head into +the noose of Scotch law. + +'I cannot throw him over the board,' said the skipper; 'and what am +I to do? I am afraid it is of no use. Ah! poor thing!' + +By this time the vessel was under way. The wind freshened. Mysie +had been ill ever since they left the month of the river: now she +was much worse. Before another hour passed, she was crying to be +taken home to her papa. Still the wind increased, and the vessel +laboured much. + +Robert never felt better, and if it had not been for the cause of +his sea-faring, would have thoroughly enjoyed it. He put on some +sea-going clothes of the captain's, and set himself to take his +share in working the brig, in which he was soon proficient enough to +be useful. When the sun rose, they were in a tossing wilderness of +waves. With the sunrise, Robert began to think he had been guilty +of a great folly. For what could he do? How was he to prevent the +girl from going off with her lover the moment they landed? But his +poor attempt would verify his willingness. + +The baron came on deck now and then, looking bored. He had not +calculated on having to nurse the girl. Had Mysie been well, he +could have amused himself with her, for he found her ignorance +interesting. As it was, he felt injured, and indeed disgusted at +the result of the experiment. + +On the third day the wind abated a little; but towards night it blew +hard again, and it was not until they reached the smooth waters of +the Scheldt that Mysie made her appearance on deck, looking +dreadfully ill, and altogether like a miserable, unhappy child. Her +beauty was greatly gone, and Lord Rothie did not pay her much +attention. + +Robert had as yet made no attempt to communicate with her, for there +was scarcely a chance of her concealing a letter from the baron. +But as soon as they were in smooth water, he wrote one, telling her +in the simplest language that the baron was a bad man, who had +amused himself by making many women fall in love with him, and then +leaving them miserable: he knew one of them himself. + +Having finished his letter, he began to look abroad over the smooth +water, and the land smooth as the water. He saw tall poplars, the +spires of the forest, and rows of round-headed dumpy trees, like +domes. And he saw that all the buildings like churches, had either +spires like poplars, or low round domes like those other trees. The +domes gave an eastern aspect to the country. The spire of Antwerp +cathedral especially had the poplar for its model. The pinnacles +which rose from the base of each successive start of its narrowing +height were just the clinging, upright branches of the poplar--a +lovely instance of Art following Nature's suggestion. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + +ROBERT FINDS A NEW INSTRUMENT. + +At length the vessel lay alongside the quay, and as Mysie stepped +from its side the skipper found an opportunity of giving her +Robert's letter. It was the poorest of chances, but Robert could +think of no other. She started on receiving it, but regarding the +skipper's significant gestures put it quietly away. She looked +anything but happy, for her illness had deprived her of courage, and +probably roused her conscience. Robert followed the pair, saw them +enter The Great Labourer--what could the name mean? could it mean +The Good Shepherd?--and turned away helpless, objectless indeed, for +he had done all that he could, and that all was of no potency. A +world of innocence and beauty was about to be hurled from its orbit +of light into the blackness of outer chaos; he knew it, and was +unable to speak word or do deed that should frustrate the power of a +devil who so loved himself that he counted it an honour to a girl to +have him for her ruin. Her after life had no significance for him, +save as a trophy of his victory. He never perceived that such +victory was not yielded to him; that he gained it by putting on the +garments of light; that if his inward form had appeared in its own +ugliness, not one of the women whose admiration he had secured would +not have turned from him as from the monster of an old tale. + +Robert wandered about till he was so weary that his head ached with +weariness. At length he came upon the open space before the +cathedral, whence the poplar-spire rose aloft into a blue sky +flecked with white clouds. It was near sunset, and he could not see +the sun, but the upper half of the spire shone glorious in its +radiance. From the top his eye sank to the base. In the base was a +little door half open. Might not that be the lowly narrow entrance +through the shadow up to the sun-filled air? He drew near with a +kind of tremor, for never before had he gazed upon visible grandeur +growing out of the human soul, in the majesty of everlastingness--a +tree of the Lord's planting. Where had been but an empty space of +air and light and darkness, had risen, and had stood for ages, a +mighty wonder awful to the eye, solid to the hand. He peeped +through the opening of the door: there was the foot of a +stair--marvellous as the ladder of Jacob's dream--turning away +towards the unknown. He pushed the door and entered. A man +appeared and barred his advance. Robert put his hand in his pocket +and drew out some silver. The man took one piece--looked at +it--turned it over--put it in his pocket, and led the way up the +stair. Robert followed and followed and followed. + +He came out of stone walls upon an airy platform whence the spire +ascended heavenwards. His conductor led upward still, and he +followed, winding within a spiral network of stone, through which +all the world looked in. Another platform, and yet another spire +springing from its basement. Still up they went, and at length +stood on a circle of stone surrounding like a coronet the last base +of the spire which lifted its apex untrodden. Then Robert turned +and looked below. He grasped the stones before him. The loneliness +was awful. + +There was nothing between him and the roofs of the houses, four +hundred feet below, but the spot where he stood. The whole city, +with its red roofs, lay under him. He stood uplifted on the genius +of the builder, and the town beneath him was a toy. The all but +featureless flat spread forty miles on every side, and the roofs of +the largest buildings below were as dovecots. But the space between +was alive with awe--so vast, so real! + +He turned and descended, winding through the network of stone which +was all between him and space. The object of the architect must +have been to melt away the material from before the eyes of the +spirit. He hung in the air in a cloud of stone. As he came in his +descent within the ornaments of one of the basements, he found +himself looking through two thicknesses of stone lace on the nearing +city. Down there was the beast of prey and his victim; but for the +moment he was above the region of sorrow. His weariness and his +headache had vanished utterly. With his mind tossed on its own +speechless delight, he was slowly descending still, when he saw on +his left hand a door ajar. He would look what mystery lay within. +A push opened it. He discovered only a little chamber lined with +wood. In the centre stood something--a bench-like piece of +furniture, plain and worn. He advanced a step; peered over the top +of it; saw keys, white and black; saw pedals below: it was an organ! +Two strides brought him in front of it. A wooden stool, polished +and hollowed with centuries of use, was before it. But where was +the bellows? That might be down hundreds of steps below, for he was +half-way only to the ground. He seated himself musingly, and +struck, as he thought, a dumb chord. Responded, up in the air, far +overhead, a mighty booming clang. Startled, almost frightened, even +as if Mary St. John had said she loved him, Robert sprung from the +stool, and, without knowing why, moved only by the chastity of +delight, flung the door to the post. It banged and clicked. Almost +mad with the joy of the titanic instrument, he seated himself again +at the keys, and plunged into a tempest of clanging harmony. One +hundred bells hang in that tower of wonder, an instrument for a +city, nay, for a kingdom. Often had Robert dreamed that he was the +galvanic centre of a thunder-cloud of harmony, flashing off from +every finger the willed lightning tone: such was the unexpected +scale of this instrument--so far aloft in the sunny air rang the +responsive notes, that his dream appeared almost realized. The +music, like a fountain bursting upwards, drew him up and bore him +aloft. From the resounding cone of bells overhead he no longer +heard their tones proceed, but saw level-winged forms of light +speeding off with a message to the nations. It was only his roused +phantasy; but a sweet tone is nevertheless a messenger of God; and a +right harmony and sequence of such tones is a little gospel. + +At length he found himself following, till that moment +unconsciously, the chain of tunes he well remembered having played +on his violin the night he went first with Ericson to see Mysie, +ending with his strange chant about the witch lady and the dead +man's hand. + +Ere he had finished the last, his passion had begun to fold its +wings, and he grew dimly aware of a beating at the door of the +solitary chamber in which he sat. He knew nothing of the enormity +of which he was guilty--presenting unsought the city of Antwerp with +a glorious phantasia. He did not know that only upon grand, solemn, +world-wide occasions, such as a king's birthday or a ball at the +Hôtel de Ville, was such music on the card. When he flung the door +to, it had closed with a spring lock, and for the last quarter of an +hour three gens-d'arme, commanded by the sacristan of the tower, had +been thundering thereat. He waited only to finish the last notes of +the wild Orcadian chant, and opened the door. He was seized by the +collar, dragged down the stair into the street, and through a crowd +of wondering faces--poor unconscious dreamer! it will not do to +think on the house-top even, and you had been dreaming very loud +indeed in the church spire--away to the bureau of the police. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + +DEATH. + +I need not recount the proceedings of the Belgian police; how they +interrogated Robert concerning a letter from Mary St. John which +they found in an inner pocket; how they looked doubtful over a copy +of Horace that lay in his coat, and put evidently a momentous +question about some algebraical calculations on the fly-leaf of it. +Fortunately or unfortunately--I do not know which--Robert did not +understand a word they said to him. He was locked up, and left to +fret for nearly a week; though what he could have done had he been +at liberty, he knew as little as I know. At last, long after it was +useless to make any inquiry about Miss Lindsay, he was set at +liberty. He could just pay for a steerage passage to London, whence +he wrote to Dr. Anderson for a supply, and was in Aberdeen a few +days after. + +This was Robert's first cosmopolitan experience. He confided the +whole affair to the doctor, who approved of all, saying it could +have been of no use, but he had done right. He advised him to go +home at once, for he had had letters inquiring after him. Ericson +was growing steadily worse--in fact, he feared Robert might not see +him alive. + +If this news struck Robert to the heart, his pain was yet not +without some poor alleviation:--he need not tell Ericson about +Mysie, but might leave him to find out the truth when, free of a +dying body, he would be better able to bear it. That very night he +set off on foot for Rothieden. There was no coach from Aberdeen +till eight the following morning, and before that he would be there. + +It was a dreary journey without Ericson. Every turn of the road +reminded him of him. And Ericson too was going a lonely unknown +way. + +Did ever two go together upon that way? Might not two die together +and not lose hold of each other all the time, even when the sense of +the clasping hands was gone, and the soul had withdrawn itself from +the touch? Happy they who prefer the will of God to their own even +in this, and would, as the best friend, have him near who can be +near--him who made the fourth in the fiery furnace! Fable or fact, +reader, I do not care. The One I mean is, and in him I hope. + +Very weary was Robert when he walked into his grandmother's house. + +Betty came out of the kitchen at the sound of his entrance. + +'Is Mr. Ericson--?' + +'Na; he's nae deid,' she answered. 'He'll maybe live a day or twa, +they say.' + +'Thank God!' said Robert, and went to his grandmother. + +'Eh, laddie!' said Mrs. Falconer, the first greetings over, 'ane 's +ta'en an' anither 's left! but what for 's mair nor I can faddom. +There's that fine young man, Maister Ericson, at deith's door; an' +here am I, an auld runklet wife, left to cry upo' deith, an' he +winna hear me.' + +'Cry upo' God, grannie, an' no upo' deith,' said Robert, catching at +the word as his grandmother herself might have done. He had no such +unfair habit when I knew him, and always spoke to one's meaning, not +one's words. But then he had a wonderful gift of knowing what one's +meaning was. + +He did not sit down, but, tired as he was, went straight to The +Boar's Head. He met no one in the archway, and walked up to +Ericson's room. When he opened the door, he found the large screen +on the other side, and hearing a painful cough, lingered behind it, +for he could not control his feelings sufficiently. Then he heard a +voice--Ericson's voice; but oh, how changed!--He had no idea that he +ought not to listen. + +'Mary,' the voice said, 'do not look like that. I am not suffering. +It is only my body. Your arm round me makes me so strong! Let me +lay my head on your shoulder.' + +A brief pause followed. + +'But, Eric,' said Mary's voice, 'there is one that loves you better +than I do.' + +'If there is,' returned Ericson, feebly, 'he has sent his angel to +deliver me.' + +'But you do believe in him, Eric?' + +The voice expressed anxiety no less than love. + +'I am going to see. There is no other way. When I find him, I +shall believe in him. I shall love him with all my heart, I know. +I love the thought of him now.' + +'But that's not himself, my--darling!' she said. + +'No. But I cannot love himself till I find him. Perhaps there is no +Jesus.' + +'Oh, don't say that. I can't bear to hear you talk so,' + +'But, dear heart, if you're so sure of him, do you think he would +turn me away because I don't do what I can't do? I would if I could +with all my heart. If I were to say I believed in him, and then +didn't trust him, I could understand it. But when it's only that +I'm not sure about what I never saw, or had enough of proof to +satisfy me of, how can he be vexed at that? You seem to me to do +him great wrong, Mary. Would you now banish me for ever, if I +should, when my brain is wrapped in the clouds of death, forget you +along with everything else for a moment?' + +'No, no, no. Don't talk like that, Eric, dear. There may be +reasons, you know.' + +'I know what they say well enough. But I expect Him, if there is a +Him, to be better even than you, my beautiful--and I don't know a +fault in you, but that you believe in a God you can't trust. If I +believed in a God, wouldn't I trust him just? And I do hope in him. +We'll see, my darling. When we meet again I think you'll say I was +right.' + +Robert stood like one turned into marble. Deep called unto deep in +his soul. The waves and the billows went over him. + +Mary St. John answered not a word. I think she must have been +conscience-stricken. Surely the Son of Man saw nearly as much faith +in Ericson as in her. Only she clung to the word as a bond that the +Lord had given her: she would rather have his bond. + +Ericson had another fit of coughing. Robert heard the rustling of +ministration. But in a moment the dying man again took up the word. +He seemed almost as anxious about Mary's faith as she was about +his. + +'There's Robert,' he said: 'I do believe that boy would die for me, +and I never did anything to deserve it. Now Jesus Christ must be as +good as Robert at least. I think he must be a great deal better, if +he's Jesus Christ at all. Now Robert might be hurt if I didn't +believe in him. But I've never seen Jesus Christ. It's all in an +old book, over which the people that say they believe in it the +most, fight like dogs and cats. I beg your pardon, my Mary; but +they do, though the words are ugly.' + +'Ah! but if you had tried it as I've tried it, you would know +better, Eric.' + +'I think I should, dear. But it's too late now. I must just go and +see. There's no other way left.' + +The terrible cough came again. As soon as the fit was over, with a +grand despair in his heart, Robert went from behind the screen. + +Ericson was on a couch. His head lay on Mary St. John's bosom. +Neither saw him. + +'Perhaps,' said Ericson, panting with death, 'a kiss in heaven may +be as good as being married on earth, Mary.' + +She saw Robert and did not answer. Then Eric saw him. He smiled; +but Mary grew very pale. + +Robert came forward, stooped and kissed Ericson's forehead, kneeled +and kissed Mary's hand, rose and went out. + +>From that moment they were both dead to him. Dead, I say--not lost, +not estranged, but dead--that is, awful and holy. He wept for Eric. +He did not weep for Mary yet. But he found a time. + +Ericson died two days after. + +Here endeth Robert's youth. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + +IN MEMORIAM. + +In memory of Eric Ericson, I add a chapter of sonnets gathered from +his papers, almost desiring that those only should read them who +turn to the book a second time. How his papers came into my +possession, will be explained afterwards. + +Tumultuous rushing o'er the outstretched plains; +A wildered maze of comets and of suns; +The blood of changeless God that ever runs +With quick diastole up the immortal veins; +A phantom host that moves and works in chains; +A monstrous fiction which, collapsing, stuns +The mind to stupor and amaze at once; +A tragedy which that man best explains +Who rushes blindly on his wild career +With trampling hoofs and sound of mailed war, +Who will not nurse a life to win a tear, +But is extinguished like a falling star:-- +Such will at times this life appear to me, +Until I learn to read more perfectly. + +HOM. IL. v. 403. + +If thou art tempted by a thought of ill, +Crave not too soon for victory, nor deem +Thou art a coward if thy safety seem +To spring too little from a righteous will: +For there is nightmare on thee, nor until +Thy soul hath caught the morning's early gleam +Seek thou to analyze the monstrous dream +By painful introversion; rather fill +Thine eye with forms thou knowest to be truth: +But see thou cherish higher hope than this; +A hope hereafter that thou shalt be fit +Calm-eyed to face distortion, and to sit +Transparent among other forms of youth +Who own no impulse save to God and bliss. + +And must I ever wake, gray dawn, to know +Thee standing sadly by me like a ghost? +I am perplexed with thee, that thou shouldst cost +This Earth another turning: all aglow +Thou shouldst have reached me, with a purple show +Along far-mountain tops: and I would post +Over the breadth of seas though I were lost +In the hot phantom-chase for life, if so +Thou camest ever with this numbing sense +Of chilly distance and unlovely light; +Waking this gnawing soul anew to fight +With its perpetual load: I drive thee hence-- +I have another mountain-range from whence +Bursteh a sun unutterably bright. + +GALILEO. + +'And yet it moves!' Ah, Truth, where wert thou then, +When all for thee they racked each piteous limb? +Wert though in Heaven, and busy with thy hymn, +When those poor hands convulsed that held thy pen? +Art thou a phantom that deceivest men +To their undoing? or dost thou watch him +Pale, cold, and silent in his dungeon dim? +And wilt thou ever speak to him again? +'It moves, it moves! Alas, my flesh was weak; +That was a hideous dream! I'll cry aloud +How the green bulk wheels sunward day by day! +Ah me! ah me! perchance my heart was proud +That I alone should know that word to speak; +And now, sweet Truth, shine upon these, I pray.' + +If thou wouldst live the Truth in very deed, +Thou hast thy joy, but thou hast more of pain. +Others will live in peace, and thou be fain +To bargain with despair, and in thy need +To make thy meal upon the scantiest weed. +These palaces, for thee they stand in vain; +Thine is a ruinous hut; and oft the rain +Shall drench thee in the midnight; yea the speed +Of earth outstrip thee pilgrim, while thy feet +Move slowly up the heights. Yet will there come +Through the time-rents about thy moving cell, +An arrow for despair, and oft the hum +Of far-off populous realms where spirits dwell. + +TO * * * * + +Speak, Prophet of the Lord! We may not start +To find thee with us in thine ancient dress, +Haggard and pale from some bleak wilderness, +Empty of all save God and thy loud heart: +Nor with like rugged message quick to dart +Into the hideous fiction mean and base: +But yet, O prophet man, we need not less, +But more of earnest; though it is thy part +To deal in other words, if thou wouldst smite +The living Mammon, seated, not as then +In bestial quiescence grimly dight, +But thrice as much an idol-god as when +He stared at his own feet from morn to night.8 + +THE WATCHER. + +>From out a windy cleft there comes a gaze +Of eyes unearthly which go to and fro +Upon the people's tumult, for below +The nations smite each other: no amaze +Troubles their liquid rolling, or affrays +Their deep-set contemplation: steadily glow +Those ever holier eye-balls, for they grow +Liker unto the eyes of one that prays. +And if those clasped hands tremble, comes a power +As of the might of worlds, and they are holden +Blessing above us in the sunrise golden; +And they will be uplifted till that hour +Of terrible rolling which shall rise and shake +This conscious nightmare from us and we wake. + +THE BELOVED DISCIPLE. + +I + +One do I see and twelve; but second there +Methinks I know thee, thou beloved one; +Not from thy nobler port, for there are none +More quiet-featured; some there are who bear +Their message on their brows, while others wear +A look of large commission, nor will shun +The fiery trial, so their work is done: +But thou hast parted with thine eyes in prayer-- +Unearthly are they both; and so thy lips +Seem like the porches of the spirit land; +For thou hast laid a mighty treasure by, +Unlocked by Him in Nature, and thine eye +Burns with a vision and apocalypse +Thy own sweet soul can hardly understand. + +II + +A Boanerges too! Upon my heart +It lay a heavy hour: features like thine +Should glow with other message than the shine +Of the earth-burrowing levin, and the start +That cleaveth horrid gulfs. Awful and swart +A moment stoodest thou, but less divine-- +Brawny and clad in ruin!--till with mine +Thy heart made answering signals, and apart +Beamed forth thy two rapt eye-balls doubly clear, +And twice as strong because thou didst thy duty, +And though affianced to immortal Beauty, +Hiddest not weakly underneath her veil +The pest of Sin and Death which maketh pale: +Henceforward be thy spirit doubly dear.9 + +THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. + +There is not any weed but hath its shower, +There is not any pool but hath its star; +And black and muddy though the waters are, +We may not miss the glory of a flower, +And winter moons will give them magic power +To spin in cylinders of diamond spar; +And everything hath beauty near and far, +And keepeth close and waiteth on its hour. +And I when I encounter on my road +A human soul that looketh black and grim, +Shall I more ceremonious be than God? +Shall I refuse to watch one hour with him +Who once beside our deepest woe did bud +A patient watching flower about the brim. + +'Tis not the violent hands alone that bring +The curse, the ravage, and the downward doom +Although to these full oft the yawning tomb +Owes deadly surfeit; but a keener sting, +A more immortal agony, will cling +To the half-fashioned sin which would assume +Fair Virtue's garb. The eye that sows the gloom +With quiet seeds of Death henceforth to spring +What time the sun of passion burning fierce +Breaks through the kindly cloud of circumstance; +The bitter word, and the unkindly glance, +The crust and canker coming with the years, +Are liker Death than arrows, and the lance +Which through the living heart at once doth pierce. + +SPOKEN OF SEVERAL PHILOSOPHERS. + +I pray you, all ye men, who put your trust +In moulds and systems and well-tackled gear, +Holding that Nature lives from year to year +In one continual round because she must-- +Set me not down, I pray you, in the dust +Of all these centuries, like a pot of beer, +A pewter-pot disconsolately clear, +Which holds a potful, as is right and just. +I will grow clamorous--by the rood, I will, +If thus ye use me like a pewter pot. +Good friend, thou art a toper and a sot-- +I will not be the lead to hold thy swill, +Nor any lead: I will arise and spill +Thy silly beverage, spill it piping hot. + +Nature, to him no message dost thou bear, +Who in thy beauty findeth not the power +To gird himself more strongly for the hour +Of night and darkness. Oh, what colours rare +The woods, the valleys, and the mountains wear +To him who knows thy secret, and in shower +And fog, and ice-cloud, hath a secret bower +Where he may rest until the heavens are fair! +Not with the rest of slumber, but the trance +Of onward movement steady and serene, +Where oft in struggle and in contest keen +His eyes will opened be, and all the dance +Of life break on him, and a wide expanse +Roll upward through the void, sunny and green. + +TO JUNE. + +Ah, truant, thou art here again, I see! +For in a season of such wretched weather +I thought that thou hadst left us altogether, +Although I could not choose but fancy thee +Skulking about the hill-tops, whence the glee +Of thy blue laughter peeped at times, or rather +Thy bashful awkwardness, as doubtful whether +Thou shouldst be seen in such a company +Of ugly runaways, unshapely heaps +Of ruffian vapour, broken from restraint +Of their slim prison in the ocean deeps. +But yet I may not, chide: fall to thy books, +Fall to immediately without complaint-- +There they are lying, hills and vales and brooks. + +WRITTEN ABOUT THE LONGEST DAY. + +Summer, sweet Summer, many-fingered Summer! +We hold thee very dear, as well we may: +It is the kernel of the year to-day-- +All hail to thee! Thou art a welcome corner! +If every insect were a fairy drummer, +And I a fifer that could deftly play, +We'd give the old Earth such a roundelay +That she would cast all thought of labour from her +Ah! what is this upon my window-pane? +Some sulky drooping cloud comes pouting up, +Stamping its glittering feet along the plain! +Well, I will let that idle fancy drop. +Oh, how the spouts are bubbling with the rain! +And all the earth shines like a silver cup! + +ON A MIDGE. + +Whence do ye come, ye creature? Each of you +Is perfect as an angel; wings and eyes +Stupendous in their beauty--gorgeous dyes +In feathery fields of purple and of blue! +Would God I saw a moment as ye do! +I would become a molecule in size, +Rest with you, hum with you, or slanting rise +Along your one dear sunbeam, could I view +The pearly secret which each tiny fly, +Each tiny fly that hums and bobs and stirs, +Hides in its little breast eternally +>From you, ye prickly grim philosophers, +With all your theories that sound so high: +Hark to the buzz a moment, my good sirs! + +ON A WATERFALL. + +Here stands a giant stone from whose far top +Comes down the sounding water. Let me gaze +Till every sense of man and human ways +Is wrecked and quenched for ever, and I drop +Into the whirl of time, and without stop +Pass downward thus! Again my eyes I raise +To thee, dark rock; and through the mist and haze +My strength returns when I behold thy prop +Gleam stern and steady through the wavering wrack +Surely thy strength is human, and like me +Thou bearest loads of thunder on thy back! +And, lo, a smile upon thy visage black-- +A breezy tuft of grass which I can see +Waving serenely from a sunlit crack! + +Above my head the great pine-branches tower +Backwards and forwards each to the other bends, +Beckoning the tempest-cloud which hither wends +Like a slow-laboured thought, heavy with power; +Hark to the patter of the coming shower! +Let me be silent while the Almighty sends +His thunder-word along; but when it ends +I will arise and fashion from the hour +Words of stupendous import, fit to guard +High thoughts and purposes, which I may wave, +When the temptation cometh close and hard, +Like fiery brands betwixt me and the grave +Of meaner things--to which I am a slave +If evermore I keep not watch and ward. + +I do remember how when very young, +I saw the great sea first, and heard its swell +As I drew nearer, caught within the spell +Of its vast size and its mysterious tongue. +How the floor trembled, and the dark boat swung +With a man in it, and a great wave fell +Within a stone's cast! Words may never tell +The passion of the moment, when I flung +All childish records by, and felt arise +A thing that died no more! An awful power +I claimed with trembling hands and eager eyes, +Mine, mine for ever, an immortal dower.-- +The noise of waters soundeth to this hour, +When I look seaward through the quiet skies. + +ON THE SOURCE OF THE ARVE. + +Hear'st thou the dash of water loud and hoarse +With its perpetual tidings upward climb, +Struggling against the wind? Oh, how sublime! +For not in vain from its portentous source, +Thy heart, wild stream, hath yearned for its full force, +But from thine ice-toothed caverns dark as time +At last thou issuest, dancing to the rhyme +Of thy outvolleying freedom! Lo, thy course +Lies straight before thee as the arrow flies, +Right to the ocean-plains. Away, away! +Thy parent waits thee, and her sunset dyes +Are ruffled for thy coming, and the gray +Of all her glittering borders flashes high +Against the glittering rocks: oh, haste, and fly! + + + + +PART III.--HIS MANHOOD. + + + +CHAPTER I. + +IN THE DESERT. + +A life lay behind Robert Falconer, and a life lay before him. He +stood on a shoal between. + +The life behind him was in its grave. He had covered it over and +turned away. But he knew it would rise at night. + +The life before him was not yet born; and what should issue from +that dull ghastly unrevealing fog on the horizon, he did not care. +Thither the tide setting eastward would carry him, and his future +must be born. All he cared about was to leave the empty garments of +his dead behind him--the sky and the fields, the houses and the +gardens which those dead had made alive with their presence. +Travel, motion, ever on, ever away, was the sole impulse in his +heart. Nor had the thought of finding his father any share in his +restlessness. + +He told his grandmother that he was going back to Aberdeen. She +looked in his face with surprise, but seeing trouble there, asked no +questions. As if walking in a dream, he found himself at Dr. +Anderson's door. + +'Why, Robert,' said the good man, 'what has brought you back? Ah! +I see. Poor Ericson! I am very sorry, my boy. What can I do for +you?' + +'I can't go on with my studies now, sir,' answered Robert. 'I have +taken a great longing for travel. Will you give me a little money +and let me go?' + +'To be sure I will. Where do you want to go?' + +'I don't know. Perhaps as I go I shall find myself wanting to go +somewhere. You're not afraid to trust me, are you, sir?' + +'Not in the least, Robert. I trust you perfectly. You shall do +just as you please.--Have you any idea, how much money you will +want?' + +'No. Give me what you are willing I should spend: I will go by +that.' + +'Come along to the bank then. I will give you enough to start with. +Write at once when you want more. Don't be too saving. Enjoy +yourself as well as you can. I shall not grudge it.' + +Robert smiled a wan smile at the idea of enjoying himself. His +friend saw it, but let it pass. There was no good in persuading a +man whose grief was all he had left, that he must ere long part with +that too. That would have been in lowest deeps of sorrow to open a +yet lower deep of horror. But Robert would have refused, and would +have been right in refusing to believe with regard to himself what +might be true in regard to most men. He might rise above his grief; +he might learn to contain his grief; but lose it, forget it?--never. + +He went to bid Shargar farewell. As soon as he had a glimpse of +what his friend meant, he burst out in an agony of supplication. + +'Tak me wi' ye, Robert,' he cried. 'Ye're a gentleman noo. I'll be +yer man. I'll put on a livery coat, an' gang wi' ye. I'll awa' to +Dr. Anderson. He's sure to lat me gang.' + +'No, Shargar,' said Robert, 'I can't have you with me. I've come +into trouble, Shargar, and I must fight it out alone.' + +'Ay, ay; I ken. Puir Mr. Ericson!' + +'There's nothing the matter with Mr. Ericson. Don't ask me any +questions. I've said more to you now than I've said to anybody +besides.' + +'That is guid o' you, Robert. But am I never to see ye again?' + +'I don't know. Perhaps we may meet some day.' + +'Perhaps is nae muckle to say, Robert,' protested Shargar. + +'It's more than can be said about everything, Shargar,' returned +Robert, sadly. + +'Weel, I maun jist tak it as 't comes,' said Shargar, with a +despairing philosophy derived from the days when his mother thrashed +him. 'But, eh! Robert, gin it had only pleased the Almichty to sen' +me into the warl' in a some respectable kin' o' a fashion!' + +'Wi' a chance a' gaein' aboot the country like that curst villain +yer brither, I suppose?' retorted Robert, rousing himself for a +moment. + +'Na, na,' responded Shargar. 'I'll stick to my ain mither. She +never learned me sic tricks.' + +'Do ye that. Ye canna compleen o' God. It's a' richt as far 's +ye're concerned. Gin he dinna something o' ye yet, it'll be your +wyte, no his, I'm thinkin'.' + +They walked to Dr. Anderson's together, and spent the night there. +In the morning Robert got on the coach for Edinburgh. + +I cannot, if I would, follow him on his travels. Only at times, +when the conversation rose in the dead of night, by some Jacob's +ladder of blessed ascent, into regions where the heart of such a man +could open as in its own natural clime, would a few words cause the +clouds that enveloped this period of his history to dispart, and +grant me a peep into the phantasm of his past. I suspect, however, +that much of it left upon his mind no recallable impressions. I +suspect that much of it looked to himself in the retrospect like a +painful dream, with only certain objects and occurrences standing +prominent enough to clear the moonlight mist enwrapping the rest. + +What the precise nature of his misery was I shall not even attempt +to conjecture. That would be to intrude within the holy place of a +human heart. One thing alone I will venture to affirm--that +bitterness against either of his friends, whose spirits rushed +together and left his outside, had no place in that noble nature. +His fate lay behind him, like the birth of Shargar, like the death +of Ericson, a decree. + +I do not even know in what direction he first went. That he had +seen many cities and many countries was apparent from glimpses of +ancient streets, of mountain-marvels, of strange constellations, of +things in heaven and earth which no one could have seen but himself, +called up by the magic of his words. A silent man in company, he +talked much when his hour of speech arrived. Seldom, however, did +he narrate any incident save in connection with some truth of human +nature, or fact of the universe. + +I do know that the first thing he always did on reaching any new +place was to visit the church with the loftiest spire; but he never +looked into the church itself until he had left the earth behind him +as far as that church would afford him the possibility of ascent. +Breathing the air of its highest region, he found himself vaguely +strengthened, yes comforted. One peculiar feeling he had, into +which I could enter only upon happy occasion, of the presence of God +in the wind. He said the wind up there on the heights of human +aspiration always made him long and pray. Asking him one day +something about his going to church so seldom, he answered thus: + +'My dear boy, it does me ten times more good to get outside the +spire than to go inside the church. The spire is the most +essential, and consequently the most neglected part of the building. +It symbolizes the aspiration without which no man's faith can hold +its own. But the effort of too many of her priests goes to conceal +from the worshippers the fact that there is such a stair, with a +door to it out of the church. It looks as if they feared their +people would desert them for heaven. But I presume it arises +generally from the fact that they know of such an ascent themselves, +only by hearsay. The knowledge of God is good, but the church is +better!' + +'Could it be,' I ventured to suggest, 'that, in order to ascend, +they must put off the priests' garments?' + +'Good, my boy!' he answered. 'All are priests up there, and must be +clothed in fine linen, clean and white--the righteousness of +saints--not the imputed righteousness of another,--that is a lying +doctrine--but their own righteousness which God has wrought in them +by Christ.' I never knew a man in whom the inward was so constantly +clothed upon by the outward, whose ordinary habits were so symbolic +of his spiritual tastes, or whose enjoyment of the sight of his eyes +and the hearing of his ears was so much informed by his highest +feelings. He regarded all human affairs from the heights of +religion, as from their church-spires he looked down on the red +roofs of Antwerp, on the black roofs of Cologne, on the gray roofs +of Strasburg, or on the brown roofs of Basel--uplifted for the time +above them, not in dissociation from them. + +On the base of the missing twin-spire at Strasburg, high over the +roof of the church, stands a little cottage--how strange its white +muslin window-curtains look up there! To the day of his death he +cherished the fancy of writing a book in that cottage, with the +grand city to which London looks a modern mushroom, its thousand +roofs with row upon row of windows in them--often five garret +stories, one above the other, and its thickets of multiform +chimneys, the thrones and procreant cradles of the storks, +marvellous in history, habit, and dignity--all below him. + +He was taken ill at Valence and lay there for a fortnight, oppressed +with some kind of low fever. One night he awoke from a refreshing +sleep, but could not sleep again. It seemed to him afterwards as if +he had lain waiting for something. Anyhow something came. As it +were a faint musical rain had invaded his hearing; but the night was +clear, for the moon was shining on his window-blind. The sound came +nearer, and revealed itself a delicate tinkling of bells. It drew +nearer still and nearer, growing in sweet fulness as it came, till +at length a slow torrent of tinklings went past his window in the +street below. It was the flow of a thousand little currents of +sound, a gliding of silvery threads, like the talking of +water-ripples against the side of a barge in a slow canal--all as +soft as the moonlight, as exquisite as an odour, each sound tenderly +truncated and dull. A great multitude of sheep was shifting its +quarters in the night, whence and whither and why he never knew. To +his heart they were the messengers of the Most High. For into that +heart, soothed and attuned by their thin harmony, not on the wind +that floated without breaking their lovely message, but on the +ripples of the wind that bloweth where it listeth, came the words, +unlooked for, their coming unheralded by any mental premonition, 'My +peace I give unto you.' The sounds died slowly away in the +distance, fainting out of the air, even as they had grown upon it, +but the words remained. + +In a few moments he was fast asleep, comforted by pleasure into +repose; his dreams were of gentle self-consoling griefs; and when he +awoke in the morning--'My peace I give unto you,' was the first +thought of which he was conscious. It may be that the sound of the +sheep-bells made him think of the shepherds that watched their +flocks by night, and they of the multitude of the heavenly host, and +they of the song--'On earth peace': I do not know. The important +point is not how the words came, but that the words +remained--remained until he understood them, and they became to him +spirit and life. + +He soon recovered strength sufficiently to set out again upon his +travels, great part of which he performed on foot. In this way he +reached Avignon. Passing from one of its narrow streets into an +open place in the midst, all at once he beheld, towering above him, +on a height that overlooked the whole city and surrounding country, +a great crucifix. The form of the Lord of Life still hung in the +face of heaven and earth. He bowed his head involuntarily. No +matter that when he drew nearer the power of it vanished. The +memory of it remained with its first impression, and it had a share +in what followed. + +He made his way eastward towards the Alps. As he walked one day +about noon over a desolate heath-covered height, reminding him not a +little of the country of his childhood, the silence seized upon him. +In the midst of the silence arose the crucifix, and once more the +words which had often returned upon him sounded in the ears of the +inner hearing, 'My peace I give unto you.' They were words he had +known from the earliest memorial time. He had heard them in +infancy, in childhood, in boyhood, in youth: now first in manhood it +flashed upon him that the Lord did really mean that the peace of his +soul should be the peace of their souls; that the peace wherewith +his own soul was quiet, the peace at the very heart of the universe, +was henceforth theirs--open to them, to all the world, to enter and +be still. He fell upon his knees, bowed down in the birth of a +great hope, held up his hands towards heaven, and cried, 'Lord +Christ, give me thy peace.' + +He said no more, but rose, caught up his stick, and strode forward, +thinking. + +He had learned what the sentence meant; what that was of which it +spoke he had not yet learned. The peace he had once sought, the +peace that lay in the smiles and tenderness of a woman, had +'overcome him like a summer cloud,' and had passed away. There was +surely a deeper, a wider, a grander peace for him than that, if +indeed it was the same peace wherewith the king of men regarded his +approaching end, that he had left as a heritage to his brothers. +Suddenly he was aware that the earth had begun to live again. The +hum of insects arose from the heath around him; the odour of its +flowers entered his dulled sense; the wind kissed him on the +forehead; the sky domed up over his head; and the clouds veiled the +distant mountain tops like the smoke of incense ascending from the +altars of the worshipping earth. All Nature began to minister to +one who had begun to lift his head from the baptism of fire. He had +thought that Nature could never more be anything to him; and she was +waiting on him like a mother. The next moment he was offended with +himself for receiving ministrations the reaction of whose loveliness +might no longer gather around the form of Mary St. John. Every +wavelet of scent, every toss of a flower's head in the breeze, came +with a sting in its pleasure--for there was no woman to whom they +belonged. Yet he could not shut them out, for God and not woman is +the heart of the universe. Would the day ever come when the +loveliness of Mary St. John, felt and acknowledged as never before, +would be even to him a joy and a thanksgiving? If ever, then +because God is the heart of all. + +I do not think this mood, wherein all forms of beauty sped to his +soul as to their own needful centre, could have lasted over many +miles of his journey. But such delicate inward revelations are none +the less precious that they are evanescent. Many feelings are +simply too good to last--using the phrase not in the unbelieving +sense in which it is generally used, expressing the conviction that +God is a hard father, fond of disappointing his children, but to +express the fact that intensity and endurance cannot yet coexist in +the human economy. But the virtue of a mood depends by no means on +its immediate presence. Like any other experience, it may be +believed in, and, in the absence which leaves the mind free to +contemplate it, work even more good than in its presence. + +At length he came in sight of the Alpine regions. Far off, the +heads of the great mountains rose into the upper countries of cloud, +where the snows settled on their stony heads, and the torrents ran +out from beneath the frozen mass to gladden the earth below with the +faith of the lonely hills. The mighty creatures lay like grotesque +animals of a far-off titanic time, whose dead bodies had been first +withered into stone, then worn away by the storms, and covered with +shrouds and palls of snow, till the outlines of their forms were +gone, and only rough shapes remained like those just blocked out in +the sculptor's marble, vaguely suggesting what the creatures had +been, as the corpse under the sheet of death is like a man. He came +amongst the valleys at their feet, with their blue-green waters +hurrying seawards--from stony heights of air into the mass of 'the +restless wavy plain'; with their sides of rock rising in gigantic +terrace after terrace up to the heavens; with their scaling pines, +erect and slight, cone-head aspiring above cone-head, ambitious to +clothe the bare mass with green, till failing at length in their +upward efforts, the savage rock shot away and beyond and above them, +the white and blue glaciers clinging cold and cruel to their ragged +sides, and the dead blank of whiteness covering their final despair. +He drew near to the lower glaciers, to find their awful abysses +tremulous with liquid blue, a blue tender and profound as if fed +from the reservoir of some hidden sky intenser than ours; he +rejoiced over the velvety fields dotted with the toy-like houses of +the mountaineers; he sat for hours listening by the side of their +streams; he grew weary, felt oppressed, longed for a wider outlook, +and began to climb towards a mountain village of which he had heard +from a traveller, to find solitude and freedom in an air as lofty as +if he climbed twelve of his beloved cathedral spires piled up in +continuous ascent. + +After ascending for hours in zigzags through pine woods, where the +only sound was of the little streams trotting down to the valley +below, or the distant hush of some thin waterfall, he reached a +level, and came out of the woods. The path now led along the edge +of a precipice descending sheer to the uppermost terrace of the +valley he had left. The valley was but a cleft in the mass of the +mountain: a little way over sank its other wall, steep as a +plumb-line could have made it, of solid rock. On his right lay +green fields of clover and strange grasses. Ever and anon from the +cleft steamed up great blinding clouds of mist, which now wandered +about over the nations of rocks on the mountain side beyond the +gulf, now wrapt himself in their bewildering folds. In one moment +the whole creation had vanished, and there seemed scarce existence +enough left for more than the following footstep; the next, a mighty +mountain stood in front, crowned with blinding snow, an awful fact; +the lovely heavens were over his head, and the green sod under his +feet; the grasshoppers chirped about him, and the gorgeous +butterflies flew. From regions far beyond came the bells of the +kine and the goats. He reached a little inn, and there took up his +quarters. + +I am able to be a little minute in my description, because I have +since visited the place myself. Great heights rise around it on all +sides. It stands as between heaven and hell, suspended between +peaks and gulfs. The wind must roar awfully there in the winter; +but the mountains stand away with their avalanches, and all the +summer long keep the cold off the grassy fields. + +The same evening, he was already weary. The next morning it rained. +It rained fiercely all day. He would leave the place on the +morrow. In the evening it began to clear up. He walked out. The +sun was setting. The snow-peaks were faintly tinged with rose, and +the ragged masses of vapour that hung lazy and leaden-coloured about +the sides of the abyss, were partially dyed a sulky orange red. +Then all faded into gray. But as the sunlight vanished, a veil +sank from the face of the moon, already half-way to the zenith, and +she gathered courage and shone, till the mountain looked lovely as a +ghost in the gleam of its snow and the glimmer of its glaciers. +'Ah!' thought Falconer, 'such a peace at last is all a man can look +for--the repose of a spectral Elysium, a world where passion has +died away, and only the dim ghost of its memory to disturb with a +shadowy sorrow the helpless content of its undreaming years. The +religion that can do but this much is not a very great or very +divine thing. The human heart cannot invent a better it may be, but +it can imagine grander results. + +He did not yet know what the religion was of which he spoke. As +well might a man born stone-deaf estimate the power of sweet sounds, +or he who knows not a square from a circle pronounce upon the study +of mathematics. + +The next morning rose brilliant--an ideal summer day. He would not +go yet; he would spend one day more in the place. He opened his +valise to get some lighter garments. His eye fell on a New +Testament. Dr. Anderson had put it there. He had never opened it +yet, and now he let it lie. Its time had not yet come. He went +out. + +Walking up the edge of the valley, he came upon a little stream +whose talk he had heard for some hundred yards. It flowed through a +grassy hollow, with steeply sloping sides. Water is the same all +the world over; but there was more than water here to bring his +childhood back to Falconer. For at the spot where the path led him +down to the burn, a little crag stood out from the bank,--a gray +stone like many he knew on the stream that watered the valley of +Rothieden: on the top of the stone grew a little heather; and beside +it, bending towards the water, was a silver birch. He sat down on +the foot of the rock, shut in by the high grassy banks from the gaze +of the awful mountains. The sole unrest was the run of the water +beside him, and it sounded so homely, that he began to jabber Scotch +to it. He forgot that this stream was born in the clouds, far up +where that peak rose into the air behind him; he did not know that a +couple of hundred yards from where he sat, it tumbled headlong into +the valley below: with his country's birch-tree beside him, and the +rock crowned with its tuft of heather over his head, the quiet as of +a Sabbath afternoon fell upon him--that quiet which is the one +altogether lovely thing in the Scotch Sabbath--and once more the +words arose in his mind, 'My peace I give unto you.' + +Now he fell a-thinking what this peace could be. And it came into +his mind as he thought, that Jesus had spoken in another place about +giving rest to those that came to him, while here he spoke about 'my +peace.' Could this my mean a certain kind of peace that the Lord +himself possessed? Perhaps it was in virtue of that peace, whatever +it was, that he was the Prince of Peace. Whatever peace he had must +be the highest and best peace--therefore the one peace for a man to +seek, if indeed, as the words of the Lord seemed to imply, a man was +capable of possessing it. He remembered the New Testament in his +box, and, resolving to try whether he could not make something more +out of it, went back to the inn quieter in heart than since he left +his home. In the evening he returned to the brook, and fell to +searching the story, seeking after the peace of Jesus. + +He found that the whole passage stood thus:-- + +'Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world +giveth give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let +it be afraid.' + +He did not leave the place for six weeks. Every day he went to the +burn, as he called it, with his New Testament; every day tried yet +again to make out something more of what the Saviour meant. By the +end of the month it had dawned upon him, he hardly knew how, that +the peace of Jesus (although, of course, he could not know what it +was like till he had it) must have been a peace that came from the +doing of the will of his Father. From the account he gave of the +discoveries he then made, I venture to represent them in the driest +and most exact form that I can find they will admit of. When I use +the word discoveries, I need hardly say that I use it with reference +to Falconer and his previous knowledge. They were these:--that +Jesus taught-- + +First,--That a man's business is to do the will of God: + +Second,--That God takes upon himself the care of the man: + +Third,--Therefore, that a man must never be afraid of anything; +and so, + +Fourth,--be left free to love God with all his heart, and his +neighbour as himself. + +But one day, his thoughts having cleared themselves a little upon +these points, a new set of questions arose with sudden +inundation--comprised in these two:-- + +'How can I tell for certain that there ever was such a man? How am +I to be sure that such as he says is the mind of the maker of these +glaciers and butterflies?' + +All this time he was in the wilderness as much as Moses at the back +of Horeb, or St. Paul when he vanishes in Arabia: and he did nothing +but read the four gospels and ponder over them. Therefore it is not +surprising that he should have already become so familiar with the +gospel story, that the moment these questions appeared, the +following words should dart to the forefront of his consciousness to +meet them:-- + +'If any man will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine, whether +it be of God, or whether I speak of myself.' + +Here was a word of Jesus himself, announcing the one means of +arriving at a conviction of the truth or falsehood of all that he +said, namely, the doing of the will of God by the man who would +arrive at such conviction. + +The next question naturally was: What is this will of God of which +Jesus speaks? Here he found himself in difficulty. The theology of +his grandmother rushed in upon him, threatening to overwhelm him +with demands as to feeling and inward action from which his soul +turned with sickness and fainting. That they were repulsive to him, +that they appeared unreal, and contradictory to the nature around +him, was no proof that they were not of God. But on the other hand, +that they demanded what seemed to him unjust,--that these demands +were founded on what seemed to him untruth attributed to God, on +ways of thinking and feeling which are certainly degrading in a +man,--these were reasons of the very highest nature for refusing to +act upon them so long as, from whatever defects it might be in +himself, they bore to him this aspect. He saw that while they +appeared to be such, even though it might turn out that he mistook +them, to acknowledge them would be to wrong God. But this conclusion +left him in no better position for practice than before. + +When at length he did see what the will of God was, he wondered, so +simple did it appear, that he had failed to discover it at once. +Yet not less than a fortnight had he been brooding and pondering +over the question, as he wandered up and down that burnside, or sat +at the foot of the heather-crowned stone and the silver-barked +birch, when the light began to dawn upon him. It was thus. + +In trying to understand the words of Jesus by searching back, as it +were, for such thoughts and feelings in him as would account for the +words he spoke, the perception awoke that at least he could not have +meant by the will of God any such theological utterances as those +which troubled him. Next it grew plain that what he came to do, was +just to lead his life. That he should do the work, such as +recorded, and much besides, that the Father gave him to do--this was +the will of God concerning him. With this perception arose the +conviction that unto every man whom God had sent into the world, he +had given a work to do in that world. He had to lead the life God +meant him to lead. The will of God was to be found and done in the +world. In seeking a true relation to the world, would he find his +relation to God? + +The time for action was come. + +He rose up from the stone of his meditation, took his staff in his +hand, and went down the mountain, not knowing whither he went. And +these were some of his thoughts as he went: + +'If it was the will of God who made me and her, my will shall not be +set against his. I cannot be happy, but I will bow my head and let +his waves and his billows go over me. If there is such a God, he +knows what a pain I bear. His will be done. Jesus thought it well +that his will should be done to the death. Even if there be no God, +it will be grand to be a disciple of such a man, to do as he says, +think as he thought--perhaps come to feel as he felt.' + +My reader may wonder that one so young should have been able to +think so practically--to the one point of action. But he was in +earnest, and what lay at the root of his character, at the root of +all that he did, felt, and became, was childlike simplicity and +purity of nature. If the sins of his father were mercifully visited +upon him, so likewise were the grace and loveliness of his mother. +And between the two, Falconer had fared well. + +As he descended the mountain, the one question was--his calling. +With the faintest track to follow, with the clue of a spider's +thread to guide him, he would have known that his business was to +set out at once to find, and save his father. But never since the +day when the hand of that father smote him, and Mary St. John found +him bleeding on the floor, had he heard word or conjecture +concerning him. If he were to set out to find him now, it would be +to search the earth for one who might have vanished from it years +ago. He might as well search the streets of a great city for a lost +jewel. When the time came for him to find his father, if such an +hour was written in the decrees of--I dare not say Fate, for +Falconer hated the word--if such was the will of God, some sign +would be given him--that is, some hint which he could follow with +action. As he thought and thought it became gradually plainer that +he must begin his obedience by getting ready for anything that God +might require of him. Therefore he must go on learning till the +call came. + +But he shivered at the thought of returning to Aberdeen. Might he +not continue his studies in Germany? Would that not be as +good--possibly, from the variety of the experience, better? But how +was it to be decided? By submitting the matter to the friend who +made either possible. Dr. Anderson had been to him as a father: he +would be guided by his pleasure. + +He wrote, therefore, to Dr. Anderson, saying that he would return at +once if he wished it, but that he would greatly prefer going to a +German university for two years. The doctor replied that of course +he would rather have him at home, but that he was confident Robert +knew best what was best for himself; therefore he had only to settle +where he thought proper, and the next summer he would come and see +him, for he was not tied to Aberdeen any more than Robert. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +HOME AGAIN. + +Four years passed before Falconer returned to his native country, +during which period Dr. Anderson had visited him twice, and shown +himself well satisfied with his condition and pursuits. The doctor +had likewise visited Rothieden, and had comforted the heart of the +grandmother with regard to her Robert. From what he learned upon +this visit, he had arrived at a true conjecture, I believe, as to +the cause of the great change which had suddenly taken place in the +youth. But he never asked Robert a question leading in the +direction of the grief which he saw the healthy and earnest nature +of the youth gradually assimilating into his life. He had too much +respect for sorrow to approach it with curiosity. He had learned to +put off his shoes when he drew nigh the burning bush of human pain. + +Robert had not settled at any of the universities, but had moved +from one to the other as he saw fit, report guiding him to the men +who spoke with authority. The time of doubt and anxious questioning +was far from over, but the time was long gone by--if in his case it +had ever been--when he could be like a wave of the sea, driven of +the wind and tossed. He had ever one anchor of the soul, and he +found that it held--the faith of Jesus (I say the faith of Jesus, +not his own faith in Jesus), the truth of Jesus, the life of Jesus. +However his intellect might be tossed on the waves of speculation +and criticism, he found that the word the Lord had spoken remained +steadfast; for in doing righteously, in loving mercy, in walking +humbly, the conviction increased that Jesus knew the very secret of +human life. Now and then some great vision gleamed across his soul +of the working of all things towards a far-off goal of simple +obedience to a law of life, which God knew, and which his son had +justified through sorrow and pain. Again and again the words of the +Master gave him a peep into a region where all was explicable, where +all that was crooked might be made straight, where every mountain of +wrong might be made low, and every valley of suffering exalted. +Ever and again some one of the dark perplexities of humanity began +to glimmer with light in its inmost depth. Nor was he without those +moments of communion when the creature is lifted into the secret +place of the Creator. + +Looking back to the time when it seemed that he cried and was not +heard, he saw that God had been hearing, had been answering, all the +time; had been making him capable of receiving the gift for which he +prayed. He saw that intellectual difficulty encompassing the +highest operations of harmonizing truth, can no more affect their +reality than the dulness of chaos disprove the motions of the wind +of God over the face of its waters. He saw that any true revelation +must come out of the unknown in God through the unknown in man. He +saw that its truths must rise in the man as powers of life, and that +only as that life grows and unfolds can the ever-lagging intellect +gain glimpses of partial outlines fading away into the +infinite--that, indeed, only in material things and the laws that +belong to them, are outlines possible--even there, only in the +picture of them which the mind that analyzes them makes for itself, +not in the things themselves. + +At the close of these four years, with his spirit calm and hopeful, +truth his passion, and music, which again he had resumed and +diligently cultivated, his pleasure, Falconer returned to Aberdeen. +He was received by Dr. Anderson as if he had in truth been his own +son. In the room stood a tall figure, with its back towards them, +pocketing its handkerchief. The next moment the figure turned, +and--could it be?--yes, it was Shargar. Doubt lingered only until +he opened his mouth, and said 'Eh, Robert!' with which exclamation +he threw himself upon him, and after a very undignified fashion +began crying heartily. Tall as he was, Robert's great black head +towered above him, and his shoulders were like a rock against which +Shargar's slight figure leaned. He looked down like a compassionate +mastiff upon a distressed Italian grayhound. His eyes shimmered +with feeling, but Robert's tears, if he ever shed any, were kept for +very solemn occasions. He was more likely to weep for awful joy +than for any sufferings either in himself or others. 'Shargar!' +pronounced in a tone full of a thousand memories, was all the +greeting he returned; but his great manly hand pressed Shargar's +delicate long-fingered one with a grasp which must have satisfied +his friend that everything was as it had been between them, and that +their friendship from henceforth would take a new start. For with +all that Robert had seen, thought, and learned, now that the +bitterness of loss had gone by, the old times and the old friends +were dearer. If there was any truth in the religion of God's will, +in which he was a disciple, every moment of life's history which had +brought soul in contact with soul, must be sacred as a voice from +behind the veil. Therefore he could not now rest until he had gone +to see his grandmother. + +'Will you come to Rothieden with me, Shargar? I beg your pardon--I +oughtn't to keep up an old nickname,' said Robert, as they sat that +evening with the doctor, over a tumbler of toddy. + +'If you call me anything else, I'll cut my throat, Robert, as I told +you before. If any one else does,' he added, laughing, 'I'll cut +his throat.' + +'Can he go with me, doctor?' asked Robert, turning to their host. + +'Certainly. He has not been to Rothieden since he took his degree. +He's an A.M. now, and has distinguished himself besides. You'll +see him in his uniform soon, I hope. Let's drink his health, +Robert. Fill your glass.' + +The doctor filled his glass slowly and solemnly. He seldom drank +even wine, but this was a rare occasion. He then rose, and with +equal slowness, and a tremor in his voice which rendered it +impossible to imagine the presence of anything but seriousness, +said, + +'Robert, my son, let's drink the health of George Moray, Gentleman. +Stand up.' + +Robert rose, and in his confusion Shargar rose too, and sat down +again, blushing till his red hair looked yellow beside his cheeks. +The men repeated the words, 'George Moray, Gentleman,' emptied +their glasses, and resumed their seats. Shargar rose trembling, and +tried in vain to speak. The reason in part was, that he sought to +utter himself in English. + +'Hoots! Damn English!' he broke out at last. 'Gin I be a gentleman, +Dr. Anderson and Robert Falconer, it's you twa 'at's made me ane, +an' God bless ye, an' I'm yer hoomble servant to a' etairnity.' + +So saying, Shargar resumed his seat, filled his glass with trembling +hand, emptied it to hide his feelings, but without success, rose +once more, and retreated to the hall for a space. + +The next morning Robert and Shargar got on the coach and went to +Rothieden. Robert turned his head aside as they came near the +bridge and the old house of Bogbonnie. But, ashamed of his +weakness, he turned again and looked at the house. There it stood, +all the same,--a thing for the night winds to howl in, and follow +each other in mad gambols through its long passages and rooms, so +empty from the first that not even a ghost had any reason for going +there--a place almost without a history--dreary emblem of so many +empty souls that have hidden their talent in a napkin, and have +nothing to return for it when the Master calls them. Having looked +this one in the face, he felt stronger to meet those other places +before which his heart quailed yet more. He knew that Miss St. John +had left soon after Ericson's death: whether he was sorry or glad +that he should not see her he could not tell. He thought Rothieden +would look like Pompeii, a city buried and disinterred; but when the +coach drove into the long straggling street, he found the old love +revive, and although the blood rushed back to his heart when Captain +Forsyth's house came in view, he did not turn away, but made his +eyes, and through them his heart, familiar with its desolation. He +got down at the corner, and leaving Shargar to go on to The Boar's +Head and look after the luggage, walked into his grandmother's house +and straight into her little parlour. She rose with her old +stateliness when she saw a stranger enter the room, and stood +waiting his address. + +'Weel, grannie,' said Robert, and took her in his arms. + +'The Lord's name be praised!' faltered she. 'He's ower guid to the +likes o' me.' + +And she lifted up her voice and wept. + +She had been informed of his coming, but she had not expected him +till the evening; he was much altered, and old age is slow. + +He had hardly placed her in her chair, when Betty came in. If she +had shown him respect before, it was reverence now. + +'Eh, sir!' she said, 'I didna ken it was you, or I wadna hae come +into the room ohn chappit at the door. I'll awa' back to my +kitchie.' + +So saying, she turned to leave the room. + +'Hoots! Betty,' cried Robert, 'dinna be a gowk. Gie 's a grip o +yer han'.' + +Betty stood staring and irresolute, overcome at sight of the manly +bulk before her. + +'Gin ye dinna behave yersel', Betty, I'll jist awa' ower to +Muckledrum, an' hae a caw (drive) throu the sessions-buik.' + +Betty laughed for the first time at the awful threat, and the ice +once broken, things returned to somewhat of their old footing. + +I must not linger on these days. The next morning Robert paid a +visit to Bodyfauld, and found that time had there flowed so gently +that it had left but few wrinkles and fewer gray hairs. The fields, +too, had little change to show; and the hill was all the same, save +that its pines had grown. His chief mission was to John Hewson and +his wife. When he left for the continent, he was not so utterly +absorbed in his own griefs as to forget Jessie. He told her story +to Dr. Anderson, and the good man had gone to see her the same day. + +In the evening, when he knew he should find them both at home, he +walked into the cottage. They were seated by the fire, with the +same pot hanging on the same crook for their supper. They rose, and +asked him to sit down, but did not know him. When he told them who +he was, they greeted him warmly, and John Hewson smiled something of +the old smile, but only like it, for it had no 'rays proportionately +delivered' from his mouth over his face. + +After a little indifferent chat, Robert said, + +'I came through Aberdeen yesterday, John.' + +At the very mention of Aberdeen, John's head sunk. He gave no +answer, but sat looking in the fire. His wife rose and went to the +other end of the room, busying herself quietly about the supper. +Robert thought it best to plunge into the matter at once. + +'I saw Jessie last nicht,' he said. + +Still there was no reply. John's face had grown hard as a stone +face, but Robert thought rather from the determination to govern his +feelings than from resentment. + +'She's been doin' weel ever sin' syne,' he added. + +Still no word from either; and Robert fearing some outburst of +indignation ere he had said his say, now made haste. + +'She's been a servant wi' Dr. Anderson for four year noo, an' he's +sair pleased wi' her. She's a fine woman. But her bairnie's deid, +an' that was a sair blow till her.' + +He heard a sob from the mother, but still John made no sign. + +'It was a bonnie bairnie as ever ye saw. It luikit in her face, she +says, as gin it kent a' aboot it, and had only come to help her +throu the warst o' 't; for it gaed hame 'maist as sune's ever she +was richt able to thank God for sen'in' her sic an angel to lead her +to repentance.' + +'John,' said his wife, coming behind his chair, and laying her hand +on his shoulder, 'what for dinna ye speyk? Ye hear what Maister +Faukner says.--Ye dinna think a thing's clean useless 'cause there +may be a spot upo' 't?' she added, wiping her eyes with her apron. + +'A spot upo' 't?' cried John, starting to his feet. 'What ca' ye a +spot?--Wuman, dinna drive me mad to hear ye lichtlie the glory o' +virginity.' + +'That's a' verra weel, John,' interposed Robert quietly; 'but there +was ane thocht as muckle o' 't as ye do, an' wad hae been ashamed to +hear ye speak that gait aboot yer ain dauchter' + +'I dinna unnerstan' ye,' returned Hewson, looking raised-like at +him. + +'Dinna ye ken, man, that amo' them 'at kent the Lord best whan he +cam frae haiven to luik efter his ain--to seek and to save, ye +ken--amo' them 'at cam roon aboot him to hearken till 'im, was +lasses 'at had gane the wrang gait a'thegither,--no like your bonnie +Jessie 'at fell but ance. Man, ye're jist like Simon the Pharisee, +'at was sae scunnert at oor Lord 'cause he loot the wuman 'at was a +sinner tak her wull o' 's feet--the feet 'at they war gaein' to tak +their wull o' efter anither fashion afore lang. He wad hae shawn +her the door--Simon wad--like you, John; but the Lord tuik her +pairt. An' lat me tell you, John--an' I winna beg yer pardon for +sayin' 't, for it's God's trowth--lat me tell you, 'at gin ye gang +on that gait ye'll be sidin' wi' the Pharisee, an' no wi' oor Lord. +Ye may lippen to yer wife, ay, an' to Jessie hersel', that kens +better nor eyther o' ye, no to mak little o' virginity. Faith! they +think mair o' 't than ye do, I'm thinkin', efter a'; only it's no a +thing to say muckle aboot. An' it's no to stan' for a'thing, efter +a'.' + +Silence followed. John sat down again, and buried his face in his +hands. At length he murmured from between them, + +'The lassie's weel?' + +'Ay,' answered Robert; and silence followed again. + +'What wad ye hae me do?' asked John, lifting his head a little. + +'I wad hae ye sen' a kin' word till her. The lassie's hert's jist +longin' efter ye. That's a'. And that's no ower muckle.' + +''Deed no,' assented the mother. + +John said nothing. But when his visitor rose he bade him a warm +good-night. + +When Robert returned to Aberdeen he was the bearer of such a message +as made poor Jessie glad at heart. This was his first experience of +the sort. + +When he left the cottage, he did not return to the house, but +threaded the little forest of pines, climbing the hill till he came +out on its bare crown, where nothing grew but heather and +blaeberries. There he threw himself down, and gazed into the +heavens. The sun was below the horizon; all the dazzle was gone out +of the gold, and the roses were fast fading; the downy blue of the +sky was trembling into stars over his head; the brown dusk was +gathering in the air; and a wind full of gentleness and peace came +to him from the west. He let his thoughts go where they would, and +they went up into the abyss over his head. + +'Lord, come to me,' he cried in his heart, 'for I cannot go to thee. +If I were to go up and up through that awful space for ages and +ages, I should never find thee. Yet there thou art. The tenderness +of thy infinitude looks upon me from those heavens. Thou art in +them and in me. Because thou thinkest, I think. I am thine--all +thine. I abandon myself to thee. Fill me with thyself. When I am +full of thee, my griefs themselves will grow golden in thy sunlight. +Thou holdest them and their cause, and wilt find some nobler +atonement between them than vile forgetfulness and the death of +love. Lord, let me help those that are wretched because they do not +know thee. Let me tell them that thou, the Life, must needs suffer +for and with them, that they may be partakers of thy ineffable +peace. My life is hid in thine: take me in thy hand as Gideon bore +the pitcher to the battle. Let me be broken if need be, that thy +light may shine upon the lies which men tell them in thy name, and +which eat away their hearts.' + +Having persuaded Shargar to remain with Mrs. Falconer for a few +days, and thus remove the feeling of offence she still cherished +because of his 'munelicht flittin',' he returned to Dr. Anderson, +who now unfolded his plans for him. These were, that he should +attend the medical classes common to the two universities, and at +the same time accompany him in his visits to the poor. He did not +at all mean, he said, to determine Robert's life as that of a +medical man, but from what he had learned of his feelings, he was +confident that a knowledge of medicine would be invaluable to him. +I think the good doctor must have foreseen the kind of life which +Falconer would at length choose to lead, and with true and admirable +wisdom, sought to prepare him for it. However this may be, Robert +entertained the proposal gladly, went into the scheme with his whole +heart, and began to widen that knowledge of and sympathy with the +poor which were the foundation of all his influence over them. + +For a time, therefore, he gave a diligent and careful attendance +upon lectures, read sufficiently, took his rounds with Dr. Anderson, +and performed such duties as he delegated to his greater strength. +Had the healing art been far less of an enjoyment to him than it +was, he could yet hardly have failed of great progress therein; but +seeing that it accorded with his best feelings, profoundest +theories, and loftiest hopes, and that he received it as a work +given him to do, it is not surprising that a certain faculty of +cure, almost partaking of the instinctive, should have been rapidly +developed in him, to the wonder and delight of his friend and +master. + +In this labour he again spent about four years, during which time he +gathered much knowledge of human nature, learning especially to +judge it from no stand-point of his own, but in every individual +case to take a new position whence the nature and history of the man +should appear in true relation to the yet uncompleted result. He +who cannot feel the humanity of his neighbour because he is +different from himself in education, habits, opinions, morals, +circumstances, objects, is unfit, if not unworthy, to aid him. + +Within this period Shargar had gone out to India, where he had +distinguished himself particularly on a certain harassing march. +Towards the close of the four years he had leave of absence, and +was on his way home. About the same time Robert, in consequence of +a fever brought on by over-fatigue, was in much need of a holiday; +and Dr. Anderson proposed that he should meet Moray at Southampton. + +Shargar had no expectation of seeing him, and his delight, not +greater on that account, broke out more wildly. No thinnest film +had grown over his heart, though in all else he was considerably +changed. The army had done everything that was wanted for his +outward show of man. The drawling walk had vanished, and a firm +step and soldierly stride had taken its place; his bearing was free, +yet dignified; his high descent came out in the ease of his carriage +and manners: there could be no doubt that at last Shargar was a +gentleman. His hair had changed to a kind of red chestnut. His +complexion was much darkened with the Indian sun. His eyes, too, +were darker, and no longer rolled slowly from one object to another, +but indicated by their quick glances a mind ready to observe and as +ready to resolve. His whole appearance was more than +prepossessing--it was even striking. + +Robert was greatly delighted with the improvement in him, and far +more when he found that his mind's growth had at least kept pace +with his body's change. It would be more correct to say that it had +preceded and occasioned it; for however much the army may be able to +do in that way, it had certainly, in Moray's case, only seconded the +law of inward growth working outward show. + +The young men went up to London together, and great was the pleasure +they had in each other's society, after so long a separation in +which their hearts had remained unchanged while their natures had +grown both worthy and capable of more honour and affection. They +had both much to tell; for Robert was naturally open save in regard +to his grief; and Shargar was proud of being able to communicate +with Robert from a nearer level, in virtue of now knowing many +things that Robert could not know. They went together to a hotel in +St. Paul's Churchyard. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +A MERE GLIMPSE. + +At the close of a fortnight, Falconer thought it time to return to +his duties in Aberdeen. The day before the steamer sailed, they +found themselves, about six o'clock, in Gracechurch Street. It was +a fine summer evening. The street was less crowded than earlier in +the afternoon, although there was a continuous stream of waggons, +omnibuses, and cabs both ways. As they stood on the curbstone, a +little way north of Lombard Street, waiting to cross-- + +'You see, Shargar,' said Robert, 'Nature will have her way. Not all +the hurry and confusion and roar can keep the shadows out. Look: +wherever a space is for a moment vacant, there falls a shadow, as +grotesque, as strange, as full of unutterable things as any shadow +on a field of grass and daisies.' + +'I remember feeling the same kind of thing in India,' returned +Shargar, 'where nothing looked as if it belonged to the world I was +born in, but my own shadow. In such a street as this, however, all +the shadows look as if they belonged to another world, and had no +business here.' + +'I quite feel that,' returned Falconer. 'They come like angels from +the lovely west and the pure air, to show that London cannot hurt +them, for it too is within the Kingdom of God--to teach the lovers +of nature, like the old orthodox Jew, St. Peter, that they must not +call anything common or unclean.' + +Shargar made no reply, and Robert glanced round at him. He was +staring with wide eyes into, not at the crowd of vehicles that +filled the street. His face was pale, and strangely like the +Shargar of old days. + +'What's the matter with you?' Robert asked in some bewilderment. + +Receiving no answer, he followed Shargar's gaze, and saw a strange +sight for London city. + +In the middle of the crowd of vehicles, with an omnibus before them, +and a brewer's dray behind them, came a line of three donkey-carts, +heaped high with bundles and articles of gipsy-gear. The foremost +was conducted by a middle-aged woman of tall, commanding aspect, and +expression both cunning and fierce. She walked by the donkey's head +carrying a short stick, with which she struck him now and then, but +which she oftener waved over his head like the truncheon of an +excited marshal on the battle-field, accompanying its movements now +with loud cries to the animal, now with loud response to the chaff +of the omnibus conductor, the dray driver, and the tradesmen in +carts about her. She was followed by a very handsome, +olive-complexioned, wild-looking young woman, with her black hair +done up in a red handkerchief, who conducted her donkey more +quietly. Both seemed as much at home in the roar of Gracechurch +Street as if they had been crossing a wild common. A +loutish-looking young man brought up the rear with the third donkey. +>From the bundles on the foremost cart peeped a lovely, fair-haired, +English-looking child. + +Robert took all this in in a moment. The same moment Shargar's +spell was broken. + +'Lord, it is my mither!' he cried, and darted under a horse's neck +into the middle of the ruck. + +He needled his way through till he reached the woman. She was +swearing at a cabman whose wheel had caught the point of her +donkey's shaft, and was hauling him round. Heedless of everything, +Shargar threw his arms about her, crying, + +'Mither! mither!' + +'Nane o' yer blastit humbug!' she exclaimed, as, with a vigorous +throw and a wriggle, she freed herself from his embrace and pushed +him away. + +The moment she had him at arm's length, however, her hand closed +upon his arm, and her other hand went up to her brow. From +underneath it her eyes shot up and down him from head to foot, and +he could feel her hand closing and relaxing and closing again, as if +she were trying to force her long nails into his flesh. He stood +motionless, waiting the result of her scrutiny, utterly unconscious +that he caused a congestion in the veins of London, for every +vehicle within sight of the pair had stopped. Falconer said a +strange silence fell upon the street, as if all the things in it had +been turned into shadows. + +A rough voice, which sounded as if all London must have heard it, +broke the silence. It was the voice of the cabman who had been in +altercation with the woman. Bursting into an insulting laugh, he +used words with regard to her which it is better to leave +unrecorded. The same instant Shargar freed himself from her grasp, +and stood by the fore wheel of the cab. + +'Get down!' he said, in a voice that was not the less impressive +that it was low and hoarse. + +The fellow saw what he meant, and whipped his horse. Shargar sprung +on the box, and dragged him down all but headlong. + +'Now,' he said, 'beg my mother's pardon.' + +'Be damned if I do, &c., &c.,' said the cabman. + +'Then defend yourself,' said Shargar. 'Robert.' + +Falconer was watching it all, and was by his side in a moment. + +'Come on, you, &c., &c.,' cried the cabman, plucking up heart and +putting himself in fighting shape. He looked one of those insolent +fellows whom none see discomfited more gladly than the honest men of +his own class. The same moment he lay between his horse's feet. + +Shargar turned to Robert, and saying only, 'There, Robert!' turned +again towards the woman. The cabman rose bleeding, and, desiring no +more of the same, climbed on his box, and went off, belabouring his +horse, and pursued by a roar from the street, for the spectators +were delighted at his punishment. + +'Now, mother,' said Shargar, panting with excitement. + +'What ca' they ye?' she asked, still doubtful, but as proud of being +defended as if the coarse words of her assailant had had no truth in +them. 'Ye canna be my lang-leggit Geordie.' + +'What for no?' + +'Ye're a gentleman, faith!' + +'An' what for no, again?' returned Shargar, beginning to smile. + +'Weel, it's weel speired. Yer father was ane ony gait--gin sae be +'at ye are as ye say.' + +Moray put his head close to hers, and whispered some words that +nobody heard but herself. + +'It's ower lang syne to min' upo' that,' she said in reply, with a +look of cunning consciousness ill settled upon her fine features. +'But ye can be naebody but my Geordie. Haith, man!' she went on, +regarding him once more from head to foot, 'but ye're a credit to +me, I maun alloo. Weel, gie me a sovereign, an' I s' never come +near ye.' + +Poor Shargar in his despair turned half mechanically towards Robert. +He felt that it was time to interfere. + +'You forget, mother,' said Shargar, turning again to her, and +speaking English now, 'it was I that claimed you, and not you that +claimed me.' + +She seemed to have no idea of what he meant. + +'Come up the road here, to oor public, an' tak a glaiss, wuman,' +said Falconer. 'Dinna haud the fowk luikin' at ye.' + +The temptation of a glass of something strong, and the hope of +getting money out of them, caused an instant acquiescence. She said +a few words to the young woman, who proceeded at once to tie her +donkey's head to the tail of the other cart. + +'Shaw the gait than,' said the elder, turning again to Falconer. + +Shargar and he led the way to St. Paul's Churchyard, and the woman +followed faithfully. The waiter stared when they entered. + +'Bring a glass of whisky,' said Falconer, as he passed on to their +private room. When the whisky arrived, she tossed it off, and +looked as if she would like another glass. + +'Yer father 'ill hae ta'en ye up, I'm thinkin', laddie?' she said, +turning to her son. + +'No,' answered Shargar, gloomily. 'There's the man that took me up.' + +'An' wha may ye be?' she asked, turning to Falconer. + +'Mr. Falconer,' said Shargar. + +'No a son o' Anerew Faukner?' she asked again, with evident +interest. + +'The same,' answered Robert. + +'Well, Geordie,' she said, turning once more to her son, 'it's like +mither, like father to the twa o' ye.' + +'Did you know my father?' asked Robert, eagerly. + +Instead of answering him she made another remark to her son. + +'He needna be ashamed o' your company, ony gait--queer kin' o' a +mither 'at I am.' + +'He never was ashamed of my company,' said Shargar, still gloomily. + +'Ay, I kent yer father weel eneuch,' she said, now answering +Robert--'mair by token 'at I saw him last nicht. He was luikin' nae +that ill.' + +Robert sprung from his seat, and caught her by the arm. + +'Ow! ye needna gang into sic a flurry. He'll no come near ye, I s' +warran'.' + +'Tell me where he is,' said Robert. 'Where did you see him? I'll +gie ye a' 'at I hae gin ye'll tak me till him.' + +'Hooly! hooly! Wha's to gang luikin' for a thrum in a hay-sow?' +returned she, coolly. 'I only said 'at I saw him.' + +'But are ye sure it was him?' asked Falconer. + +'Ay, sure eneuch,' she answered. + +'What maks ye sae sure?' + +''Cause I never was vrang yet. Set a man ance atween my twa een, +an' that 'll be twa 'at kens him whan 's ain mither 's forgotten +'im.' + +'Did you speak to him?' + +'Maybe ay, an' maybe no. I didna come here to be hecklet afore a +jury.' + +'Tell me what he's like,' said Robert, agitated with eager hope. + +'Gin ye dinna ken what he's like, what for suld ye tak the trouble +to speir? But 'deed ye'll ken what he's like whan ye fa' in wi' +him,' she added, with a vindictive laugh--vindictive because he had +given her only one glass of strong drink. + +With the laugh she rose, and made for the door. They rose at the +same moment to detain her. Like one who knew at once to fight and +flee, she turned and stunned them as with a blow. + +'She's a fine yoong thing, yon sister o' yours, Geordie. She'll be +worth siller by the time she's had a while at the schuil.' + +The men looked at each other aghast. When they turned their eyes +she had vanished. They rushed to the door, and, parting, searched +in both directions. But they were soon satisfied that it was of no +use. Probably she had found a back way into Paternoster Row, whence +the outlets are numerous. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +THE DOCTOR'S DEATH. + +But now that Falconer had a ground, even thus shadowy, for hoping--I +cannot say believing--that his father might be in London, he could +not return to Aberdeen. Moray, who had no heart to hunt for his +mother, left the next day by the steamer. Falconer took to +wandering about the labyrinthine city, and in a couple of months +knew more about the metropolis--the west end excepted--than most +people who had lived their lives in it. The west end is no doubt a +considerable exception to make, but Falconer sought only his father, +and the west end was the place where he was least likely to find +him. Day and night he wandered into all sorts of places: the worse +they looked the more attractive he found them. It became almost a +craze with him. He could not pass a dirty court or low-browed +archway. He might be there. Or he might have been there. Or it +was such a place as he would choose for shelter. He knew to what +such a life as his must have tended. + +At first he was attracted only by tall elderly men. Such a man he +would sometimes follow till his following made him turn and demand +his object. If there was no suspicion of Scotch in his tone, +Falconer easily apologized. If there was, he made such replies as +might lead to some betrayal. He could not defend the course he was +adopting: it had not the shadow of probability upon its side. Still +the greatest successes the world has ever beheld had been at one +time the greatest improbabilities! He could not choose but go on, +for as yet he could think of no other way. + +Neither could a man like Falconer long confine his interest to this +immediate object, especially after he had, in following it, found +opportunity of being useful. While he still made it his main object +to find his father, that object became a centre from which radiated +a thousand influences upon those who were as sheep that had no +shepherd. He fell back into his old ways at Aberdeen, only with a +boundless sphere to work in, and with the hope of finding his father +to hearten him. He haunted the streets at night, went into all +places of entertainment, often to the disgust of senses and soul, +and made his way into the lowest forms of life without introduction +or protection. + +There was a certain stately air of the hills about him which was +often mistaken for country inexperience, and men thought in +consequence to make gain or game of him. But such found their +mistake, and if not soon, then the more completely. Far from +provoking or even meeting hostility, he soon satisfied those that +persisted, that it was dangerous. In two years he became well known +to the poor of a large district, especially on both sides of +Shoreditch, for whose sake he made the exercise of his profession +though not an object yet a ready accident. + +He lived in lodgings in John Street--the same in which I found him +when I came to know him. He made few acquaintances, and they were +chiefly the house-surgeons of hospitals--to which he paid frequent +visits. + +He always carried a book in his pocket, but did not read much. On +Sundays he generally went to some one of the many lonely heaths or +commons of Surrey with his New Testament. When weary in London, he +would go to the reading-room of the British Museum for an hour or +two. He kept up a regular correspondence with Dr. Anderson. + +At length he received a letter from him, which occasioned his +immediate departure for Aberdeen. Until now, his friend, who was +entirely satisfied with his mode of life, and supplied him freely +with money, had not even expressed a wish to recall him, though he +had often spoken of visiting him in London. It now appeared that, +unwilling to cause him any needless anxiety, he had abstained from +mentioning the fact that his health had been declining. He had got +suddenly worse, and Falconer hastened to obey the summons he had +sent him in consequence. + +With a heavy heart he walked up to the hospitable door, recalling as +he ascended the steps how he had stood there a helpless youth, in +want of a few pounds to save his hopes, when this friend received +him and bid him God-speed on the path he desired to follow. In a +moment more he was shown into the study, and was passing through it +to go to the cottage-room, when Johnston laid his hand on his arm. + +'The maister's no up yet, sir,' he said, with a very solemn look. +'He's been desperate efter seein' ye, and I maun gang an' lat him +ken 'at ye're here at last, for fear it suld be ower muckle for him, +seein' ye a' at ance. But eh, sir!' he added, the tears gathering +in his eyes, 'ye'll hardly ken 'im. He's that changed!' + +Johnston left the study by the door to the cottage--Falconer had +never known the doctor sleep there--and returning a moment after, +invited him to enter. In the bed in the recess--the room unchanged, +with its deal table, and its sanded floor--lay the form of his +friend. Falconer hastened to the bedside, kneeled down, and took +his hand speechless. The doctor was silent too, but a smile +overspread his countenance, and revealed his inward satisfaction. +Robert's heart was full, and he could only gaze on the worn face. +At length he was able to speak. + +'What for didna ye sen' for me?' he said. 'Ye never tellt me ye was +ailin'.' + +'Because you were doing good, Robert, my boy; and I who had done so +little had no right to interrupt what you were doing. I wonder if +God will give me another chance. I would fain do better. I don't +think I could sit singing psalms to all eternity,' he added with a +smile. + +'Whatever good I may do afore my turn comes, I hae you to thank for +'t. Eh, doctor, gin it hadna been for you!' + +Robert's feelings overcame him. He resumed, brokenly, + +'Ye gae me a man to believe in, whan my ain father had forsaken me, +and my frien' was awa to God. Ye hae made me, doctor. Wi' meat an' +drink an' learnin' an' siller, an' a'thing at ance, ye hae made me.' + +'Eh, Robert!' said the dying man, half rising on his elbow, 'to +think what God maks us a' to ane anither! My father did ten times +for me what I hae dune for you. As I lie here thinkin' I may see +him afore a week's ower, I'm jist a bairn again.' + +As he spoke, the polish of his speech was gone, and the social +refinement of his countenance with it. The face of his ancestors, +the noble, sensitive, heart-full, but rugged, bucolic, and +weather-beaten through centuries of windy ploughing, hail-stormed +sheep-keeping, long-paced seed-sowing, and multiform labour, surely +not less honourable in the sight of the working God than the +fighting of the noble, came back in the face of the dying physician. +>From that hour to his death he spoke the rugged dialect of his +fathers. + +A day or two after this, Robert again sitting by his bedside, + +'I dinna ken,' he said, 'whether it's richt--but I hae nae fear o' +deith, an' yet I canna say I'm sure aboot onything. I hae seen mony +a ane dee that cud hae no faith i' the Saviour; but I never saw that +fear that some gude fowk wud hae ye believe maun come at the last. +I wadna like to tak to ony papistry; but I never cud mak oot frae +the Bible--and I read mair at it i' the jungle than maybe ye wad +think--that it's a' ower wi' a body at their deith. I never heard +them bring foret ony text but ane--the maist ridiculous hash 'at +ever ye heard--to justifee 't.' + +'I ken the text ye mean--"As the tree falleth so it shall lie," or +something like that--'at they say King Solomon wrote, though better +scholars say his tree had fa'en mony a lang year afore that text saw +the licht. I dinna believe sic a thocht was i' the man's heid when +he wrote it. It is as ye say--ower contemptible to ca' an argument. +I'll read it to ye ance mair.' + +Robert got his Bible, and read the following portion from that +wonderful book, so little understood, because it is so full of +wisdom--the Book of Ecclesiastes:-- + +'Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it after many +days. + +'Give a portion to seven, and also to eight; for thou knowest not +what evil shall be upon the earth. + +'If the clouds be full of rain, they empty themselves upon the +earth: and if the tree fall toward the south, or toward the north, +in the place where the tree falleth, there it shall be. + +'He that observeth the wind shall not sow; and he that regardeth the +clouds shall not reap. + +'As thou knowest not what is the way of the spirit, nor how the +bones do grow in the womb of her that is with child: even so thou +knowest not the works of God who maketh all. + +'In the morning sow thy seed, and in the evening withhold not thine +hand: for thou knowest not whether shall prosper, either this or +that, or whether they both shall be alike good.' + +'Ay, ay; that's it,' said Dr. Anderson. 'Weel, I maun say again that +they're ill aff for an argument that taks that for ane upo' sic a +momentous subjec'. I prefer to say, wi' the same auld man, that I +know not the works of God who maketh all. But I wish I could say I +believed onything for certain sure. But whan I think aboot it--wad +ye believe 't? the faith o' my father's mair to me nor ony faith o' +my ain. That soonds strange. But it's this: I'm positeeve that +that godly great auld man kent mair aboot a' thae things--I cud see +'t i' the face o' 'm--nor ony ither man 'at ever I kent. An' it's +no by comparison only. I'm sure he did ken. There was something +atween God and him. An' I think he wasna likely to be wrang; an' +sae I tak courage to believe as muckle as I can, though maybe no sae +muckle as I fain wad.' + +Robert, who from experience of himself, and the observations he had +made by the bedsides of not a few dying men and women, knew well +that nothing but the truth itself can carry its own conviction; that +the words of our Lord are a body as it were in which the spirit of +our Lord dwells, or rather the key to open the heart for the +entrance of that spirit, turned now from all argumentation to the +words of Jesus. He himself had said of them, 'They are spirit and +they are life;' and what folly to buttress life and spirit with +other powers than their own! From that day to the last, as often +and as long as the dying man was able to listen to him, he read from +the glad news just the words of the Lord. As he read thus, one +fading afternoon, the doctor broke out with, + +'Eh, Robert, the patience o' him! He didna quench the smokin' flax. +There's little fire aboot me, but surely I ken in my ain hert some +o' the risin' smoke o' the sacrifice. Eh! sic words as they are! +An' he was gaein' doon to the grave himsel', no half my age, as +peacefu', though the road was sae rouch, as gin he had been gaein' +hame till 's father.' + +'Sae he was,' returned Robert. + +'Ay; but here am I lyin' upo' my bed, slippin' easy awa. An' there +was he--' + +The old man ceased. The sacred story was too sacred for speech. +Robert sat with the New Testament open before him on the bed. + +'The mair the words o' Jesus come into me,' the doctor began again, +'the surer I am o' seein' my auld Brahmin frien', Robert. It's true +I thought his religion not only began but ended inside him. It was +a' a booin' doon afore and an aspirin' up into the bosom o' the +infinite God. I dinna mean to say 'at he wasna honourable to them +aboot him. And I never saw in him muckle o' that pride to the lave +(rest) that belangs to the Brahmin. It was raither a stately +kin'ness than that condescension which is the vice o' Christians. +But he had naething to do wi' them. The first comman'ment was a' +he kent. He loved God--nae a God like Jesus Christ, but the God he +kent--and that was a' he could. The second comman'ment--that +glorious recognition o' the divine in humanity makin' 't fit and +needfu' to be loved, that claim o' God upon and for his ain bairns, +that love o' the neebour as yer'sel--he didna ken. Still there was +religion in him; and he who died for the sins o' the whole world has +surely been revealed to him lang er' noo, and throu the knowledge o' +him, he noo dwalls in that God efter whom he aspired.' + +Here was the outcome of many talks which Robert and the doctor had +had together, as they laboured amongst the poor. + +'Did ye never try,' Robert asked, 'to lat him ken aboot the comin' +o' God to his world in Jesus Christ?' + +'I couldna do muckle that way honestly, my ain faith was sae poor +and sma'. But I tellt him what Christians believed. I tellt him +aboot the character and history o' Christ. But it didna seem to tak +muckle hauld o' him. It wasna interesstin' till him. Just ance +whan I tellt him some things he had said aboot his relation to +God--sic as, "I and my Father are one,"--and aboot the relation o' +a' his disciples to God and himsel'--"I in them, and thou in me, +that they may be made perfect in one," he said, wi' a smile, "The +man was a good Brahmin." + +'It's little,' said Robert, 'the one great commandment can do +withoot the other. It's little we can ken what God to love, or hoo +to love him, withoot "thy neighbour as thyself." Ony ane o' them +withoot the ither stan's like the ae factor o' a multiplication, or +ae wing upo' a laverock (lark).' + +Towards the close of the week, he grew much feebler. Falconer +scarcely left his room. He woke one midnight, and murmured as +follows, with many pauses for breath and strength: + +'Robert, my time's near, I'm thinkin'; for, wakin' an' sleepin', I'm +a bairn again. I can hardly believe whiles 'at my father hasna a +grup o' my han'. A meenute ago I was traivellin' throu a terrible +driftin' o' snaw--eh, hoo it whustled and sang! and the cauld o' 't +was stingin'; but my father had a grup o' me, an' I jist despised +it, an' was stampin' 't doon wi' my wee bit feet, for I was like +saven year auld or thereaboots. An' syne I thocht I heard my mither +singin', and kent by that that the ither was a dream. I'm thinkin' +a hantle 'ill luik dreamy afore lang. Eh! I wonner what the final +waukin' 'ill be like.' + +After a pause he resumed, + +'Robert, my dear boy, ye're i' the richt gait. Haud on an' lat +naething turn ye aside. Man, it's a great comfort to me to think +that ye're my ain flesh and blude, an' nae that far aff. My father +an' your great-gran'father upo' the gran'mither's side war ain +brithers. I wonner hoo far doon it wad gang. Ye're the only ane +upo' my father's side, you and yer father, gin he be alive, that I +hae sib to me. My will's i' the bottom drawer upo' the left han' i' +my writin' table i' the leebrary:--I hae left ye ilka plack 'at I +possess. Only there's ae thing that I want ye to do. First o' a', +ye maun gang on as yer doin' in London for ten year mair. Gin +deein' men hae ony o' that foresicht that's been attreebuted to them +in a' ages, it's borne in upo' me that ye wull see yer father again. +At a' events, ye'll be helpin' some ill-faured sowls to a clean +face and a bonny. But gin ye dinna fa' in wi' yer father within ten +year, ye maun behaud a wee, an' jist pack up yer box, an' gang awa' +ower the sea to Calcutta, an' du what I hae tellt ye to do i' that +wull. I bind ye by nae promise, Robert, an' I winna hae nane. +Things micht happen to put ye in a terrible difficulty wi' a +promise. I'm only tellin' ye what I wad like. Especially gin ye +hae fund yer father, ye maun gang by yer ain jeedgment aboot it, for +there 'll be a hantle to do wi' him efter ye hae gotten a grup o' +'im. An' noo, I maun lie still, an' maybe sleep again, for I hae +spoken ower muckle.' + +Hoping that he would sleep and wake yet again, Robert sat still. +After an hour, he looked, and saw that, although hitherto much +oppressed, he was now breathing like a child. There was no sign +save of past suffering: his countenance was peaceful as if he had +already entered into his rest. Robert withdrew, and again seated +himself. And the great universe became to him as a bird brooding +over the breaking shell of the dying man. + +On either hand we behold a birth, of which, as of the moon, we see +but half. We are outside the one, waiting for a life from the +unknown; we are inside the other, watching the departure of a spirit +from the womb of the world into the unknown. To the region whither +he goes, the man enters newly born. We forget that it is a birth, +and call it a death. The body he leaves behind is but the placenta +by which he drew his nourishment from his mother Earth. And as the +child-bed is watched on earth with anxious expectancy, so the couch +of the dying, as we call them, may be surrounded by the +birth-watchers of the other world, waiting like anxious servants to +open the door to which this world is but the wind-blown porch. + +Extremes meet. As a man draws nigh to his second birth, his heart +looks back to his childhood. When Dr. Anderson knew that he was +dying, he retired into the simulacrum of his father's benn end. + +As Falconer sat thinking, the doctor spoke. They were low, faint, +murmurous sounds, for the lips were nearly at rest. Wanted no more +for utterance, they were going back to the holy dust, which is God's +yet. + +'Father, father!' he cried quickly, in the tone and speech of a +Scotch laddie, 'I'm gaein' doon. Haud a grup o' my han'.' + +When Robert hurried to the bedside, he found that the last breath +had gone in the words. The thin right hand lay partly closed, as if +it had been grasping a larger hand. On the face lay confidence just +ruffled with apprehension: the latter melted away, and nothing +remained but that awful and beautiful peace which is the farewell of +the soul to its servant. + +Robert knelt and thanked God for the noble man. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +A TALK WITH GRANNIE. + +Dr. Anderson's body was, according to the fine custom of many of the +people of Aberdeen, borne to the grave by twelve stalwart men in +black, with broad round bonnets on their heads, the one-half +relieving the other--a privilege of the company of shore-porters. +Their exequies are thus freed from the artificial, grotesque, and +pagan horror given by obscene mutes, frightful hearse, horses, and +feathers. As soon as, in the beautiful phrase of the Old Testament, +John Anderson was thus gathered to his fathers, Robert went to pay a +visit to his grandmother. + +Dressed to a point in the same costume in which he had known her +from childhood, he found her little altered in appearance. She was +one of those who instead of stooping with age, settle downwards: she +was still as erect as ever, though shorter. Her step was feebler, +and when she prayed, her voice quavered more. On her face sat the +same settled, almost hard repose, as ever; but her behaviour was +still more gentle than when he had seen her last. Notwithstanding, +however, that time had wrought so little change in her appearance, +Robert felt that somehow the mist of a separation between her world +and his was gathering; that she was, as it were, fading from his +sight and presence, like the moon towards 'her interlunar cave.' +Her face was gradually turning from him towards the land of light. + +'I hae buried my best frien' but yersel', grannie,' he said, as he +took a chair close by her side, where he used to sit when he read +the Bible and Boston to her. + +'I trust he's happy. He was a douce and a weel-behaved man; and ye +hae rizzon to respec' his memory. Did he dee the deith o' the +richteous, think ye, laddie?' + +'I do think that, grannie. He loved God and his Saviour.' + +'The Lord be praised!' said Mrs. Falconer. 'I had guid houps o' 'im +in 's latter days. And fowk says he's made a rich man o' ye, +Robert?' + +'He's left me ilka thing, excep' something till 's servan's--wha hae +weel deserved it.' + +'Eh, Robert! but it's a terrible snare. Siller 's an awfu' thing. +My puir Anerew never begud to gang the ill gait, till he began to +hae ower muckle siller. But it badena lang wi' 'im.' + +'But it's no an ill thing itsel', grannie; for God made siller as +weel 's ither things.' + +'He thinksna muckle o' 't, though, or he wad gie mair o' 't to some +fowk. But as ye say, it's his, and gin ye hae grace to use 't +aricht, it may be made a great blessin' to yersel' and ither fowk. +But eh, laddie! tak guid tent 'at ye ride upo' the tap o' 't, an' +no lat it rise like a muckle jaw (billow) ower yer heid; for it's an +awfu' thing to be droont in riches.' + +'Them 'at prays no to be led into temptation hae a chance--haena +they, grannie?' + +'That hae they, Robert. And to be plain wi' ye, I haena that muckle +fear o' ye; for I hae heard the kin' o' life 'at ye hae been +leadin'. God's hearkent to my prayers for you; and gin ye gang on +as ye hae begun, my prayers, like them o' David the son o' Jesse, +are endit. Gang on, my dear lad, gang on to pluck brands frae the +burnin'. Haud oot a helpin' han' to ilka son and dauchter o' Adam +'at will tak a grip o' 't. Be a burnin' an' a shinin' licht, that +men may praise, no you, for ye're but clay i' the han's o' the +potter, but yer Father in heaven. Tak the drunkard frae his whusky, +the deboshed frae his debosh, the sweirer frae his aiths, the leear +frae his lees; and giena ony o' them ower muckle o' yer siller at +ance, for fear 'at they grow fat an' kick an' defy God and you. +That's my advice to ye, Robert.' + +'And I houp I'll be able to haud gey and near till 't, grannie, for +it's o' the best. But wha tellt ye what I was aboot in Lonnon?' + +'Himsel'.' + +'Dr. Anderson?' + +'Ay, jist himsel'. I hae had letter upo' letter frae 'im aboot you +and a' 'at ye was aboot. He keepit me acquant wi' 't a'.' + +This fresh proof of his friend's affection touched Robert deeply. +He had himself written often to his grandmother, but he had never +entered into any detail of his doings, although the thought of her +was ever at hand beside the thought of his father. + +'Do ye ken, grannie, what's at the hert o' my houps i' the meesery +an' degradation that I see frae mornin' to nicht, and aftener yet +frae nicht to mornin' i' the back closes and wynds o' the great +city?' + +'I trust it's the glory o' God, laddie.' + +'I houp that's no a'thegither wantin', grannie. For I love God wi' +a' my hert. But I doobt it's aftener the savin' o' my earthly +father nor the glory o' my heavenly ane that I'm thinkin' o'.' + +Mrs. Falconer heaved a deep sigh. + +'God grant ye success, Robert,' she said. 'But that canna be richt.' + +'What canna be richt?' + +'No to put the glory o' God first and foremost.' + +'Weel, grannie; but a body canna rise to the heicht o' grace a' at +ance, nor yet in ten, or twenty year. Maybe gin I do richt, I may +be able to come to that or a' be dune. An' efter a', I'm sure I +love God mair nor my father. But I canna help thinkin' this, that +gin God heardna ae sang o' glory frae this ill-doin' earth o' his, +he wadna be nane the waur; but--' + +'Hoo ken ye that?' interrupted his grandmother. + +'Because he wad be as gude and great and grand as ever.' + +'Ow ay.' + +'But what wad come o' my father wantin' his salvation? He can waur +want that, remainin' the slave o' iniquity, than God can want his +glory. Forby, ye ken there's nae glory to God like the repentin' o' +a sinner, justifeein' God, an' sayin' till him--"Father, ye're a' +richt, an' I'm a' wrang." What greater glory can God hae nor that?' + +'It's a' true 'at ye say. But still gin God cares for that same +glory, ye oucht to think o' that first, afore even the salvation o' +yer father.' + +'Maybe ye're richt, grannie. An' gin it be as ye say--he's promised +to lead us into a' trowth, an' he'll lead me into that trowth. But +I'm thinkin' it's mair for oor sakes than his ain 'at he cares aboot +his glory. I dinna believe 'at he thinks aboot his glory excep' for +the sake o' the trowth an' men's herts deein' for want o' 't.' + +Mrs. Falconer thought for a moment. + +'It may be 'at ye're richt, laddie; but ye hae a way o' sayin' +things 'at 's some fearsome.' + +'God's nae like a prood man to tak offence, grannie. There's +naething pleases him like the trowth, an' there's naething +displeases him like leein', particularly whan it's by way o' +uphaudin' him. He wants nae sic uphaudin'. Noo, ye say things +aboot him whiles 'at soun's to me fearsome.' + +'What kin' o' things are they, laddie?' asked the old lady, with +offence glooming in the background. + +'Sic like as whan ye speyk aboot him as gin he was a puir prood +bailey-like body, fu' o' his ain importance, an' ready to be doon +upo' onybody 'at didna ca' him by the name o' 's office--ay +think-thinkin' aboot 's ain glory; in place o' the quaiet, michty, +gran', self-forgettin', a'-creatin', a'-uphaudin', eternal bein', +wha took the form o' man in Christ Jesus, jist that he micht hae 't +in 's pooer to beir and be humblet for oor sakes. Eh, grannie! +think o' the face o' that man o' sorrows, that never said a hard +word till a sinfu' wuman, or a despised publican: was he thinkin' +aboot 's ain glory, think ye? An' we hae no richt to say we ken God +save in the face o' Christ Jesus. Whatever 's no like Christ is no +like God.' + +'But, laddie, he cam to saitisfee God's justice by sufferin' the +punishment due to oor sins; to turn aside his wrath an' curse; to +reconcile him to us. Sae he cudna be a'thegither like God.' + +'He did naething o' the kin', grannie. It's a' a lee that. He cam +to saitisfee God's justice by giein' him back his bairns; by garrin' +them see that God was just; by sendin' them greetin' hame to fa' at +his feet, an' grip his knees an' say, "Father, ye're i' the richt." +He cam to lift the weicht o' the sins that God had curst aff o' the +shoothers o' them 'at did them, by makin' them turn agen them, an' +be for God an' no for sin. And there isna a word o' reconceelin' +God till 's in a' the Testament, for there was no need o' that: it +was us that he needed to be reconcilet to him. An' sae he bore oor +sins and carried oor sorrows; for those sins comin' oot in the +multitudes--ay and in his ain disciples as weel, caused him no en' +o' grief o' mind an' pain o' body, as a'body kens. It wasna his ain +sins, for he had nane, but oors, that caused him sufferin'; and he +took them awa'--they're vainishin' even noo frae the earth, though +it doesna luik like it in Rag-fair or Petticoat-lane. An' for oor +sorrows--they jist garred him greit. His richteousness jist +annihilates oor guilt, for it's a great gulf that swallows up and +destroys 't. And sae he gae his life a ransom for us: and he is the +life o' the world. He took oor sins upo' him, for he cam into the +middle o' them an' took them up--by no sleicht o' han', by no +quibblin' o' the lawyers, aboot imputin' his richteousness to us, +and sic like, which is no to be found i' the Bible at a', though I +dinna say that there's no possible meanin' i' the phrase, but he +took them and took them awa'; and here am I, grannie, growin' oot o' +my sins in consequennce, and there are ye, grannie, growin' oot o' +yours in consequennce, an' haein' nearhan' dune wi' them a'thegither +er this time.' + +'I wis that may be true, laddie. But I carena hoo ye put it,' +returned his grandmother, bewildered no doubt with this outburst, +'sae be that ye put him first an' last an' i' the mids' o' a' thing, +an' say wi' a' yer hert, "His will be dune!"' + +'Wi' a' my hert, "His will be dune," grannie,' responded Robert. + +'Amen, amen. And noo, laddie, duv ye think there's ony likliheid +that yer father 's still i' the body? I dream aboot him whiles sae +lifelike that I canna believe him deid. But that's a' freits +(superstitions).' + +'Weel, grannie, I haena the least assurance. But I hae the mair +houp. Wad ye ken him gin ye saw him?' + +'Ken him!' she cried; 'I wad ken him gin he had been no to say four, +but forty days i' the sepulchre! My ain Anerew! Hoo cud ye speir +sic a queston, laddie?' + +'He maun be sair changed, grannie. He maun be turnin' auld by this +time.' + +'Auld! Sic like 's yersel, laddie.--Hoots, hoots! ye're richt. I +am forgettin'. But nanetheless wad I ken him.' + +'I wis I kent what he was like. I saw him ance--hardly twise, but +a' that I min' upo' wad stan' me in ill stead amo' the streets o' +Lonnon.' + +'I doobt that,' returned Mrs. Falconer--a form of expression rather +oddly indicating sympathetic and somewhat regretful agreement with +what has been said. 'But,' she went on, 'I can lat ye see a pictur' +o' 'im, though I doobt it winna shaw sae muckle to you as to me. He +had it paintit to gie to yer mother upo' their weddin' day. Och +hone! She did the like for him; but what cam o' that ane, I dinna +ken.' + +Mrs. Falconer went into the little closet to the old bureau, and +bringing out the miniature, gave it to Robert. It was the portrait +of a young man in antiquated blue coat and white waistcoat, looking +innocent, and, it must be confessed, dull and uninteresting. It had +been painted by a travelling artist, and probably his skill did not +reach to expression. It brought to Robert's mind no faintest shadow +of recollection. It did not correspond in the smallest degree to +what seemed his vague memory, perhaps half imagination, of the tall +worn man whom he had seen that Sunday. He could not have a hope +that this would give him the slightest aid in finding him of whom it +had once been a shadowy resemblance at least. + +'Is 't like him, grannie?' he asked. + +As if to satisfy herself once more ere she replied, she took the +miniature, and gazed at it for some time. Then with a deep hopeless +sigh, she answered, + +'Ay, it's like him; but it's no himsel'. Eh, the bonny broo, an' +the smilin' een o' him!--smilin' upon a'body, an' upo' her maist o' +a', till he took to the drink, and waur gin waur can be. It was a' +siller an' company--company 'at cudna be merry ohn drunken. Verity +their lauchter was like the cracklin' o' thorns aneath a pot. Het +watter and whusky was aye the cry efter their denner an' efter their +supper, till my puir Anerew tuik till the bare whusky i' the mornin' +to fill the ebb o' the toddy. He wad never hae dune as he did but +for the whusky. It jist drave oot a' gude and loot in a' ill.' + +'Wull ye lat me tak this wi' me, grannie?' said Robert; for though +the portrait was useless for identification, it might serve a +further purpose. + +'Ow, ay, tak it. I dinna want it. I can see him weel wantin' that. +But I hae nae houp left 'at ye'll ever fa' in wi' him.' + +'God's aye doin' unlikly things, grannie,' said Robert, solemnly. + +'He's dune a' 'at he can for him, I doobt, already.' + +'Duv ye think 'at God cudna save a man gin he liket, than, grannie?' + +'God can do a'thing. There's nae doobt but by the gift o' his +speerit he cud save a'body.' + +'An' ye think he's no mercifu' eneuch to do 't?' + +'It winna do to meddle wi' fowk's free wull. To gar fowk he gude +wad be nae gudeness.' + +'But gin God could actually create the free wull, dinna ye think he +cud help it to gang richt, withoot ony garrin'? We ken sae little +aboot it, grannie! Hoo does his speerit help onybody? Does he gar +them 'at accep's the offer o' salvation?' + +'Na, I canna think that. But he shaws them the trowth in sic a way +that they jist canna bide themsel's, but maun turn to him for verra +peace an' rist.' + +'Weel, that's something as I think. An' until I'm sure that a man +has had the trowth shawn till him in sic a way 's that, I canna +alloo mysel' to think that hooever he may hae sinned, he has finally +rejeckit the trowth. Gin I kent that a man had seen the trowth as I +hae seen 't whiles, and had deleeberately turned his back upo' 't +and said, "I'll nane o' 't," than I doobt I wad be maist compelled +to alloo that there was nae mair salvation for him, but a certain +and fearfu' luikin' for o' judgment and fiery indignation. But I +dinna believe that ever man did sae. But even than, I dinna ken.' + +'I did a' for him that I kent hoo to do,' said Mrs. Falconer, +reflectingly. 'Nicht an' mornin' an' aften midday prayin' for an' +wi' him.' + +'Maybe ye scunnert him at it, grannie.' + +She gave a stifled cry of despair. + +'Dinna say that, laddie, or ye'll drive me oot o' my min'. God +forgie me, gin that be true. I deserve hell mair nor my Anerew.' + +'But, ye see, grannie, supposin' it war sae, that wadna be laid to +your accoont, seein' ye did the best ye kent. Nor wad it be +forgotten to him. It wad mak a hantle difference to his sin; it wad +be a great excuse for him. An' jist think, gin it be fair for ae +human being to influence anither a' 'at they can, and that's nae +interferin' wi' their free wull--it's impossible to measure what God +cud do wi' his speerit winnin' at them frae a' sides, and able to +put sic thouchts an' sic pictures into them as we canna think. It +wad a' be true that he tellt them, and the trowth can never be a +meddlin' wi' the free wull.' + +Mrs. Falconer made no reply, but evidently went on thinking. + +She was, though not a great reader, yet a good reader. Any book +that was devout and thoughtful she read gladly. Through some one or +other of this sort she must have been instructed concerning free +will, for I do not think such notions could have formed any portion +of the religious teaching she had heard. Men in that part of +Scotland then believed that the free will of man was only exercised +in rejecting--never in accepting the truth; and that men were saved +by the gift of the Spirit, given to some and not to others, +according to the free will of God, in the exercise of which no +reason appreciable by men, or having anything to do with their +notions of love or justice, had any share. In the recognition of +will and choice in the acceptance of the mercy of God, Mrs. Falconer +was then in advance of her time. And it is no wonder if her notions +did not all hang logically together. + +'At ony rate, grannie,' resumed her grandson, 'I haena dune a' for +him 'at I can yet; and I'm no gaein' to believe onything that wad +mak me remiss in my endeavour. Houp for mysel', for my father, for +a'body, is what's savin' me, an' garrin' me work. An' gin ye tell +me that I'm no workin' wi' God, that God's no the best an' the +greatest worker aboon a', ye tak the verra hert oot o' my breist, +and I dinna believe in God nae mair, an' my han's drap doon by my +sides, an' my legs winna gang. No,' said Robert, rising, 'God 'ill +gie me my father sometime, grannie; for what man can do wantin' a +father? Human bein' canna win at the hert o' things, canna ken a' +the oots an' ins, a' the sides o' love, excep' he has a father amo' +the lave to love; an' I hae had nane, grannie. An' that God kens.' + +She made him no answer. She dared not say that he expected too much +from God. Is it likely that Jesus will say so of any man or woman +when he looks for faith in the earth? + +Robert went out to see some of his old friends, and when he returned +it was time for supper and worship. These were the same as of old: +a plate of porridge, and a wooden bowl of milk for the former; a +chapter and a hymn, both read, and a prayer from grannie, and then +from Robert for the latter. And so they went to bed. + +But Robert could not sleep. He rose and dressed himself, went up to +the empty garret, looked at the stars through the skylight, knelt +and prayed for his father and for all men to the Father of all, then +softly descended the stairs, and went out into the street. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +SHARGAR'S MOTHER. + +It was a warm still night in July--moonless but not dark. There is +no night there in the summer--only a long ethereal twilight. He +walked through the sleeping town so full of memories, all quiet in +his mind now--quiet as the air that ever broods over the house where +a friend has dwelt. He left the town behind, and walked--through +the odours of grass and of clover and of the yellow flowers on the +old earthwalls that divided the fields--sweet scents to which the +darkness is friendly, and which, mingling with the smell of the +earth itself, reach the founts of memory sooner than even words or +tones--down to the brink of the river that flowed scarcely murmuring +through the night, itself dark and brown as the night from its +far-off birthplace in the peaty hills. He crossed the footbridge +and turned into the bleachfield. Its houses were desolate, for that +trade too had died away. The machinery stood rotting and rusting. +The wheel gave no answering motion to the flow of the water that +glided away beneath it. The thundering beatles were still. The +huge legs of the wauk-mill took no more seven-leagued strides +nowhither. The rubbing-boards with their thickly-fluted surfaces no +longer frothed the soap from every side, tormenting the web of linen +into a brightness to gladden the heart of the housewife whose hands +had spun the yarn. The terrible boiler that used to send up from +its depths bubbling and boiling spouts and peaks and ridges, lay +empty and cold. The little house behind, where its awful furnace +used to glow, and which the pungent chlorine used to fill with its +fumes, stood open to the wind and the rain: he could see the slow +river through its unglazed window beyond. The water still went +slipping and sliding through the deserted places, a power whose use +had departed. The canal, the delight of his childhood, was nearly +choked with weeds; it went flowing over long grasses that drooped +into it from its edges, giving a faint gurgle once and again in its +flow, as if it feared to speak in the presence of the stars, and +escaped silently into the river far below. The grass was no longer +mown like a lawn, but was long and deep and thick. He climbed to +the place where he had once lain and listened to the sounds of the +belt of fir-trees behind him, hearing the voice of Nature that +whispered God in his ears, and there he threw himself down once +more. All the old things, the old ways, the old glories of +childhood--were they gone? No. Over them all, in them all, was God +still. There is no past with him. An eternal present, He filled +his soul and all that his soul had ever filled. His history was +taken up into God: it had not vanished: his life was hid with Christ +in God. To the God of the human heart nothing that has ever been a +joy, a grief, a passing interest, can ever cease to be what it has +been; there is no fading at the breath of time, no passing away of +fashion, no dimming of old memories in the heart of him whose being +creates time. Falconer's heart rose up to him as to his own deeper +life, his indwelling deepest spirit--above and beyond him as the +heavens are above and beyond the earth, and yet nearer and homelier +than his own most familiar thought. 'As the light fills the earth,' +thought he, 'so God fills what we call life. My sorrows, O God, my +hopes, my joys, the upliftings of my life are with thee, my root, my +life. Thy comfortings, my perfect God, are strength indeed!' + +He rose and looked around him. While he lay, the waning, fading +moon had risen, weak and bleared and dull. She brightened and +brightened until at last she lighted up the night with a wan, +forgetful gleam. 'So should I feel,' he thought, 'about the past on +which I am now gazing, were it not that I believe in the God who +forgets nothing. That which has been, is.' His eye fell on +something bright in the field beyond. He would see what it was, and +crossed the earthen dyke. It shone like a little moon in the grass. +By humouring the reflection he reached it. It was only a cutting +of white iron, left by some tinker. He walked on over the field, +thinking of Shargar's mother. If he could but find her! He walked +on and on. He had no inclination to go home. The solitariness of +the night, the uncanniness of the moon, prevents most people from +wandering far: Robert had learned long ago to love the night, and to +feel at home with every aspect of God's world. How this peace +contrasted with the nights in London streets! this grass with the +dark flow of the Thames! these hills and those clouds half melted +into moonlight with the lanes blazing with gas! He thought of the +child who, taken from London for the first time, sent home the +message: 'Tell mother that it's dark in the country at night.' Then +his thoughts turned again to Shargar's mother! Was it not possible, +being a wanderer far and wide, that she might be now in Rothieden? +Such people have a love for their old haunts, stronger than that of +orderly members of society for their old homes. He turned back, and +did not know where he was. But the lines of the hill-tops directed +him. He hastened to the town, and went straight through the +sleeping streets to the back wynd where he had found Shargar sitting +on the doorstep. Could he believe his eyes? A feeble light was +burning in the shed. Some other poverty-stricken bird of the night, +however, might be there, and not she who could perhaps guide him to +the goal of his earthly life. He drew near, and peeped in at the +broken window. A heap of something lay in a corner, watched only by +a long-snuffed candle. + +The heap moved, and a voice called out querulously, + +'Is that you, Shargar, ye shochlin deevil?' + +Falconer's heart leaped. He hesitated no longer, but lifted the +latch and entered. He took up the candle, snuffed it as he best +could, and approached the woman. When the light fell on her face +she sat up, staring wildly with eyes that shunned and sought it. + +'Wha are ye that winna lat me dee in peace and quaietness?' + +'I'm Robert Falconer.' + +'Come to speir efter yer ne'er-do-weel o' a father, I reckon,' she +said. + +'Yes,' he answered. + +'Wha's that ahin' ye?' + +'Naebody's ahin' me,' answered Robert. + +'Dinna lee. Wha's that ahin' the door?' + +'Naebody. I never tell lees.' + +'Whaur's Shargar? What for doesna he come till 's mither?' + +'He's hynd awa' ower the seas--a captain o' sodgers.' + +'It's a lee. He's an ill-faured scoonrel no to come till 's mither +an' bid her gude-bye, an' her gaein' to hell.' + +'Gin ye speir at Christ, he'll tak ye oot o' the verra mou' o' hell, +wuman.' + +'Christ! wha's that? Ow, ay! It's him 'at they preach aboot i' the +kirks. Na, na. There's nae gude o' that. There's nae time to +repent noo. I doobt sic repentance as mine wadna gang for muckle +wi' the likes o' him.' + +'The likes o' him 's no to be gotten. He cam to save the likes o' +you an' me.' + +'The likes o' you an' me! said ye, laddie? There's no like atween +you and me. He'll hae naething to say to me, but gang to hell wi' +ye for a bitch.' + +'He never said sic a word in 's life. He wad say, "Poor thing! she +was ill-used. Ye maunna sin ony mair. Come, and I'll help ye." He +wad say something like that. He'll save a body whan she wadna think +it.' + +'An' I hae gien my bonnie bairn to the deevil wi' my ain han's! +She'll come to hell efter me to girn at me, an' set them on me wi' +their reid het taings, and curse me. Och hone! och hone!' + +'Hearken to me,' said Falconer, with as much authority as he could +assume. But she rolled herself over again in the corner, and lay +groaning. + +'Tell me whaur she is,' said Falconer, 'and I'll tak her oot o' +their grup, whaever they be.' + +She sat up again, and stared at him for a few moments without +speaking. + +'I left her wi' a wuman waur nor mysel',' she said at length. 'God +forgie me.' + +'He will forgie ye, gin ye tell me whaur she is.' + +'Do ye think he will? Eh, Maister Faukner! The wuman bides in a +coort off o' Clare Market. I dinna min' upo' the name o' 't, though +I cud gang till 't wi' my een steekit. Her name's Widow Walker--an +auld rowdie--damn her sowl!' + +'Na, na, ye maunna say that gin ye want to be forgien yersel'. I'll +fin' her oot. An' I'm thinkin' it winna be lang or I hae a grup o' +her. I'm gaein' back to Lonnon in twa days or three.' + +'Dinna gang till I'm deid. Bide an' haud the deevil aff o' me. He +has a grup o' my hert noo, rivin' at it wi' his lang nails--as lang +'s birds' nebs.' + +'I'll bide wi' ye till we see what can be dune for ye. What's the +maitter wi' ye? I'm a doctor noo.' + +There was not a chair or box or stool on which to sit down. He +therefore kneeled beside her. He felt her pulse, questioned her, +and learned that she had long been suffering from an internal +complaint, which had within the last week grown rapidly worse. He +saw that there was no hope of her recovery, but while she lived he +gave himself to her service as to that of a living soul capable of +justice and love. The night was more than warm, but she had fits of +shivering. He wrapped his coat round her, and wiped from the poor +degraded face the damps of suffering. The woman-heart was alive +still, for she took the hand that ministered to her and kissed it +with a moan. When the morning came she fell asleep. He crept out +and went to his grandmother's, where he roused Betty, and asked her +to get him some peat and coals. Finding his grandmother awake, he +told her all, and taking the coals and the peat, carried them to the +hut, where he managed, with some difficulty, to light a fire on the +hearth; after which he sat on the doorstep till Betty appeared with +two men carrying a mattress and some bedding. The noise they made +awoke her. + +'Dinna tak me,' she cried. 'I winna do 't again, an' I'm deein', I +tell ye I'm deein', and that'll clear a' scores--o' this side ony +gait,' she added. + +They lifted her upon the mattress, and made her more comfortable +than perhaps she had ever been in her life. But it was only her +illness that made her capable of prizing such comfort. In health, +the heather on a hill-side was far more to her taste than bed and +blankets. She had a wild, roving, savage nature, and the wind was +dearer to her than house-walls. She had come of ancestors--and it +was a poor little atom of truth that a soul bred like this woman +could have been born capable of entertaining. But she too was +eternal--and surely not to be fixed for ever in a bewilderment of +sin and ignorance--a wild-eyed soul staring about in hell-fire for +want of something it could not understand and had never beheld--by +the changeless mandate of the God of love! She was in less pain +than during the night, and lay quietly gazing at the fire. Things +awful to another would no doubt cross her memory without any +accompanying sense of dismay; tender things would return without +moving her heart; but Falconer had a hold of her now. Nothing could +be done for her body except to render its death as easy as might be; +but something might be done for herself. He made no attempt to +produce this or that condition of mind in the poor creature. He +never made such attempts. 'How can I tell the next lesson a soul is +capable of learning?' he would say. 'The Spirit of God is the +teacher. My part is to tell the good news. Let that work as it +ought, as it can, as it will.' He knew that pain is with some the +only harbinger that can prepare the way for the entrance of +kindness: it is not understood till then. In the lulls of her pain +he told her about the man Christ Jesus--what he did for the poor +creatures who came to him--how kindly he spoke to them--how he cured +them. He told her how gentle he was with the sinning women, how he +forgave them and told them to do so no more. He left the story +without comment to work that faith which alone can redeem from +selfishness and bring into contact with all that is living and +productive of life, for to believe in him is to lay hold of eternal +life: he is the Life--therefore the life of men. She gave him but +little encouragement: he did not need it, for he believed in the +Life. But her outcries were no longer accompanied with that fierce +and dreadful language in which she sought relief at first. He said +to himself, 'What matter if I see no sign? I am doing my part. Who +can tell, when the soul is free from the distress of the body, when +sights and sounds have vanished from her, and she is silent in the +eternal, with the terrible past behind her, and clear to her +consciousness, how the words I have spoken to her may yet live and +grow in her; how the kindness God has given me to show her may help +her to believe in the root of all kindness, in the everlasting love +of her Father in heaven? That she can feel at all is as sure a sign +of life as the adoration of an ecstatic saint.' + +He had no difficulty now in getting from her what information she +could give him about his father. It seemed to him of the greatest +import, though it amounted only to this, that when he was in London, +he used to lodge at the house of an old Scotchwoman of the name of +Macallister, who lived in Paradise Gardens, somewhere between +Bethnal Green and Spitalfields. Whether he had been in London +lately, she did not know; but if anybody could tell him where he +was, it would be Mrs. Macallister. + +His heart filled with gratitude and hope and the surging desire for +the renewal of his London labours. But he could not leave the dying +woman till she was beyond the reach of his comfort: he was her +keeper now. And 'he that believeth shall not make haste.' Labour +without perturbation, readiness without hurry, no haste, and no +hesitation, was the divine law of his activity. + +Shargar's mother breathed her last holding his hand. They were +alone. He kneeled by the bed, and prayed to God, saying, + +'Father, this woman is in thy hands. Take thou care of her, as thou +hast taken care of her hitherto. Let the light go up in her soul, +that she may love and trust thee, O light, O gladness. I thank thee +that thou hast blessed me with this ministration. Now lead me to my +father. Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for +ever and ever. Amen.' + +He rose and went to his grandmother and told her all. She put her +arms round his neck, and kissed him, and said, + +'God bless ye, my bonny lad. And he will bless ye. He will; he +will. Noo gang yer wa's, and do the wark he gies ye to do. Only +min', it's no you; it's him.' + +The next morning, the sweet winds of his childhood wooing him to +remain yet a day among their fields, he sat on the top of the +Aberdeen coach, on his way back to the horrors of court and alley in +the terrible London. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +THE SILK-WEAVER. + +When he arrived he made it his first business to find 'Widow +Walker.' She was evidently one of the worst of her class; and could +it have been accomplished without scandal, and without interfering +with the quietness upon which he believed that the true effect of +his labours in a large measure depended, he would not have scrupled +simply to carry off the child. With much difficulty, for the woman +was suspicious, he contrived to see her, and was at once reminded of +the child he had seen in the cart on the occasion of Shargar's +recognition of his mother. He fancied he saw in her some +resemblance to his friend Shargar. The affair ended in his paying +the woman a hundred and fifty pounds to give up the girl. Within +six months she had drunk herself to death. He took little Nancy +Kennedy home with him, and gave her in charge to his housekeeper. +She cried a good deal at first, and wanted to go back to Mother +Walker, but he had no great trouble with her after a time. She +began to take a share in the house-work, and at length to wait upon +him. Then Falconer began to see that he must cultivate relations +with other people in order to enlarge his means of helping the poor. +He nowise abandoned his conviction that whatever good he sought to +do or lent himself to aid must be effected entirely by individual +influence. He had little faith in societies, regarding them chiefly +as a wretched substitute, just better than nothing, for that help +which the neighbour is to give to his neighbour. Finding how the +unbelief of the best of the poor is occasioned by hopelessness in +privation, and the sufferings of those dear to them, he was +confident that only the personal communion of friendship could make +it possible for them to believe in God. Christians must be in the +world as He was in the world; and in proportion as the truth +radiated from them, the world would be able to believe in Him. Money +he saw to be worse than useless, except as a gracious outcome of +human feelings and brotherly love. He always insisted that the +Saviour healed only those on whom his humanity had laid hold; that +he demanded faith of them in order to make them regard him, that so +his personal being might enter into their hearts. Healing without +faith in its source would have done them harm instead of good--would +have been to them a windfall, not a Godsend; at best the gift of +magic, even sometimes the power of Satan casting out Satan. But he +must not therefore act as if he were the only one who could render +this individual aid, or as if men influencing the poor individually +could not aid each other in their individual labours. He soon +found, I say, that there were things he could not do without help, +and Nancy was his first perplexity. From this he was delivered in a +wonderful way. + +One afternoon he was prowling about Spitalfields, where he had made +many acquaintances amongst the silk-weavers and their families. +Hearing a loud voice as he passed down a stair from the visit he +had been paying further up the house, he went into the room whence +the sound came, for he knew a little of the occupant. He was one De +Fleuri, or as the neighbours called him, Diffleery, in whose +countenance, after generations of want and debasement, the delicate +lines and noble cast of his ancient race were yet emergent. This +man had lost his wife and three children, his whole family except a +daughter now sick, by a slow-consuming hunger; and he did not +believe there was a God that ruled in the earth. But he supported +his unbelief by no other argument than a hopeless bitter glance at +his empty loom. At this moment he sat silent--a rock against which +the noisy waves of a combative Bible-reader were breaking in rude +foam. His silence and apparent impassiveness angered the irreverent +little worthy. To Falconer's humour he looked a vulgar bull-terrier +barking at a noble, sad-faced staghound. His foolish arguments +against infidelity, drawn from Paley's Natural Theology, and tracts +about the inspiration of the Bible, touched the sore-hearted +unbelief of the man no nearer than the clangour of negro kettles +affects the eclipse of the sun. Falconer stood watching his +opportunity. Nor was the eager disputant long in affording him one. +Socratic fashion, Falconer asked him a question, and was answered; +followed it with another, which, after a little hesitation, was +likewise answered; then asked a third, the ready answer to which +involved such a flagrant contradiction of the first, that the poor +sorrowful weaver burst into a laugh of delight at the discomfiture +of his tormentor. After some stammering, and a confused attempt to +recover the line of argument, the would-be partizan of Deity roared +out, 'The fool hath said in his heart there is no God;' and with +this triumphant discharge of his swivel, turned and ran down the +stairs precipitately. + +Both laughed while the sound of his footsteps lasted. Then Falconer +said, + +'My. De Fleuri, I believe in God with all my heart, and soul, and +strength, and mind; though not in that poor creature's arguments. I +don't know that your unbelief is not better than his faith.' + +'I am greatly obliged to you, Mr. Falconer. I haven't laughed so +for years. What right has he to come pestering me?' + +'None whatever. But you must forgive him, because he is +well-meaning, and because his conceit has made a fool of him. +They're not all like him. But how is your daughter?' + +'Very poorly, sir. She's going after the rest. A Spitalfields +weaver ought to be like the cats: they don't mind how many of their +kittens are drowned.' + +'I beg your pardon. They don't like it. Only they forget it sooner +than we do.' + +'Why do you say we, sir? You don't know anything of that sort.' + +'The heart knows its own bitterness, De Fleuri--and finds it enough, +I dare say.' + +The weaver was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, there was +a touch of tenderness in his respect. + +'Will you go and see my poor Katey, sir?' + +'Would she like to see me?' + +'It does her good to see you. I never let that fellow go near her. +He may worry me as he pleases; but she shall die in peace. That is +all I can do for her.' + +'Do you still persist in refusing help--for your daughter--I don't +mean for yourself?' + +Not believing in God, De Fleuri would not be obliged to his fellow. +Falconer had never met with a similar instance. + +'I do. I won't kill her, and I won't kill myself: I am not bound to +accept charity. It's all right. I only want to leave the whole +affair behind; and I sincerely hope there's nothing to come after. +If I were God, I should be ashamed of such a mess of a world.' + +'Well, no doubt you would have made something more to your mind--and +better, too, if all you see were all there is to be seen. But I +didn't send that bore away to bore you myself. I'm going to see +Katey.' + +'Very well, sir. I won't go up with you, for I won't interfere with +what you think proper to say to her.' + +'That's rather like faith somewhere!' thought Falconer. 'Could that +man fail to believe in Jesus Christ if he only saw him--anything +like as he is?' + +Katey lay in a room overhead; for though he lacked food, this man +contrived to pay for a separate room for his daughter, whom he +treated with far more respect than many gentlemen treat their wives. +Falconer found her lying on a wretched bed. Still it was a bed; +and many in the same house had no bed to lie on. He had just come +from a room overhead where lived a widow with four children. All of +them lay on a floor whence issued at night, by many holes, awful +rats. The children could not sleep for horror. They did not mind +the little ones, they said, but when the big ones came, they were +awake all night. + +'Well, Katey, how are you?' + +'No better, thank God.' + +She spoke as her father had taught her. Her face was worn and thin, +but hardly death-like. Only extremes met in it--the hopelessness +had turned through quietude into comfort. Her hopelessness affected +him more than her father's. But there was nothing he could do for +her. + +There came a tap at the door. + +'Come in,' said Falconer, involuntarily. + +A lady in the dress of a Sister of Mercy entered with a large basket +on her arm. She started, and hesitated for a moment when she saw +him. He rose, thinking it better to go. She advanced to the +bedside. He turned at the door, and said, + +'I won't say good-bye yet, Katey, for I'm going to have a chat with +your father, and if you will let me, I will look in again.' + +As he turned he saw the lady kiss her on the forehead. At the sound +of his voice she started again, left the bedside and came towards +him. Whether he knew her by her face or her voice first, he could +not tell. + +'Robert,' she said, holding out her hand. + +It was Mary St. John. Their hands met, joined fast, and lingered, as +they gazed each in the other's face. It was nearly fourteen years +since they had parted. The freshness of youth was gone from her +cheek, and the signs of middle age were present on her forehead. +But she was statelier, nobler, and gentler than ever. Falconer +looked at her calmly, with only a still swelling at the heart, as if +they met on the threshold of heaven. All the selfishness of passion +was gone, and the old earlier adoration, elevated and glorified, had +returned. He was a boy once more in the presence of a woman-angel. +She did not shrink from his gaze, she did not withdraw her hand +from his clasp. + +'I am so glad, Robert!' was all she said. + +'So am I,' he answered quietly. 'We may meet sometimes then?' + +'Yes. Perhaps we can help each other.' + +'You can help me,' said Falconer. 'I have a girl I don't know what +to do with.' + +'Send her to me. I will take care of her.' + +'I will bring her. But I must come and see you first.' + +'That will tell you where I live,' she said, giving him a card. +Good-bye.' + +'Till to-morrow,' said Falconer. + +'She's not like that Bible fellow,' said De Fleuri, as he entered +his room again. 'She don't walk into your house as if it was her +own.' + +He was leaning against his idle loom, which, like a dead thing, +filled the place with the mournfulness of death. Falconer took a +broken chair, the only one, and sat down. + +'I am going to take a liberty with you, Mr. De Fleuri,' he said. + +'As you please, Mr. Falconer.' + +'I want to tell you the only fault I have to you.' + +'Yes?' + +'You don't do anything for the people in the house. Whether you +believe in God or not, you ought to do what you can for your +neighbour.' + +He held that to help a neighbour is the strongest antidote to +unbelief, and an open door out of the bad air of one's own troubles, +as well. + +De Fleuri laughed bitterly, and rubbed his hand up and down his +empty pocket. It was a pitiable action. Falconer understood it. + +'There are better things than money: sympathy, for instance. You +could talk to them a little.' + +'I have no sympathy, sir.' + +'You would find you had, if you would let it out.' + +'I should only make them more miserable. If I believed as you do, +now, there might be some use.' + +'There's that widow with her four children in the garret. The poor +little things are tormented by the rats: couldn't you nail bits of +wood over their holes?' + +De Fleuri laughed again. + +'Where am I to get the bits of wood, except I pull down some of +those laths. And they wouldn't keep them out a night.' + +'Couldn't you ask some carpenter?' + +'I won't ask a favour.' + +'I shouldn't mind asking, now.' + +'That's because you don't know the bitterness of needing.' + +'Fortunately, however, there's no occasion for it. You have no +right to refuse for another what you wouldn't accept for yourself. +Of course I could send in a man to do it; but if you would do it, +that would do her heart good. And that's what most wants doing good +to--isn't it, now?' + +'I believe you're right there, sir. If it wasn't for the misery of +it, I shouldn't mind the hunger.' + +'I should like to tell you how I came to go poking my nose into +other people's affairs. Would you like to hear my story now?' + +'If you please, sir.' + +A little pallid curiosity seemed to rouse itself in the heart of the +hopeless man. So Falconer began at once to tell him how he had been +brought up, describing the country and their ways of life, not +excluding his adventures with Shargar, until he saw that the man was +thoroughly interested. Then all at once, pulling out his watch, he +said, + +'But it's time I had my tea, and I haven't half done yet. I am not +fond of being hungry, like you, Mr. De Fleuri.' + +The poor fellow could only manage a very dubious smile. + +'I'll tell you what,' said Falconer, as if the thought had only just +struck him--'come home with me, and I'll give you the rest of it at +my own place.' + +'You must excuse me, sir.' + +'Bless my soul, the man's as proud as Lucifer! He wont accept a +neighbour's invitation to a cup of tea--for fear it should put him +under obligations, I suppose.' + +'It's very kind of you, sir, to put it in that way; but I don't +choose to be taken in. You know very well it's not as one equal +asks another you ask me. It's charity.' + +'Do I not behave to you as an equal?' + +'But you know that don't make us equals.' + +'But isn't there something better than being equals? Supposing, as +you will have it, that we're not equals, can't we be friends?' + +'I hope so, sir.' + +'Do you think now, Mr. De Fleuri, if you weren't something more to +me than a mere equal, I would go telling you my own history? But I +forgot: I have told you hardly anything yet. I have to tell you how +much nearer I am to your level than you think. I had the design too +of getting you to help me in the main object of my life. Come, +don't be a fool. I want you.' + +'I can't leave Katey,' said the weaver, hesitatingly. + +'Miss St. John is there still. I will ask her to stop till you come +back.' + +Without waiting for an answer, he ran up the stairs, and had +speedily arranged with Miss St. John. Then taking his consent for +granted, he hurried De Fleuri away with him, and knowing how unfit a +man of his trade was for walking, irrespective of feebleness from +want, he called the first cab, and took him home. Here, over their +tea, which he judged the safest meal for a stomach unaccustomed to +food, he told him about his grandmother, and about Dr. Anderson, and +how he came to give himself to the work he was at, partly for its +own sake, partly in the hope of finding his father. He told him his +only clue to finding him; and that he had called on Mrs. Macallister +twice every week for two years, but had heard nothing of him. De +Fleuri listened with what rose to great interest before the story +was finished. And one of its ends at least was gained: the weaver +was at home with him. The poor fellow felt that such close relation +to an outcast, did indeed bring Falconer nearer to his own level. + +'Do you want it kept a secret, sir?' he asked. + +'I don't want it made a matter of gossip. But I do not mind how +many respectable people like yourself know of it.' + +He said this with a vague hope of assistance. + +Before they parted, the unaccustomed tears had visited the eyes of +De Fleuri, and he had consented not only to repair Mrs. Chisholm's +garret-floor, but to take in hand the expenditure of a certain sum +weekly, as he should judge expedient, for the people who lived in +that and the neighbouring houses--in no case, however, except of +sickness, or actual want of bread from want of work. Thus did +Falconer appoint a sorrow-made infidel to be the almoner of his +christian charity, knowing well that the nature of the Son of Man +was in him, and that to get him to do as the Son of Man did, in ever +so small a degree, was the readiest means of bringing his higher +nature to the birth. Nor did he ever repent the choice he had made. + +When he waited upon Miss St. John the next day, he found her in the +ordinary dress of a lady. She received him with perfect confidence +and kindness, but there was no reference made to the past. She told +him that she had belonged to a sisterhood, but had left it a few +days before, believing she could do better without its restrictions. + +'It was an act of cowardice,' she said,--'wearing the dress +yesterday. I had got used to it, and did not feel safe without it; +but I shall not wear it any more.' + +'I think you are right,' said Falconer. 'The nearer any friendly act +is associated with the individual heart, without intervention of +class or creed, the more the humanity, which is the divinity of it, +will appear.' + +He then told her about Nancy. + +'I will keep her about myself for a while,' said Miss St. John, +'till I see what can be done with her. I know a good many people +who without being prepared, or perhaps able to take any trouble, are +yet ready to do a kindness when it is put in their way.' + +'I feel more and more that I ought to make some friends,' said +Falconer; 'for I find my means of help reach but a little way. What +had I better do? I suppose I could get some introductions.--I +hardly know how.' + +'That will easily be managed. I will take that in hand. If you +will accept invitations, you will soon know a good many people--of +all sorts,' she added with a smile. + +About this time Falconer, having often felt the pressure of his +ignorance of legal affairs, and reflected whether it would not add +to his efficiency to rescue himself from it, began such a course of +study as would fit him for the profession of the law. Gifted with +splendid health, and if with a slow strength of grasping, yet with a +great power of holding, he set himself to work, and regularly read +for the bar. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +MY OWN ACQUAINTANCE. + +It was after this that my own acquaintance with Falconer commenced. +I had just come out of one of the theatres in the neighbourhood of +the Strand, unable to endure any longer the dreary combination of +false magnanimity and real meanness, imported from Paris in the +shape of a melodrama, for the delectation of the London public. I +had turned northwards, and was walking up one of the streets near +Covent Garden, when my attention was attracted to a woman who came +out of a gin-shop, carrying a baby. She went to the kennel, and +bent her head over, ill with the poisonous stuff she had been +drinking. And while the woman stood in this degrading posture, the +poor, white, wasted baby was looking over her shoulder with the +smile of a seraph, perfectly unconscious of the hell around her. + +'Children will see things as God sees them,' murmured a voice beside +me. + +I turned and saw a tall man with whose form I had already become a +little familiar, although I knew nothing of him, standing almost at +my elbow, with his eyes fixed on the woman and the child, and a +strange smile of tenderness about his mouth, as if he were blessing +the little creature in his heart. + +He too saw the wonder of the show, typical of so much in the world, +indeed of the world itself--the seemingly vile upholding and +ministering to the life of the pure, the gracious, the fearless. +Aware from his tone more than from his pronunciation that he was a +fellow-countryman, I ventured to speak to him, and in a +home-dialect. + +'It's a wonnerfu' sicht. It's the cake o' Ezekiel ower again.' + +He looked at me sharply, thought a moment, and said, + +'You were going my way when you stopped. I will walk with you, if +you will.' + +'But what's to be done about it?' I said. + +'About what?' he returned. + +'About the child there,' I answered. + +'Oh! she is its mother,' he replied, walking on. + +'What difference does that make?' I said. + +'All the difference in the world. If God has given her that child, +what right have you or I to interfere?' + +'But I verily believe from the look of the child she gives it gin.' + +'God saves the world by the new blood, the children. To take her +child from her, would be to do what you could to damn her.' + +'It doesn't look much like salvation there.' + +'You mustn't interfere with God's thousand years any more than his +one day.' + +'Are you sure she is the mother?' I asked. + +'Yes. I would not have left the child with her otherwise.' + +'What would you have done with it? Got it into some orphan +asylum?--or the Foundling perhaps?' + +'Never,' he answered. 'All those societies are wretched inventions +for escape from the right way. There ought not to be an orphan +asylum in the kingdom.' + +'What! Would you put them all down then?' + +'God forbid. But I would, if I could, make them all useless,' + +'How could you do that?' + +'I would merely enlighten the hearts of childless people as to their +privileges.' + +'Which are?' + +'To be fathers and mothers to the fatherless and motherless.' + +'I have often wondered why more of them did not adopt children. Why +don't they?' + +'For various reasons which a real love to child nature would blow to +the winds--all comprised in this, that such a child would not be +their own child. As if ever a child could be their own! That a +child is God's is of rather more consequence than whether it is born +of this or that couple. Their hearts would surely be glad when they +went into heaven to have the angels of the little ones that always +behold the face of their Father coming round them, though they were +not exactly their father and mother.' + +'I don't know what the passage you refer to means.' + +'Neither do I. But it must mean something, if He said it. Are you a +clergyman?' + +'No. I am only a poor teacher of mathematics and poetry, shown up +the back stairs into the nurseries of great houses.' + +'A grand chance, if I may use the word.' + +'I do try to wake a little enthusiasm in the sons and +daughters--without much success, I fear.' + +'Will you come and see me?' he said. + +'With much pleasure. But, as I have given you an answer, you owe me +one.' + +'I do.' + +'Have you adopted a child?' + +'No.' + +'Then you have some of your own?' + +'No.' + +'Then, excuse me, but why the warmth of your remarks on those who--' + +'I think I shall be able to satisfy you on that point, if we draw to +each other. Meantime I must leave you. Could you come to-morrow +evening?' + +'With pleasure.' + +We arranged the hour and parted. I saw him walk into a low +public-house, and went home. + +At the time appointed, I rang the bell, and was led by an elderly +woman up the stair, and shown into a large room on the +first-floor--poorly furnished, and with many signs of +bachelor-carelessness. Mr. Falconer rose from an old hair-covered +sofa to meet me as I entered. I will first tell my reader something +of his personal appearance. + +He was considerably above six feet in height, square-shouldered, +remarkably long in the arms, and his hands were uncommonly large and +powerful. His head was large, and covered with dark wavy hair, +lightly streaked with gray. His broad forehead projected over +deep-sunk eyes, that shone like black fire. His features, +especially his Roman nose, were large, and finely, though not +delicately, modelled. His nostrils were remarkably large and +flexile, with a tendency to slight motion: I found on further +acquaintance that when he was excited, they expanded in a wild +equine manner. The expression of his mouth was of tender power, +crossed with humour. He kept his lips a little compressed, which +gave a certain sternness to his countenance: but when this sternness +dissolved in a smile, it was something enchanting. He was plainly, +rather shabbily clothed. No one could have guessed at his +profession or social position. He came forward and received me +cordially. After a little indifferent talk, he asked me if I had +any other engagement for the evening. + +'I never have any engagements,' I answered--'at least, of a social +kind. I am burd alane. I know next to nobody.' + +'Then perhaps you would not mind going out with me for a stroll?' + +'I shall be most happy,' I answered. + +There was something about the man I found exceedingly attractive; I +had very few friends; and there was besides something odd, almost +romantic, in this beginning of an intercourse: I would see what +would come of it. + +'Then we'll have some supper first,' said Mr. Falconer, and rang the +bell. + +While we ate our chops-- + +'I dare say you think it strange,' my host said, 'that without the +least claim on your acquaintance, I should have asked you to come +and see me, Mr.--' + +He stopped, smiling. + +'My name is Gordon--Archie Gordon,' I said. + +'Well, then, Mr. Gordon, I confess I have a design upon you. But +you will remember that you addressed me first.' + +'You spoke first,' I said. + +'Did I?' + +'I did not say you spoke to me, but you spoke.--I should not have +ventured to make the remark I did make, if I had not heard your +voice first. What design have you on me?' + +'That will appear in due course. Now take a glass of wine, and +we'll set out.' + +We soon found ourselves in Holborn, and my companion led the way +towards the City. The evening was sultry and close. + +'Nothing excites me move,' said Mr. Falconer, 'than a walk in the +twilight through a crowded street. Do you find it affect you so?' + +'I cannot speak as strongly as you do,' I replied. 'But I perfectly +understand what you mean. Why is it, do you think?' + +'Partly, I fancy, because it is like the primordial chaos, a +concentrated tumult of undetermined possibilities. The germs of +infinite adventure and result are floating around you like a +snow-storm. You do not know what may arise in a moment and colour +all your future. Out of this mass may suddenly start something +marvellous, or, it may be, something you have been looking for for +years.' + +The same moment, a fierce flash of lightning, like a blue +sword-blade a thousand times shattered, quivered and palpitated +about us, leaving a thick darkness on the sense. I heard my +companion give a suppressed cry, and saw him run up against a heavy +drayman who was on the edge of the path, guiding his horses with his +long whip. He begged the man's pardon, put his hand to his head, +and murmured, 'I shall know him now.' I was afraid for a moment +that the lightning had struck him, but he assured me there was +nothing amiss. He looked a little excited and confused, however. + +I should have forgotten the incident, had he not told me +afterwards--when I had come to know him intimately--that in the +moment of that lightning flash, he had had a strange experience: he +had seen the form of his father, as he had seen him that Sunday +afternoon, in the midst of the surrounding light. He was as certain +of the truth of the presentation as if a gradual revival of memory +had brought with it the clear conviction of its own accuracy. His +explanation of the phenomenon was, that, in some cases, all that +prevents a vivid conception from assuming objectivity, is the +self-assertion of external objects. The gradual approach of +darkness cannot surprise and isolate the phantasm; but the +suddenness of the lightning could and did, obliterating everything +without, and leaving that over which it had no power standing alone, +and therefore visible. + +'But,' I ventured to ask, 'whence the minuteness of detail, +surpassing, you say, all that your memory could supply?' + +'That I think was a quickening of the memory by the realism of the +presentation. Excited by the vision, it caught at its own past, as +it were, and suddenly recalled that which it had forgotten. In the +rapidity of all pure mental action, this at once took its part in +the apparent objectivity.' + +To return to the narrative of my first evening in Falconer's +company. + +It was strange how insensible the street population was to the +grandeur of the storm. While the thunder was billowing and +bellowing over and around us-- + +'A hundred pins for one ha'penny,' bawled a man from the gutter, +with the importance of a Cagliostro. + +'Evening Star! Telegrauwff!' roared an ear-splitting urchin in my +very face. I gave him a shove off the pavement. + +'Ah! don't do that,' said Falconer. 'It only widens the crack +between him and his fellows--not much, but a little.' + +'You are right,' I said. 'I won't do it again.' + +The same moment we heard a tumult in a neighbouring street. A crowd +was execrating a policeman, who had taken a woman into custody, and +was treating her with unnecessary rudeness. Falconer looked on for +a few moments. + +'Come, policeman!' he said at length, in a tone of expostulation. +'You're rather rough, are you not? She's a woman, you know.' + +'Hold your blasted humbug,' answered the man, an exceptional +specimen of the force at that time at all events, and shook the +tattered wretch, as if he would shake her out of her rags. + +Falconer gently parted the crowd, and stood beside the two. + +'I will help you,' he said, 'to take her to the station, if you +like, but you must not treat her that way.' + +'I don't want your help,' said the policeman; 'I know you, and all +the damned lot of you.' + +'Then I shall be compelled to give you a lesson,' said Falconer. + +The man's only answer was a shake that made the woman cry out. + +'I shall get into trouble if you get off,' said Falconer to her. +'Will you promise me, on your word, to go with me to the station, if +I rid you of the fellow?' + +'I will, I will,' said the woman. + +'Then, look out,' said Falconer to the policeman; 'for I'm going to +give you that lesson.' + +The officer let the woman go, took his baton, and made a blow at +Falconer. In another moment--I could hardly see how--he lay in the +street. + +'Now, my poor woman, come along,' said Falconer. + +She obeyed, crying gently. Two other policemen came up. + +'Do you want to give that woman in charge, Mr. Falconer?' asked one +of them. + +'I give that man in charge,' cried his late antagonist, who had just +scrambled to his feet. 'Assaulting the police in discharge of their +duty.' + +'Very well,' said the other. 'But you're in the wrong box, and that +you'll find. You had better come along to the station, sir.' + +'Keep that fellow from getting hold of the woman--you two, and we'll +go together,' said Falconer. + +Bewildered with the rapid sequence of events, I was following in the +crowd. Falconer looked about till he saw me, and gave me a nod +which meant come along. Before we reached Bow Street. however, the +offending policeman, who had been walking a little behind in +conversation with one of the others, advanced to Falconer, touched +his hat, and said something, to which Falconer replied. + +'Remember, I have my eye upon you,' was all I heard, however, as he +left the crowd and rejoined me. We turned and walked eastward +again. + +The storm kept on intermittently, but the streets were rather more +crowded than usual notwithstanding. + +'Look at that man in the woollen jacket,' said Falconer. 'What a +beautiful outline of face! There must be something noble in that +man.' + +'I did not see him,' I answered, 'I was taken up with a woman's +face, like that of a beautiful corpse. It's eyes were bright. +There was gin in its brain.' + +The streets swarmed with human faces gleaming past. It was a night +of ghosts. + +There stood a man who had lost one arm, earnestly pumping +bilge-music out of an accordion with the other, holding it to his +body with the stump. There was a woman, pale with hunger and gin, +three match-boxes in one extended hand, and the other holding a baby +to her breast. As we looked, the poor baby let go its hold, turned +its little head, and smiled a wan, shrivelled, old-fashioned smile +in our faces. + +Another happy baby, you see, Mr. Gordon,' said Falconer. 'A child, +fresh from God, finds its heaven where no one else would. The devil +could drive woman out of Paradise; but the devil himself cannot +drive the Paradise out of a woman.' + +'What can be done for them?' I said, and at the moment, my eye fell +upon a row of little children, from two to five years of age, seated +upon the curb-stone. + +They were chattering fast, and apparently carrying on some game, as +happy as if they had been in the fields. + +'Wouldn't you like to take all those little grubby things, and put +them in a great tub and wash them clean?' I said. + +'They'd fight like spiders,' rejoined Falconer. + +'They're not fighting now.' + +'Then don't make them. It would be all useless. The probability is +that you would only change the forms of the various evils, and +possibly for worse. You would buy all that man's glue-lizards, and +that man's three-foot rules, and that man's dog-collars and chains, +at three times their value, that they might get more drink than +usual, and do nothing at all for their living to-morrow.--What a +happy London you would make if you were Sultan Haroun!' he added, +laughing. 'You would put an end to poverty altogether, would you +not?' + +I did not reply at once. + +'But I beg your pardon,' he resumed; 'I am very rude.' + +'Not at all,' I returned. 'I was only thinking how to answer you. +They would be no worse after all than those who inherit property +and lead idle lives.' + +'True; but they would be no better. Would you be content that your +quondam poor should be no better off than the rich? What would be +gained thereby? Is there no truth in the words "Blessed are the +poor"? A deeper truth than most Christians dare to see.--Did you +ever observe that there is not one word about the vices of the poor +in the Bible--from beginning to end?' + +'But they have their vices.' + +'Indubitably. I am only stating a fact. The Bible is full enough +of the vices of the rich. I make no comment.' + +'But don't you care for their sufferings?' + +'They are of secondary importance quite. But if you had been as +much amongst them as I, perhaps you would be of my opinion, that the +poor are not, cannot possibly feel so wretched as they seem to us. +They live in a climate, as it were, which is their own, by natural +law comply with it, and find it not altogether unfriendly. The +Laplander will prefer his wastes to the rich fields of England, not +merely from ignorance, but for the sake of certain blessings amongst +which he has been born and brought up. The blessedness of life +depends far more on its interest than upon its comfort. The need of +exertion and the doubt of success, renders life much more +interesting to the poor than it is to those who, unblessed with +anxiety for the bread that perisheth, waste their poor hearts about +rank and reputation.' + +'I thought such anxiety was represented as an evil in the New +Testament.' + +'Yes. But it is a still greater evil to lose it in any other way +than by faith in God. You would remove the anxiety by destroying its +cause: God would remove it by lifting them above it, by teaching +them to trust in him, and thus making them partakers of the divine +nature. Poverty is a blessing when it makes a man look up.' + +'But you cannot say it does so always.' + +'I cannot determine when, where, and how much; but I am sure it +does. And I am confident that to free those hearts from it by any +deed of yours would be to do them the greatest injury you could. +Probably their want of foresight would prove the natural remedy, +speedily reducing them to their former condition--not however +without serious loss.' + +'But will not this theory prove at last an anæsthetic rather than an +anodyne? I mean that, although you may adopt it at first for refuge +from the misery the sight of their condition occasions you, there is +surely a danger of its rendering you at last indifferent to it.' + +'Am I indifferent? But you do not know me yet. Pardon my egotism. +There may be such danger. Every truth has its own danger or +shadow. Assuredly I would have no less labour spent upon them. But +there can be no true labour done, save in as far as we are +fellow-labourers with God. We must work with him, not against him. +Every one who works without believing that God is doing the best, +the absolute good for them, is, must be, more or less, thwarting +God. He would take the poor out of God's hands. For others, as for +ourselves, we must trust him. If we could thoroughly understand +anything, that would be enough to prove it undivine; and that which +is but one step beyond our understanding must be in some of its +relations as mysterious as if it were a hundred. But through all +this darkness about the poor, at least I can see wonderful veins and +fields of light, and with the help of this partial vision, I trust +for the rest. The only and the greatest thing man is capable of is +Trust in God.' + +'What then is a man to do for the poor? How is he to work with +God?' I asked. + +'He must be a man amongst them--a man breathing the air of a higher +life, and therefore in all natural ways fulfilling his endless human +relations to them. Whatever you do for them, let your own being, +that is you in relation to them, be the background, that so you may +be a link between them and God, or rather I should say, between them +and the knowledge of God.' + +While Falconer spoke, his face grew grander and grander, till at +last it absolutely shone. I felt that I walked with a man whose +faith was his genius. + +'Of one thing I am pretty sure,' he resumed, 'that the same recipe +Goethe gave for the enjoyment of life, applies equally to all work: +"Do the thing that lies next you." That is all our business. +Hurried results are worse than none. We must force nothing, but be +partakers of the divine patience. How long it took to make the +cradle! and we fret that the baby Humanity is not reading Euclid and +Plato, even that it is not understanding the Gospel of St. John! If +there is one thing evident in the world's history, it is that God +hasteneth not. All haste implies weakness. Time is as cheap as +space and matter. What they call the church militant is only at +drill yet, and a good many of the officers too not out of the +awkward squad. I am sure I, for a private, am not. In the drill a +man has to conquer himself, and move with the rest by individual +attention to his own duty: to what mighty battlefields the recruit +may yet be led, he does not know. Meantime he has nearly enough to +do with his goose-step, while there is plenty of single combat, +skirmish, and light cavalry work generally, to get him ready for +whatever is to follow. I beg your pardon: I am preaching.' + +'Eloquently,' I answered. + +Of some of the places into which Falconer led me that night I will +attempt no description--places blazing with lights and mirrors, +crowded with dancers, billowing with music, close and hot, and full +of the saddest of all sights, the uninteresting faces of commonplace +women. + +'There is a passion,' I said, as we came out of one of these +dreadful places, 'that lingers about the heart like the odour of +violets, like a glimmering twilight on the borders of moonrise; and +there is a passion that wraps itself in the vapours of patchouli and +coffins, and streams from the eyes like gaslight from a tavern. And +yet the line is ill to draw between them. It is very dreadful. +These are women.' + +'They are in God's hands,' answered Falconer. 'He hasn't done with +them yet. Shall it take less time to make a woman than to make a +world? Is not the woman the greater? She may have her ages of +chaos, her centuries of crawling slime, yet rise a woman at last.' + +'How much alike all those women were!' + +'A family likeness, alas! which always strikes you first.' + +'Some of them looked quite modest.' + +'There are great differences. I do not know anything more touching +than to see how a woman will sometimes wrap around her the last +remnants of a soiled and ragged modesty. It has moved me almost to +tears to see such a one hanging her head in shame during the singing +of a detestable song. That poor thing's shame was precious in the +eyes of the Master, surely.' + +'Could nothing be done for her?' + +'I contrived to let her know where she would find a friend if she +wanted to be good: that is all you can do in such cases. If the +horrors of their life do not drive them out at such an open door, +you can do nothing else, I fear--for the time.' + +'Where are you going now, may I ask?' + +'Into the city--on business,' he added with a smile. + +'There will be nobody there so late.' + +'Nobody! One would think you were the beadle of a city church, Mr. +Gordon.' + +We came into a very narrow, dirty street. I do not know where it +is. A slatternly woman advanced from an open door, and said, + +'Mr. Falconer.' + +He looked at her for a moment. + +'Why, Sarah, have you come to this already?' he said. + +'Never mind me, sir. It's no more than you told me to expect. You +knowed him better than I did. Leastways I'm an honest woman.' + +'Stick to that, Sarah; and be good-tempered.' + +'I'll have a try anyhow, sir. But there's a poor cretur a dyin' +up-stairs; and I'm afeard it'll go hard with her, for she throwed a +Bible out o' window this very morning, sir.' + +'Would she like to see me? I'm afraid not.' + +'She's got Lilywhite, what's a sort of a reader, readin' that same +Bible to her now.' + +'There can be no great harm in just looking in,' he said, turning to +me. + +'I shall be happy to follow you--anywhere,' I returned. + +'She's awful ill, sir; cholerer or summat,' said Sarah, as she led +the way up the creaking stair. + +We half entered the room softly. Two or three women sat by the +chimney, and another by a low bed, covered with a torn patchwork +counterpane, spelling out a chapter in the Bible. We paused for a +moment to hear what she was reading. Had the book been opened by +chance, or by design? It was the story of David and Bathsheba. +Moans came from the bed, but the candle in a bottle, by which the +woman was reading, was so placed that we could not see the sufferer. + +We stood still and did not interrupt the reading. + +'Ha! ha! ha!' laughed a coarse voice from the side of the chimney: +'the saint, you see, was no better than some of the rest of us!' + +'I think he was a good deal worse just then,' said Falconer, +stepping forward. + +'Gracious! there's Mr. Falconer,' said another woman, rising, and +speaking in a flattering tone. + +'Then,' remarked the former speaker, 'there's a chance for old Moll +and me yet. King David was a saint, wasn't he? Ha! ha!' + +'Yes, and you might be one too, if you were as sorry for your faults +as he was for his.' + +'Sorry, indeed! I'll be damned if I be sorry. What have I to be +sorry for? Where's the harm in turning an honest penny? I ha' took +no man's wife, nor murdered himself neither. There's yer saints! +He was a rum 'un. Ha! ha!' + +Falconer approached her, bent down and whispered something no one +could hear but herself. She gave a smothered cry, and was silent. + +'Give me the book,' he said, turning towards the bed. 'I'll read you +something better than that. I'll read about some one that never did +anything wrong.' + +'I don't believe there never was no sich a man,' said the previous +reader, as she handed him the book, grudgingly. + +'Not Jesus Christ himself?' said Falconer. + +'Oh! I didn't know as you meant him.' + +'Of course I meant him. There never was another.' + +'I have heard tell--p'raps it was yourself, sir--as how he didn't +come down upon us over hard after all, bless him!' + +Falconer sat down on the side of the bed, and read the story of +Simon the Pharisee and the woman that was a sinner. When he ceased, +the silence that followed was broken by a sob from somewhere in the +room. The sick woman stopped her moaning, and said, + +'Turn down the leaf there, please, sir. Lilywhite will read it to +me when you're gone.' + +The some one sobbed again. It was a young slender girl, with a face +disfigured by the small-pox, and, save for the tearful look it wore, +poor and expressionless. Falconer said something gentle to her. + +'Will he ever come again?' she sobbed. + +'Who?' asked Falconer. + +'Him--Jesus Christ. I've heard tell, I think, that he was to come +again some day.' + +'Why do you ask?' + +'Because--' she said, with a fresh burst of tears, which rendered +the words that followed unintelligible. But she recovered herself +in a few moments, and, as if finishing her sentence, put her hand up +to her poor, thin, colourless hair, and said, + +'My hair ain't long enough to wipe his feet.' + +'Do you know what he would say to you, my girl?' Falconer asked. + +'No. What would he say to me? He would speak to me, would he?' + +'He would say: Thy sins are forgiven thee.' + +'Would he, though? Would he?' she cried, starting up. 'Take me to +him--take me to him. Oh! I forgot. He's dead. But he will come +again, won't he? He was crucified four times, you know, and he must +ha' come four times for that. Would they crucify him again, sir?' + +'No, they wouldn't crucify him now--in England at least. They would +only laugh at him, shake their heads at what he told them, as much +as to say it wasn't true, and sneer and mock at him in some of the +newspapers.' + +'Oh dear! I've been very wicked.' + +'But you won't be so any more.' + +'No, no, no. I won't, I won't, I won't.' + +She talked hurriedly, almost wildly. The coarse old woman tapped +her forehead with her finger. Falconer took the girl's hand. + +'What is your name?' he said. + +'Nell.' + +'What more?' + +'Nothing more.' + +'Well, Nelly,' said Falconer. + +'How kind of you to call me Nelly!' interrupted the poor girl. 'They +always calls me Nell, just.' + +'Nelly,' repeated Falconer, 'I will send a lady here to-morrow to +take you away with her, if you like, and tell you how you must do to +find Jesus.--People always find him that want to find him.' + +The elderly woman with the rough voice, who had not spoken since he +whispered to her, now interposed with a kind of cowed fierceness. + +'Don't go putting humbug into my child's head now, Mr. +Falconer--'ticing her away from her home. Everybody knows my Nell's +been an idiot since ever she was born. Poor child!' + +'I ain't your child,' cried the girl, passionately. 'I ain't +nobody's child.' + +'You are God's child,' said Falconer, who stood looking on with his +eyes shining, but otherwise in a state of absolute composure. + +'Am I? Am I? You won't forget to send for me, sir?' + +'That I won't,' he answered. + +She turned instantly towards the woman, and snapped her fingers in +her face. + +'I don't care that for you,' she cried. 'You dare to touch me now, +and I'll bite you.' + +'Come, come, Nelly, you mustn't be rude,' said Falconer. + +'No, sir, I won't no more, leastways to nobody but she. It's she +makes me do all the wicked things, it is.' + +She snapped her fingers in her face again, and then burst out +crying. + +'She will leave you alone now, I think,' said Falconer. 'She knows +it will be quite as well for her not to cross me.' + +This he said very significantly, as he turned to the door, where he +bade them a general good-night. When we reached the street, I was +too bewildered to offer any remark. Falconer was the first to +speak. + +'It always comes back upon me, as if I had never known it before, +that women like some of those were of the first to understand our +Lord.' + +'Some of them wouldn't have understood him any more than the +Pharisee, though.' + +'I'm not so sure of that. Of course there are great differences. +There are good and bad amongst them as in every class. But one +thing is clear to me, that no indulgence of passion destroys the +spiritual nature so much as respectable selfishness.' + +'I am afraid you will not get society to agree with you,' I said, +foolishly. + +'I have no wish that society should agree with me; for if it did, it +would be sure to do so upon the worst of principles. It is better +that society should be cruel, than that it should call the horrible +thing a trifle: it would know nothing between.' + +Through the city--though it was only when we crossed one of the main +thoroughfares that I knew where we were--we came into the region of +Bethnal Green. From house to house till it grew very late, Falconer +went, and I went with him. I will not linger on this part of our +wanderings. Where I saw only dreadful darkness, Falconer always +would see some glimmer of light. All the people into whose houses +we went knew him. They were all in the depths of poverty. Many of +them were respectable. With some of them he had long talks in +private, while I waited near. At length he said, + +'I think we had better be going home, Mr. Gordon. You must be +tired.' + +'I am, rather,' I answered. 'But it doesn't matter, for I have +nothing to do to-morrow.' + +'We shall get a cab, I dare say, before we go far.' + +'Not for me. I am not so tired, but that I would rather walk,' I +said. + +'Very well,' he returned. 'Where do you live?' + +I told him. + +'I will take you the nearest way.' + +'You know London marvellously.' + +'Pretty well now,' he answered. + +We were somewhere near Leather Lane about one o'clock. Suddenly we +came upon two tiny children standing on the pavement, one on each +side of the door of a public-house. They could not have been more +than two and three. They were sobbing a little--not much. The tiny +creatures stood there awfully awake in sleeping London, while even +their own playmates were far off in the fairyland of dreams. + +'This is the kind of thing,' I said, 'that makes me doubt whether +there be a God in heaven.' + +'That is only because he is down here,' answered Falconer, 'taking +such good care of us all that you can't see him. There is not a +gin-palace, or yet lower hell in London, in which a man or woman can +be out of God. The whole being love, there is nothing for you to set +it against and judge it by. So you are driven to fancies.' + +The house was closed, but there was light above the door. We went +up to the children, and spoke to them, but all we could make out was +that mammie was in there. One of them could not speak at all. +Falconer knocked at the door. A good-natured-looking Irishwoman +opened it a little way and peeped out. + +'Here are two children crying at your door, ma'am,' said Falconer. + +'Och, the darlin's! they want their mother.' + +'Do you know her, then?' + +'True for you, and I do. She's a mighty dacent woman in her way +when the drink's out uv her, and very kind to the childher; but +oncet she smells the dhrop o' gin, her head's gone intirely. The +purty craytures have waked up, an' she not come home, and they've +run out to look after her.' + +Falconer stood a moment as if thinking what would be best. The +shriek of a woman rang through the night. + +'There she is!' said the Irishwoman. 'For God's sake don't let her +get a hould o' the darlints. She's ravin' mad. I seen her try to +kill them oncet.' + +The shrieks came nearer and nearer, and after a few moments the +woman appeared in the moonlight, tossing her arms over her head, and +screaming with a despair for which she yet sought a defiant +expression. Her head was uncovered, and her hair flying in tangles; +her sleeves were torn, and her gaunt arms looked awful in the +moonlight. She stood in the middle of the street, crying again and +again, with shrill laughter between, 'Nobody cares for me, and I +care for nobody! Ha! ha! ha!' + +'Mammie! mammie!' cried the elder of the children, and ran towards +her. + +The woman heard, and rushed like a fury towards the child. Falconer +too ran, and caught up the child. The woman gave a howl and rushed +towards the other. I caught up that one. With a last shriek, she +dashed her head against the wall of the public-house, dropped on the +pavement, and lay still. + +Falconer set the child down, lifted the wasted form in his arms, and +carried it into the house. The face was blue as that of a strangled +corpse. She was dead. + +'Was she a married woman?' Falconer asked. + +'It's myself can't tell you sir,' the Irishwoman answered. 'I never +saw any boy with her.' + +'Do you know where she lived?' + +'No, sir. Somewhere not far off, though. The children will know.' + +But they stood staring at their mother, and we could get nothing out +of them. They would not move from the corpse. + +'I think we may appropriate this treasure-trove,' said Falconer, +turning at last to me; and as he spoke, he took the eldest in his +arms. Then, turning to the woman, he gave her a card, saying, 'If +any inquiry is made about them, there is my address.--Will you take +the other, Mr. Gordon?' + +I obeyed. The children cried no more. After traversing a few +streets, we found a cab, and drove to a house in Queen Square, +Bloomsbury. + +Falconer got out at the door of a large house, and rung the bell; +then got the children out, and dismissed the cab. There we stood in +the middle of the night, in a silent, empty square, each with a +child in his arms. In a few minutes we heard the bolts being +withdrawn. The door opened, and a tall graceful form wrapped in a +dressing-gown, appeared. + +'I have brought you two babies, Miss St. John,' said Falconer. 'Can +you take them?' + +'To be sure I can,' she answered, and turned to lead the way. 'Bring +them in.' + +We followed her into a little back room. She put down her candle, +and went straight to the cupboard, whence she brought a sponge-cake, +from which she cut a large piece for each of the children. + +'What a mercy they are, Robert,--those little gates in the face! +Red Lane leads direct to the heart,' she said, smiling, as if she +rejoiced in the idea of taming the little wild angelets. 'Don't you +stop. You are tired enough, I am sure. I will wake my maid, and +we'll get them washed and put to bed at once.' + +She was closing the door, when Falconer turned. + +'Oh! Miss St. John,' he said, 'I was forgetting. Could you go down +to No. 13 in Soap Lane--you know it, don't you?' + +'Yes. Quite well.' + +'Ask for a girl called Nell--a plain, pock-marked young girl--and +take her away with you.' + +'When shall I go?' + +'To-morrow morning. But I shall be in. Don't go till you see me. +Good-night.' + +We took our leave without more ado. + +'What a lady-like woman to be the matron of an asylum!' I said. + +Falconer gave a little laugh. + +'That is no asylum. It is a private house.' + +'And the lady?' + +'Is a lady of private means,' he answered, 'who prefers Bloomsbury +to Belgravia, because it is easier to do noble work in it. Her +heaven is on the confines of hell.' + +'What will she do with those children?' + +'Kiss them and wash them and put them to bed.' + +'And after that?' + +'Give them bread and milk in the morning.' + +'And after that?' + +'Oh! there's time enough. We'll see. There's only one thing she +won't do.' + +'What is that?' + +'Turn them out again.' + +A pause followed, I cogitating. + +'Are you a society, then?' I asked at length. + +'No. At least we don't use the word. And certainly no other society +would acknowledge us.' + +'What are you, then?' + +'Why should we be anything, so long as we do our work?' + +'Don't you think there is some affectation in refusing a name?' + +'Yes, if the name belongs to you? Not otherwise.' + +'Do you lay claim to no epithet of any sort?' + +'We are a church, if you like. There!' + +'Who is your clergyman?' + +'Nobody.' + +'Where do you meet?' + +'Nowhere.' + +'What are your rules, then?' + +'We have none.' + +'What makes you a church?' + +'Divine Service.' + +'What do you mean by that?' + +'The sort of thing you have seen to-night.' + +'What is your creed?' + +'Christ Jesus.' + +'But what do you believe about him?' + +'What we can. We count any belief in him--the smallest--better than +any belief about him--the greatest--or about anything else besides. +But we exclude no one.' + +'How do you manage without?' + +'By admitting no one.' + +'I cannot understand you.' + +'Well, then: we are an undefined company of people, who have grown +into human relations with each other naturally, through one +attractive force--love for human beings, regarding them as human +beings only in virtue of the divine in them.' + +'But you must have some rules,' I insisted. + +'None whatever. They would cause us only trouble. We have nothing +to take us from our work. Those that are most in earnest, draw most +together; those that are on the outskirts have only to do nothing, +and they are free of us. But we do sometimes ask people to help +us--not with money.' + +'But who are the we?' + +'Why you, if you will do anything, and I and Miss St. John and +twenty others--and a great many more I don't know, for every one is +a centre to others. It is our work that binds us together.' + +'Then when that stops you drop to pieces.' + +'Yes, thank God. We shall then die. There will be no corporate +body--which means a bodied body, or an unsouled body, left behind to +simulate life, and corrupt, and work no end of disease. We go to +ashes at once, and leave no corpse for a ghoul to inhabit and make a +vampire of. When our spirit is dead, our body is vanished.' + +'Then you won't last long.' + +'Then we oughtn't to last long.' + +'But the work of the world could not go on so.' + +'We are not the life of the world. God is. And when we fail, he +can and will send out more and better labourers into his +harvest-field. It is a divine accident by which we are thus +associated.' + +'But surely the church must be otherwise constituted.' + +'My dear sir, you forget: I said we were a church, not the church.' + +'Do you belong to the Church of England?' + +'Yes, some of us. Why should we not? In as much as she has +faithfully preserved the holy records and traditions, our +obligations to her are infinite. And to leave her would be to +quarrel, and start a thousand vermiculate questions, as Lord Bacon +calls them, for which life is too serious in my eyes. I have no +time for that.' + +'Then you count the Church of England the Church?' 'Of England, yes; +of the universe, no: that is constituted just like ours, with the +living working Lord for the heart of it.' + +'Will you take me for a member?' + +'No.' + +'Will you not, if--?' + +'You may make yourself one if you will. I will not speak a word to +gain you. I have shown you work. Do something, and you are of +Christ's Church.' + +We were almost at the door of my lodging, and I was getting very +weary in body, and indeed in mind, though I hope not in heart. +Before we separated, I ventured to say, + +'Will you tell me why you invited me to come and see you? Forgive +my presumption, but you seemed to seek acquaintance with me, +although you did make me address you first.' + +He laughed gently, and answered in the words of the ancient +mariner:-- + + 'The moment that his face I see, + I know the man that must hear me: + To him my tale I teach.' + +Without another word, he shook hands with me, and left me. Weary as +I was, I stood in the street until I could hear his footsteps no +longer. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +THE BROTHERS. + +One day, as Falconer sat at a late breakfast, Shargar burst into his +room. Falconer had not even known that he was coming home, for he +had outstripped the letter he had sent. He had his arm in a sling, +which accounted for his leave. + +'Shargar!' cried Falconer, starting up in delight. + +'Major Shargar, if you please. Give me all my honours, Robert,' +said Moray, presenting his left hand. + +'I congratulate you, my boy. Well, this is delightful! But you are +wounded.' + +'Bullet--broken--that's all. It's nearly right again. I'll tell +you about it by and by. I am too full of something else to talk +about trifles of that sort. I want you to help me.' + +He then rushed into the announcement that he had fallen desperately +in love with a lady who had come on board with her maid at Malta, +where she had been spending the winter. She was not very young, +about his own age, but very beautiful, and of enchanting address. +How she could have remained so long unmarried he could not think. +It could not be but that she had had many offers. She was an +heiress, too, but that Shargar felt to be a disadvantage for him. +All the progress he could yet boast of was that his attentions had +not been, so far as he could judge, disagreeable to her. Robert +thought even less of the latter fact than Shargar himself, for he +did not believe there were many women to whom Shargar's attentions +would be disagreeable: they must always be simple and manly. What +was more to the point, she had given him her address in London, and +he was going to call upon her the next day. She was on a visit to +Lady Janet Gordon, an elderly spinster, who lived in Park-street. + +'Are you quite sure she's not an adventuress, Shargar?' + +'It's o' no mainner o' use to tell ye what I'm sure or no sure o', +Robert, in sic a case. But I'll manage, somehoo, 'at ye sall see +her yersel', an' syne I'll speir back yer ain queston at ye.' + +'Weel, hae ye tauld her a' aboot yersel'?' + +'No!' answered Shargar, growing suddenly pale. 'I never thocht aboot +that. But I had no richt, for a' that passed, to intrude mysel' +upo' her to that extent.' + +'Weel, I reckon ye're richt. Yer wounds an' yer medals ought to +weigh weel against a' that. There's this comfort in 't, that gin +she bena richt weel worthy o' ye, auld frien', she winna tak ye.' + +Shargar did not seem to see the comfort of it. He was depressed for +the remainder of the day. In the morning he was in wild spirits +again. Just before he started, however, he said, with an expression +of tremulous anxiety, + +'Oucht I to tell her a' at ance--already--aboot--aboot my mither?' + +'I dinna say that. Maybe it wad be equally fair to her and to +yersel' to lat her ken ye a bit better afore ye do that.--We'll +think that ower.--Whan ye gang doon the stair, ye'll see a bit +brougham at the door waitin' for ye. Gie the coachman ony orders ye +like. He's your servant as lang 's ye're in London. Commit yer way +to the Lord, my boy.' + +Though Shargar did not say much, he felt strengthened by Robert's +truth to meet his fate with something of composure. But it was not +to be decided that day. Therein lay some comfort. + +He returned in high spirits still. He had been graciously received +both by Miss Hamilton and her hostess--a kind-hearted old lady, who +spoke Scotch with the pure tone of a gentlewoman, he said--a treat +not to be had once in a twelvemonth. She had asked him to go to +dinner in the evening, and to bring his friend with him. Robert, +however, begged him to make his excuse, as he had an engagement +in--a very different sort of place. + +When Shargar returned, Robert had not come in. He was too excited +to go to bed, and waited for him. It was two o'clock before he came +home. Shargar told him there was to be a large party at Lady +Patterdale's the next evening but one, and Lady Janet had promised +to procure him an invitation. + +The next morning Robert went to see Mary St. John, and asked if she +knew anything of Lady Patterdale, and whether she could get him an +invitation. Miss St. John did not know her, but she thought she +could manage it for him. He told her all about Shargar, for whose +sake he wished to see Miss Hamilton before consenting to be +introduced to her. Miss St. John set out at once, and Falconer +received a card the next day. When the evening came, he allowed +Shargar to set out alone in his brougham, and followed an hour later +in a hansom. + +When he reached the house, the rooms were tolerably filled, and as +several parties had arrived just before him, he managed to enter +without being announced. After a little while he caught sight of +Shargar. He stood alone, almost in a corner, with a strange, rather +raised expression in his eyes. Falconer could not see the object to +which they were directed. Certainly, their look was not that of +love. He made his way up to him and laid his hand on his arm. +Shargar betrayed no little astonishment when he saw him. + +'You here, Robert!' he said. + +'Yes, I'm here. Have you seen her yet? Is she here?' + +'Wha do ye think 's speakin' till her this verra minute? Look +there!' Shargar said in a low voice, suppressed yet more to hide +his excitement. + +Following his directions, Robert saw, amidst a little group of +gentlemen surrounding a seated lady, of whose face he could not get +a peep, a handsome elderly man, who looked more fashionable than his +years justified, and whose countenance had an expression which he +felt repulsive. He thought he had seen him before, but Shargar gave +him no time to come to a conclusion of himself. + +'It's my brither Sandy, as sure 's deith!' he said; 'and he's been +hingin' aboot her ever sin' she cam in. But I dinna think she likes +him a'thegither by the leuk o' her.' + +'What for dinna ye gang up till her yersel', man? I wadna stan' +that gin 'twas me.' + +'I'm feared 'at he ken me. He's terrible gleg. A' the Morays are +gleg, and yon marquis has an ee like a hawk.' + +'What does 't maitter? Ye hae dune naething to be ashamed o' like +him.' + +'Ay; but it's this. I wadna hae her hear the trowth aboot me frae +that boar's mou' o' his first. I wad hae her hear 't frae my ain, +an' syne she canna think I meant to tak her in.' + +At this moment there was a movement in the group. Shargar, +receiving no reply, looked round at Robert. It was now Shargar's +turn to be surprised at his expression. + +'Are ye seein' a vraith, Robert?' he said. 'What gars ye leuk like +that, man?' + +'Oh!' answered Robert, recovering himself, 'I thought I saw some one +I knew. But I'm not sure. I'll tell you afterwards. We've been +talking too earnestly. People are beginning to look at us.' + +So saying, he moved away towards the group of which the marquis +still formed one. As he drew near he saw a piano behind Miss +Hamilton. A sudden impulse seized him, and he yielded to it. He +made his way to the piano, and seating himself, began to play very +softly--so softly that the sounds could scarcely be heard beyond the +immediate neighbourhood of the instrument. There was no change on +the storm of talk that filled the room. But in a few minutes a face +white as a shroud was turned round upon him from the group in front, +like the moon dawning out of a cloud. He stopped at once, saying to +himself, 'I was right;' and rising, mingled again with the crowd. A +few minutes after, he saw Shargar leading Miss Hamilton out of the +room, and Lady Janet following. He did not intend to wait his +return, but got near the door, that he might slip out when he should +re-enter. But Shargar did not return. For, the moment she reached +the fresh air, Miss Hamilton was so much better that Lady Janet, +whose heart was as young towards young people as if she had never +had the unfortunate love affair tradition assigned her, asked him to +see them home, and he followed them into her carriage. Falconer +left a few minutes after, anxious for quiet that he might make up +his mind as to what he ought to do. Before he had walked home, he +had resolved on the next step. But not wishing to see Shargar yet, +and at the same time wanting to have a night's rest, he went home +only to change his clothes, and betook himself to a hotel in Covent +Garden. + +He was at Lady Janet's door by ten o'clock the next morning, and +sent in his card to Miss Hamilton. He was shown into the +drawing-room, where she came to him. + +'May I presume on old acquaintance?' he asked, holding out his hand. + +She looked in his face quietly, took his hand, pressed it warmly, +and said, + +'No one has so good a right, Mr. Falconer. Do sit down.' + +He placed a chair for her, and obeyed. + +After a moment's silence on both sides: + +'Are you aware, Miss--?' he said and hesitated. + +'Miss Hamilton,' she said with a smile. 'I was Miss Lindsay when you +knew me so many years ago. I will explain presently.' + +Then with an air of expectation she awaited the finish of his +sentence. + +'Are you aware, Miss Hamilton, that I am Major Moray's oldest +friend?' + +'I am quite aware of it, and delighted to know it. He told me so +last night.' + +Somewhat dismayed at this answer, Falconer resumed, + +'Did Major Moray likewise communicate with you concerning his own +history?' + +'He did. He told me all.' + +Falconer was again silent for some moments. + +'Shall I be presuming too far if I venture to conclude that my +friend will not continue his visits?' + +'On the contrary,' she answered, with the same delicate blush that +in old times used to overspread the lovely whiteness of her face, 'I +expect him within half-an-hour.' + +'Then there is no time to be lost,' thought Falconer. + +'Without presuming to express any opinion of my own,' he said +quietly, 'a social code far less severe than that which prevails in +England, would take for granted that an impassable barrier existed +between Major Moray and Miss Hamilton.' + +'Do not suppose, Mr. Falconer, that I could not meet Major Moray's +honesty with equal openness on my side.' + +Falconer, for the first time almost in his life, was incapable of +speech from bewilderment. But Miss Hamilton did not in the least +enjoy his perplexity, and made haste to rescue both him and herself. +With a blush that was now deep as any rose, she resumed, + +'But I owe you equal frankness, Mr. Falconer. There is no barrier +between Major Moray and myself but the foolish--no, +wicked--indiscretion of an otherwise innocent and ignorant girl. +Listen, Mr. Falconer: under the necessity of the circumstances you +will not misjudge me if I compel myself to speak calmly. This, I +trust, will be my final penance. I thought Lord Rothie was going to +marry me. To do him justice, he never said so. Make what excuse +for my folly you can. I was lost in a mist of vain imaginations. I +had had no mother to teach me anything, Mr. Falconer, and my father +never suspected the necessity of teaching me anything. I was very +ill on the passage to Antwerp, and when I began to recover a little, +I found myself beginning to doubt both my own conduct and his +lordship's intentions. Possibly the fact that he was not quite so +kind to me in my illness as I had expected, and that I felt hurt in +consequence, aided the doubt. Then the thought of my father +returning and finding that I had left him, came and burned in my +heart like fire. But what was I to do? I had never been out of +Aberdeen before. I did not know even a word of French. I was +altogether in Lord Rothie's power. I thought I loved him, but it +was not much of love that sea-sickness could get the better of. +With a heart full of despair I went on shore. The captain slipped +a note into my hand. I put it in my pocket, but pulled it out with +my handkerchief in the street. Lord Rothie picked it up. I begged +him to give it me, but he read it, and then tore it in pieces. I +entered the hotel, as wretched as girl could well be. I began to +dislike him. But during dinner he was so kind and attentive that I +tried to persuade myself that my fears were fanciful. After dinner +he took me out. On the stairs we met a lady whose speech was +Scotch. Her maid called her Lady Janet. She looked kindly at me as +I passed. I thought she could read my face. I remembered +afterwards that Lord Rothie turned his head away when we met her. +We went into the cathedral. We were standing under that curious +dome, and I was looking up at its strange lights, when down came a +rain of bell-notes on the roof over my head. Before the first tune +was over, I seemed to expect the second, and then the third, without +thinking how I could know what was coming; but when they ended with +the ballad of the Witch Lady, and I lifted up my head and saw that I +was not by my father's fireside, but in Antwerp Cathedral with Lord +Rothie, despair filled me with a half-insane resolution. Happily +Lord Rothie was at some little distance talking to a priest about +one of Rubens's pictures. I slipped unseen behind the nearest +pillar, and then flew from the church. How I got to the hotel I do +not know, but I did reach it. 'Lady Janet,' was all I could say. +The waiter knew the name, and led me to her room. I threw myself +on my knees, and begged her to save me. She assured me no one +should touch me. I gasped 'Lord Rothie,' and fainted. When I came +to myself--but I need not tell you all the particulars. Lady Janet +did take care of me. Till last night I never saw Lord Rothie again. +I did not acknowledge him, but he persisted in talking to me, +behave as I would, and I saw well enough that he knew me.' + +Falconer took her hand and kissed it. + +'Thank God,' he said. 'That spire was indeed the haunt of angels as +I fancied while I played upon those bells.' + +'I knew it was you--that is, I was sure of it when I came to think +about it; but at the time I took it for a direct message from +heaven, which nobody heard but myself.' + +'It was such none the less that I was sent to deliver it,' said +Falconer. 'I little thought during my imprisonment because of it, +that the end of my journey was already accomplished.' + +Mysie put her hand in his. + +'You have saved me, Mr. Falconer.' + +'For Ericson's sake, who was dying and could not,' returned +Falconer. + +'Ah!' said Mysie, her large eyes opening with wonder. It was +evident she had had no suspicion of his attachment to her. + +'But,' said Falconer, 'there was another in it, without whom I could +have done nothing.' + +'Who was that?' + +'George Moray.' + +'Did he know me then?' + +'No. Fortunately not. You would not have looked at him then. It +was all done for love of me. He is the truest fellow in the world, +and altogether worthy of you, Miss Hamilton. I will tell you the +whole story some day, lest he should not do himself justice.' + +'Ah, that reminds me. Hamilton sounds strange in your voice. You +suspected me of having changed my name to hide my history?' + +It was so, and Falconer's silence acknowledged the fact. + +'Lady Janet brought me home, and told my father all. When he died a +few years after, she took me to live with her, and never rested till +she had brought me acquainted with Sir John Hamilton, in favour of +whom my father had renounced his claim to some disputed estates. +Sir John had lost his only son, and he had no daughter. He was a +kind-hearted old man, rather like my own father. He took to me, as +they say, and made me change my name to his, leaving me the property +that might have been my father's, on condition that whoever I +married should take the same name. I don't think your friend will +mind making the exchange,' said Mysie in conclusion, as the door +opened and Shargar came in. + +'Robert, ye're a' gait (everywhere)!' he exclaimed as he entered. +Then, stopping to ask no questions, 'Ye see I'm to hae a name o' my +ain efter a',' he said, with a face which looked even handsome in +the light of his gladness. + +Robert shook hands with him, and wished him joy heartily. + +'Wha wad hae thocht it, Shargar,' he added, 'that day 'at ye pat +bonnets for hose upo' Black Geordie's huves?' + +The butler announced the Marquis of Boarshead. Mysie's eyes +flashed. She rose from her seat, and advanced to meet the marquis, +who entered behind the servant. He bowed and held out his hand. +Mysie retreated one step, and stood. + +'Your lordship has no right to force yourself upon me. You must +have seen that I had no wish to renew the acquaintance I was unhappy +enough to form--now, thank God, many years ago.' + +'Forgive me, Miss Hamilton. One word in private,' said the marquis. + +'Not a word,' returned Mysie. + +'Before these gentlemen, then, whom I have not the honour of +knowing, I offer you my hand.' + +'To accept that offer would be to wrong myself even more than your +lordship has done.' + +She went back to where Moray was standing, and stood beside him. +The evil spirit in the marquis looked out at its windows. + +'You are aware, madam,' he said, 'that your reputation is in the +hand I offer you?' + +'The worse for it, my lord,' returned Mysie, with a scornful smile. +'But your lordship's brother will protect it.' + +'My brother!' said the marquis. 'What do you mean? I have no +brother!' + +'Ye hae mair brithers than ye ken o', Lord Sandy, and I'm ane o' +them,' said Shargar. + +'You are either a liar or a bastard, then,' said the marquis, who +had not been brought up in a school of which either self-restraint +or respect for women were prominent characteristics. + +Falconer forgot himself for a moment, and made a stride forward. + +'Dinna hit him, Robert,' cried Shargar. 'He ance gae me a shillin', +an' it helpit, as ye ken, to haud me alive to face him this day.--No +liar, my lord, but a bastard, thank heaven.' Then, with a laugh, he +instantly added, 'Gin I had been ain brither to you, my lord, God +only knows what a rascal I micht hae been.' + +'By God, you shall answer for your damned insolence,' said the +marquis, and, lifting his riding-whip from the table where he had +laid it, he approached his brother. + +Mysie rang the bell. + +'Haud yer han', Sandy,' cried Shargar. 'I hae faced mair fearsome +foes than you. But I hae some faimily-feelin', though ye hae nane: +I wadna willin'ly strike my brither.' + +As he spoke, he retreated a little. The marquis came on with raised +whip. But Falconer stepped between, laid one of his great hands on +the marquis's chest, and flung him to the other end of the room, +where he fell over an ottoman. The same moment the servant entered. + +'Ask your mistress to oblige me by coming to the drawing-room,' said +Mysie. + +The marquis had risen, but had not recovered his presence of mind +when Lady Janet entered. She looked inquiringly from one to the +other. + +'Please, Lady Janet, will you ask the Marquis of Boarshead to leave +the house,' said Mysie. + +'With all my hert,' answered Lady Janet; 'and the mair that he's a +kin' o' a cousin o' my ain. Gang yer wa's, Sandy. Ye're no fit +company for decent fowk; an' that ye wad ken yersel', gin ye had ony +idea left o' what decency means.' + +Without heeding her, the marquis went up to Falconer. + +'Your card, sir.' + +Lady Janet followed him. + +''Deed ye s' get nae cairds here,' she said, pushing him aside. 'So +you allow your friends to insult me in your own house as they +please, cousin Janet?' said the marquis, who probably felt her +opposition the most formidable of all. + +''Deed they canna say waur o' ye nor I think. Gang awa', an' +repent. Consider yer gray hairs, man.' + +This was the severest blow he had yet received. He left the room, +'swearing at large.' + +Falconer followed him; but what came of it nobody ever heard. + +Major and Miss Hamilton were married within three months, and went +out to India together, taking Nancy Kennedy with them. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +A NEOPHYTE. + +Before many months had passed, without the slightest approach to any +formal recognition, I found myself one of the church of labour of +which Falconer was clearly the bishop. As he is the subject, or +rather object of my book, I will now record a fact which may serve +to set forth his views more clearly. I gained a knowledge of some +of the circumstances, not merely from the friendly confidences of +Miss St. John and Falconer, but from being a kind of a Scotch cousin +of Lady Janet Gordon, whom I had taken an opportunity of acquainting +with the relation. She was old-fashioned enough to acknowledge it +even with some eagerness. The ancient clan-feeling is good in this, +that it opens a channel whose very existence is a justification for +the flow of simply human feelings along all possible levels of +social position. And I would there were more of it. Only something +better is coming instead of it--a recognition of the infinite +brotherhood in Christ. All other relations, all attempts by +churches, by associations, by secret societies--of Freemasons and +others, are good merely as they tend to destroy themselves in the +wider truth; as they teach men to be dissatisfied with their +limitations. But I wander; for I mentioned Lady Janet now, merely +to account for some of the information I possess concerning Lady +Georgina Betterton. + +I met her once at my so-called cousin's, whom she patronized as a +dear old thing. To my mind, she was worth twenty of her, though she +was wrinkled and Scottishly sententious. 'A sweet old bat,' was +another epithet of Lady Georgina's. But she came to see her, +notwithstanding, and did not refuse to share in her nice little +dinners, and least of all, when Falconer was of the party, who had +been so much taken with Lady Janet's behaviour to the Marquis of +Boarshead, just recorded, that he positively cultivated her +acquaintance thereafter. + +Lady Georgina was of an old family--an aged family, indeed; so old, +in fact, that some envious people professed to think it decrepit +with age. This, however, may well be questioned if any argument +bearing on the point may be drawn from the person of Lady Georgina. +She was at least as tall as Mary St. John, and very handsome--only +with somewhat masculine features and expression. She had very +sloping shoulders and a long neck, which took its finest curves when +she was talking to inferiors: condescension was her forte. Of the +admiration of the men, she had had more than enough, although either +they were afraid to go farther, or she was hard to please. + +She had never contemplated anything admirable long enough to +comprehend it; she had never looked up to man or woman with anything +like reverence; she saw too quickly and too keenly into the foibles +of all who came near her to care to look farther for their virtues. +If she had ever been humbled, and thence taught to look up, she +might by this time have been a grand woman, worthy of a great man's +worship. She patronized Miss St. John, considerably to her +amusement, and nothing to her indignation. Of course she could not +understand her. She had a vague notion of how she spent her time; +and believing a certain amount of fanaticism essential to religion, +wondered how so sensible and ladylike a person as Miss St. John +could go in for it. + +Meeting Falconer at Lady Janet's, she was taken with him. Possibly +she recognized in him a strength that would have made him her +master, if he had cared for such a distinction; but nothing she +could say attracted more than a passing attention on his part. +Falconer was out of her sphere, and her influences were powerless +to reach him. + +At length she began to have a glimmering of the relation of labour +between Miss St. John and him, and applied to the former for some +enlightenment. But Miss St. John was far from explicit, for she had +no desire for such assistance as Lady Georgina's. What motives next +led her to seek the interview I am now about to record, I cannot +satisfactorily explain, but I will hazard a conjecture or two, +although I doubt if she understood them thoroughly herself. + +She was, if not blasée, at least ennuyée, and began to miss +excitement, and feel blindly about her for something to make life +interesting. She was gifted with far more capacity than had ever +been exercised, and was of a large enough nature to have grown +sooner weary of trifles than most women of her class. She might +have been an artist, but she drew like a young lady; she might have +been a prophetess, and Byron was her greatest poet. It is no wonder +that she wanted something she had not got. + +Since she had been foiled in her attempt on Miss St. John, which she +attributed to jealousy, she had, in quite another circle, heard +strange, wonderful, even romantic stories about Falconer and his +doings among the poor. A new world seemed to open before her +longing gaze--a world, or a calenture, a mirage? for would she cross +the 'wandering fields of barren foam,' to reach the green grass that +did wave on the far shore? the dewless desert to reach the fair +water that did lie leagues beyond its pictured sweetness? But I +think, mingled with whatever motives she may have had, there must +have been some desire to be a nobler, that is a more useful woman +than she had been. + +She had not any superabundance of feminine delicacy, though she had +plenty of good-breeding, and she trusted to her position in society +to cover the eccentricity of her present undertaking. + +One morning after breakfast she called upon Falconer; and accustomed +to visits from all sorts of people, Mrs. Ashton showed her into his +sitting-room without even asking her name. She found him at his +piano, apologized, in her fashionable drawl, for interrupting his +music, and accepted his offer of a chair without a shade of +embarrassment. Falconer seated himself and sat waiting. + +'I fear the step I have taken will appear strange to you, Mr. +Falconer. Indeed it appears strange to myself. I am afraid it may +appear stranger still.' + +'It is easy for me to leave all judgment in the matter to yourself, +Miss--I beg your pardon; I know we have met; but for the moment I +cannot recall your name.' + +'Lady Georgina Betterton,' drawled the visitor carelessly, hiding +whatever annoyance she may have felt. + +Falconer bowed. Lady Georgina resumed. + +'Of course it only affects myself; and I am willing to take the +risk, notwithstanding the natural desire to stand well in the +opinion of any one with whom even my boldness could venture such a +step.' + +A smile, intended to be playful, covered the retreat of the +sentence. Falconer bowed again. Lady Georgina had yet again to +resume. + +'From the little I have seen, and the much I have heard of +you--excuse me, Mr. Falconer--I cannot help thinking that you know +more of the secret of life than other people--if indeed it has any +secret.' + +'Life certainly is no burden to me,' returned Falconer. 'If that +implies the possession of any secret which is not common property, I +fear it also involves a natural doubt whether such secret be +communicable.' + +'Of course I mean only some secret everybody ought to know.' + +'I do not misunderstand you.' + +'I want to live. You know the world, Mr. Falconer. I need not tell +you what kind of life a girl like myself leads. I am not old, but +the gilding is worn off. Life looks bare, ugly, uninteresting. I +ask you to tell me whether there is any reality in it or not; +whether its past glow was only gilt; whether the best that can be +done is to get through with it as fast as possible?' + +'Surely your ladyship must know some persons whose very countenances +prove that they have found a reality at the heart of life.' + +'Yes. But none whose judgment I could trust. I cannot tell how soon +they may find reason to change their minds on the subject. Their +satisfaction may only be that they have not tried to rub the varnish +off the gilding so much as I, and therefore the gilding itself still +shines a little in their eyes.' + +'If it be only gilding, it is better it should be rubbed off.' + +'But I am unwilling to think it is. I am not willing to sign a bond +of farewell to hope. Life seemed good once. It is bad enough that +it seems such no longer, without consenting that it must and shall +be so. Allow me to add, for my own sake, that I speak from the +bitterness of no chagrin. I have had all I ever cared--or +condescended to wish for. I never had anything worth the name of a +disappointment in my life.' + +'I cannot congratulate you upon that,' said Falconer, seriously. +'But if there be a truth or a heart in life, assurance of the fact +can only spring from harmony with that truth. It is not to be known +save by absolute contact with it; and the sole guide in the +direction of it must be duty: I can imagine no other possible +conductor. We must do before we can know.' + +'Yes, yes,' replied Lady Georgina, hastily, in a tone that implied, +'Of course, of course: we know all about that.' But aware at once, +with the fine instinct belonging to her mental organization, that +she was thus shutting the door against all further communication, +she added instantly: 'But what is one's duty? There is the +question.' + +'The thing that lies next you, of course. You are, and must remain, +the sole judge of that. Another cannot help you.' + +'But that is just what I do not know.' + +I interrupt Lady Georgina to remark--for I too have been a pupil of +Falconer--that I believe she must have suspected what her duty was, +and would not look firmly at her own suspicion. She added: + +'I want direction.' + +But the same moment she proceeded to indicate the direction in which +she wanted to be directed; for she went on: + +'You know that now-a-days there are so many modes in which to employ +one's time and money that one does not know which to choose. The +lower strata of society, you know, Mr. Falconer--so many channels! +I want the advice of a man of experience, as to the best +investment, if I may use the expression: I do not mean of money +only, but of time as well.' + +'I am not fitted to give advice in such a matter.' + +'Mr. Falconer!' + +'I assure you I am not. I subscribe to no society myself--not one.' + +'Excuse me, but I can hardly believe the rumours I hear of +you--people will talk, you know--are all inventions. They say you +are for ever burrowing amongst the poor. Excuse the phrase.' + +'I excuse or accept it, whichever you please. Whatever I do, I am +my own steward.' + +'Then you are just the person to help me! I have a fortune, not +very limited, at my own disposal: a gentleman who is his own +steward, would find his labours merely facilitated by administering +for another as well--such labours, I mean.' + +'I must beg to be excused, Lady Georgina. I am accountable only for +my own, and of that I have quite as much as I can properly manage. +It is far more difficult to use money for others than to spend it +for yourself.' + +'Ah!' said Lady Georgina, thoughtfully, and cast an involuntary +glance round the untidy room, with its horse-hair furniture, its +ragged array of books on the wall, its side-table littered with +pamphlets he never read, with papers he never printed, with pipes he +smoked by chance turns. He saw the glance and understood it. + +'I am accustomed,' he said, 'to be in such sad places for human +beings to live in, that I sometimes think even this dingy old room +an absolute palace of comfort.--But,' he added, checking himself, as +it were, 'I do not see in the least how your proposal would +facilitate an answer to your question.' + +'You seem hardly inclined to do me justice,' said Lady Georgina, +with, for the first time, a perceptible, though slight shadow +crossing the disc of her resolution. 'I only meant it,' she went on, +'as a step towards a further proposal, which I think you will allow +looks at least in the direction you have been indicating.' + +She paused. + +'May I beg of you to state the proposal?' said Falconer. + +But Lady Georgina was apparently in some little difficulty as to the +proper form in which to express her object. At last it appeared in +the cloak of a question. + +'Do you require no assistance in your efforts for the elevation of +the lower classes?' she asked. + +'I don't make any such efforts,' said Falconer. + +Some of my lady-readers will probably be remarking to themselves, +'How disagreeable of him! I can't endure the man.' If they knew +how Falconer had to beware of the forwardness and annoyance of +well-meaning women, they would not dislike him so much. But +Falconer could be indifferent to much dislike, and therein I know +some men that envy him. + +When he saw, however, that Lady Georgina was trying to swallow a +lump in her throat, he hastened to add, + +'I have only relations with individuals--none with classes.' + +Lady Georgina gathered her failing courage. 'Then there is the more +hope for me,' she said. 'Surely there are things a woman might be +useful in that a man cannot do so well--especially if she would do +as she was told, Mr. Falconer?' + +He looked at her, inquiring of her whole person what numen abode in +the fane. She misunderstood the look. + +'I could dress very differently, you know. I will be a sister of +charity, if you like.' + +'And wear a uniform?--as if the god of another world wanted to make +proselytes or traitors in this! No, Lady Georgina, it was not of a +dress so easily altered that I was thinking; it was of the habit, +the dress of mind, of thought, of feeling. When you laid aside your +beautiful dress, could you avoid putting on the garment of +condescension, the most unchristian virtue attributed to Deity or +saint? Could you--I must be plain with you, Lady Georgina, for this +has nothing to do with the forms of so-called society--could your +temper endure the mortifications of low opposition and +misrepresentation of motive and end--which, avoid intrusion as you +might, would yet force themselves on your perception? Could you be +rudely, impudently thwarted by the very persons for whom you were +spending your strength and means, and show no resentment? Could you +make allowances for them as for your own brothers and sisters, your +own children?' + +Lady Georgina was silent. + +'I shall seem to glorify myself, but at that risk I must put the +reality before you.--Could you endure the ugliness both moral and +physical which you must meet at every turn? Could you look upon +loathsomeness, not merely without turning away in disgust, and thus +wounding the very heart you would heal, but without losing your +belief in the Fatherhood of God, by losing your faith in the actual +blood-relationship to yourself of these wretched beings? Could you +believe in the immortal essence hidden under all this garbage--God +at the root of it all? How would the delicate senses you probably +inherit receive the intrusions from which they could not protect +themselves? Would you be in no danger of finding personal refuge in +the horrid fancy, that these are but the slimy borders of humanity +where it slides into, and is one with bestiality? I could show you +one fearful baboon-like woman, whose very face makes my nerves +shudder: could you believe that woman might one day become a lady, +beautiful as yourself, and therefore minister to her? Would you not +be tempted, for the sake of your own comfort, if not for the pride +of your own humanity, to believe that, like untimely blossoms, these +must fall from off the boughs of the tree of life, and come to +nothing at all--a theory that may do for the preacher, but will not +do for the worker: him it would paralyze?--or, still worse, +infinitely worse, that they were doomed, from their birth, to +endless ages of a damnation, filthy as that in which you now found +them, and must probably leave them? If you could come to this, you +had better withhold your hand; for no desire for the betterment of +the masses, as they are stupidly called, can make up for a lack of +faith in the individual. If you cannot hope for them in your heart, +your hands cannot reach them to do them good. They will only hurt +them.' + +Lady Georgina was still silent. Falconer's eloquence had perhaps +made her ashamed. + +'I want you to sit down and count the cost, before you do any +mischief by beginning what you are unfit for. Last week I was +compelled more than once to leave the house where my duty led me, +and to sit down upon a stone in the street, so ill that I was in +danger of being led away as intoxicated, only the policeman happened +to know me. Twice I went back to the room I had left, crowded with +human animals, and one of them at least dying. It was all I could +do, and I have tolerable nerve and tolerable experience.' + +A mist was gathering over Lady Georgina's eyes. She confessed it +afterwards to Miss St. John. And through the mist he looked larger +than human. + +'And then the time you must spend before you can lay hold upon them +at all, that is with the personal relation which alone is of any +real influence! Our Saviour himself had to be thirty years in the +world before he had footing enough in it to justify him in beginning +to teach publicly: he had been laying the needful foundations all +the time. Not under any circumstances could I consent to make use +of you before you had brought yourself into genuine relations with +some of them first.' + +'Do you count societies, then, of no use whatever?' Lady Georgina +asked, more to break the awkwardness of her prolonged silence than +for any other reason. + +'In as far as any of the persons they employ fulfil the conditions +of which I have spoken, they are useful--that is, just in as far as +they come into genuine human relations with those whom they would +help. In as far as their servants are incapable of this, the +societies are hurtful. The chief good which societies might effect +would be the procuring of simple justice for the poor. That is what +they need at the hands of the nation, and what they do not receive. +But though few can have the knowledge of the poor I have, many +could do something, if they would only set about it simply, and not +be too anxious to convert them; if they would only be their friends +after a common-sense fashion. I know, say, a hundred wretched men +and women far better than a man in general knows him with whom he +claims an ordinary intimacy. I know many more by sight whose names +in the natural course of events I shall probably know soon. I know +many of their relations to each other, and they talk about each +other to me as if I were one of themselves, which I hope in God I +am. I have been amongst them a good many years now, and shall +probably spend my life amongst them. When I went first, I was +repeatedly robbed; now I should hardly fear to carry another man's +property. Two years ago I had my purse taken, but next morning it +was returned, I do not know by whom: in fact it was put into my +pocket again--every coin, as far as I could judge, as it left me. I +seldom pretend to teach them--only now and then drop a word of +advice. But possibly, before I die, I may speak to them in public. +At present I avoid all attempt at organization of any sort, and as +far as I see, am likely of all things to avoid it. What I want is +first to be their friend, and then to be at length recognized as +such. It is only in rare cases that I seek the acquaintance of any +of them: I let it come naturally. I bide my time. Almost never do +I offer assistance. I wait till they ask it, and then often refuse +the sort they want. The worst thing you can do for them is to +attempt to save them from the natural consequences of wrong: you may +sometimes help them out of them. But it is right to do many things +for them when you know them, which it would not be right to do for +them until you know them. I am amongst them; they know me; their +children know me; and something is always occurring that makes this +or that one come to me. Once I have a footing, I seldom lose it. +So you see, in this my labour I am content to do the thing that +lies next me. I wait events. You have had no training, no +blundering to fit you for such work. There are many other modes of +being useful; but none in which I could undertake to direct you. I +am not in the habit of talking so much about my ways--but that is of +no consequence. I think I am right in doing so in this instance.' + +'I cannot misunderstand you,' faltered Lady Georgina. + +Falconer was silent. Without looking up from the floor on which her +eyes had rested all the time he spoke, Lady Georgina said at last, + +'Then what is my next duty? What is the thing that lies nearest to +me?' + +'That, I repeat, belongs to your every-day history. No one can +answer that question but yourself. Your next duty is just to +determine what your next duty is.--Is there nothing you neglect? Is +there nothing you know you ought not to do?--You would know your +duty, if you thought in earnest about it, and were not ambitious of +great things.' + +'Ah then,' responded Lady Georgina, with an abandoning sigh, 'I +suppose it is something very commonplace, which will make life more +dreary than ever. That cannot help me.' + +'It will, if it be as dreary as reading the newspapers to an old +deaf aunt. It will soon lead you to something more. Your duty will +begin to comfort you at once, but will at length open the unknown +fountain of life in your heart.' + +Lady Georgina lifted up her head in despair, looked at Falconer +through eyes full of tears, and said vehemently, + +'Mr. Falconer, you can have no conception how wretched a life like +mine is. And the futility of everything is embittered by the +consciousness that it is from no superiority to such things that I +do not care for them.' + +'It is from superiority to such things that you do not care for +them. You were not made for such things. They cannot fill your +heart. It has whole regions with which they have no relation.' + +'The very thought of music makes me feel ill. I used to be +passionately fond of it.' + +'I presume you got so far in it that you asked, "Is there nothing +more?" Concluding there was nothing more, and yet needing more, you +turned from it with disappointment?' + +'It is the same,' she went on hurriedly, 'with painting, modelling, +reading--whatever I have tried. I am sick of them all. They do +nothing for me.' + +'How can you enjoy music, Lady Georgina, if you are not in harmony +with the heart and source of music?' + +'How do you mean?' + +'Until the human heart knows the divine heart, it must sigh and +complain like a petulant child, who flings his toys from him because +his mother is not at home. When his mother comes back to him he +finds his toys are good still. When we find Him in our own hearts, +we shall find him in everything, and music will be deep enough then, +Lady Georgina. It is this that the Brahmin and the Platonist seek; +it is this that the mystic and the anchorite sigh for; towards this +the teaching of the greatest of men would lead us: Lord Bacon +himself says, "Nothing can fill, much less extend the soul of man, +but God, and the contemplation of God." It is Life you want. If you +will look in your New Testament, and find out all that our Lord says +about Life, you will find the only cure for your malady. I know +what such talk looks like; but depend upon it, what I am talking +about is something very different from what you fancy it. Anyhow to +this you must come, one day or other.' + +'But how am I to gain this indescribable good, which so many seek, +and so few find?' + +'Those are not my words,' said Falconer emphatically. 'I should have +said--"which so few yet seek; but so many shall at length find."' + +'Do not quarrel with my foolish words, but tell me how I am to find +it; for I suppose there must be something in what so many good +people assert.' + +'You thought I could give you help?' + +'Yes. That is why I came to you.' + +'Just so. I cannot give you help. Go and ask it of one who can.' + +'Speak more plainly.' + +'Well then: if there be a God, he must hear you if you call to him. +If there be a father, he will listen to his child. He will teach +you everything.' + +'But I don't know what I want.' + +'He does: ask him to tell you what you want. It all comes back to +the old story: "If ye then being evil, know how to give good gifts +to your children, how much more will your heavenly Father give the +holy Spirit to them that ask him!" But I wish you would read your +New Testament--the Gospels I mean: you are not in the least fit to +understand the Epistles yet. Read the story of our Saviour as if +you had never read it before. He at least was a man who seemed to +have that secret of life after the knowledge of which your heart is +longing.' + +Lady Georgina rose. Her eyes were again full of tears. Falconer +too was moved. She held out her hand to him, and without another +word left the room. She never came there again. + +Her manner towards Falconer was thereafter much altered. People +said she was in love with him: if she was, it did her no harm. Her +whole character certainly was changed. She sought the friendship of +Miss St. John, who came at length to like her so much, that she took +her with her in some of her walks among the poor. By degrees she +began to do something herself after a quiet modest fashion. But +within a few years, probably while so engaged, she caught a fever +from which she did not recover. It was not till after her death +that Falconer told any one of the interview he had had with her. +And by that time I had the honour of being very intimate with him. +When she knew that she was dying, she sent for him. Mary St. John +was with her. She left them together. When he came out, he was +weeping. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +THE SUICIDE. + +Falconer lived on and laboured on in London. Wherever he found a +man fitted for the work, he placed him in such office as De Fleuri +already occupied. At the same time he went more into society, and +gained the friendship of many influential people. Besides the use +he made of this to carry out plans for individual rescue, it enabled +him to bestir himself for the first and chief good which he believed +it was in the power of the government to effect for the class +amongst which he laboured. As I have shown, he did not believe in +any positive good being effected save through individual +contact--through faith, in a word--faith in the human helper--which +might become a stepping-stone through the chaotic misery towards +faith in the Lord and in his Father. All that association could do, +as such, was only, in his judgment, to remove obstructions from the +way of individual growth and education--to put better conditions +within reach--first of all, to provide that the people should be +able, if they would, to live decently. He had no notion of domestic +inspection, or of offering prizes for cleanliness and order. He +knew that misery and wretchedness are the right and best condition +of those who live so that misery and wretchedness are the natural +consequences of their life. But there ought always to be the +possibility of emerging from these; and as things were, over the +whole country, for many who would if they could, it was impossible +to breathe fresh air, to be clean, to live like human beings. And +he saw this difficulty ever on the increase, through the rapacity of +the holders of small house-property, and the utter wickedness of +railway companies, who pulled down every house that stood in their +way, and did nothing to provide room for those who were thus +ejected--most probably from a wretched place, but only, to be driven +into a more wretched still. To provide suitable dwellings for the +poor he considered the most pressing of all necessary reforms. His +own fortune was not sufficient for doing much in this way, but he +set about doing what he could by purchasing houses in which the poor +lived, and putting them into the hands of persons whom he could +trust, and who were immediately responsible to him for their +proceedings: they had to make them fit for human abodes, and let +them to those who desired better accommodation, giving the +preference to those already tenants, so long as they paid their +reasonable rent, which he considered far more necessary for them to +do than for him to have done. + +One day he met by appointment the owner of a small block, of which +he contemplated the purchase. They were in a dreadfully dilapidated +condition, a shame that belonged more to the owner than the +inhabitants. The man wanted to sell the houses, or at least was +willing to sell them, but put an exorbitant price upon them. +Falconer expostulated. + +'I know the whole of the rent these houses could bring you in,' he +said, 'without making any deduction for vacancies and defalcations: +what you ask is twice as much as they would fetch if the full rent +were certain.' + +The poor wretch looked up at him with the leer of a ghoul. He was +dressed like a broken-down clergyman, in rusty black, with a +neck-cloth of whitey-brown. + +'I admit it,' he said in good English, and a rather educated tone. +'Your arguments are indisputable. I confess besides that so far +short does the yield come of the amount on paper, that it would pay +me to give them away. But it's the funerals, sir, that make it +worth my while. I'm an undertaker, as you may judge from my +costume. I count back-rent in the burying. People may cheat their +landlord, but they can't cheat the undertaker. They must be buried. +That's the one indispensable--ain't it, sir?' + +Falconer had let him run on that he might have the measure of him. +Now he was prepared with his reply. + +'You've told me your profession,' he said: 'I'll tell you mine. I +am a lawyer. If you don't let me have those houses for five +hundred, which is the full market value, I'll prosecute you. It'll +take a good penny from the profits of your coffins to put those +houses in a state to satisfy the inspector.' + +The wretched creature was struck dumb. Falconer resumed. + +'You're the sort of man that ought to be kept to your pound of +filthy flesh. I know what I say; and I'll do it. The law costs me +nothing. You won't find it so.' + +The undertaker sold the houses, and no longer in that quarter killed +the people he wanted to bury. + +I give this as a specimen of the kind of thing Falconer did. But he +took none of the business part in his own hands, on the same +principle on which Paul the Apostle said it was unmeet for him to +leave the preaching of the word in order to serve tables--not that +the thing was beneath him, but that it was not his work so long as +he could be doing more important service still. + +De Fleuri was one of his chief supports. The whole nature of the +man mellowed under the sun of Falconer, and over the work that +Falconer gave him to do. His daughter recovered, and devoted +herself to the same labour that had rescued her. Miss St. John was +her superior. By degrees, without any laws or regulations, a little +company was gathered, not of ladies and gentlemen, but of men and +women, who aided each, other, and without once meeting as a whole, +laboured not the less as one body in the work of the Lord, bound in +one by bonds that had nothing to do with cobweb committee meetings +or public dinners, chairmen or wine-flushed subscriptions. They +worked like the leaven of which the Lord spoke. + +But De Fleuri, like almost every one in the community I believe, had +his own private schemes subserving the general good. He knew the +best men of his own class and his own trade, and with them his +superior intellectual gifts gave him influence. To them he told the +story of Falconer's behaviour to him, of Falconer's own need, and of +his hungry-hearted search. An enthusiasm of help seized upon the +men. To aid your superior is such a rousing gladness!--Was anything +of this in St. Paul's mind when he spoke of our being fellow-workers +with God? I only put the question.--Each one of these had his own +trustworthy acquaintances, or neighbours, rather--for like finds out +like all the world through, as well as over--and to them he told the +story of Falconer and his father, so that in all that region of +London it became known that the man who loved the poor was himself +needy, and looked to the poor for their help. Without them he could +not be made perfect. + +Some of my readers may be inclined to say that it was dishonourable +in Falconer to have occasioned the publishing of his father's +disgrace. Such may recall to their minds that concealment is no law +of the universe; that, on the contrary, the Lord of the Universe +said once: 'There is nothing covered that shall not be revealed.' +Was the disgrace of Andrew Falconer greater because a thousand men +knew it, instead of forty, who could not help knowing it? Hope lies +in light and knowledge. Andrew would be none the worse that honest +men knew of his vice: they would be the first to honour him if he +should overcome it. If he would not--the disgrace was just, and +would fall upon his son only in sorrow, not in dishonour. The grace +of God--the making of humanity by his beautiful hand--no, heart--is +such, that disgrace clings to no man after repentance, any more than +the feet defiled with the mud of the world come yet defiled from the +bath. Even the things that proceed out of the man, and do terribly +defile him, can be cast off like the pollution of the leper by a +grace that goes deeper than they; and the man who says, 'I have +sinned: I will sin no more,' is even by the voice of his brothers +crowned as a conqueror, and by their hearts loved as one who has +suffered and overcome. Blessing on the God-born human heart! Let +the hounds of God, not of Satan, loose upon sin;--God only can rule +the dogs of the devil;--let them hunt it to the earth; let them drag +forth the demoniac to the feet of the Man who loved the people while +he let the devil take their swine; and do not talk about disgrace +from a thing being known when the disgrace is that the thing should +exist. + +One night I was returning home from some poor attempts of my own. I +had now been a pupil of Falconer for a considerable time, but having +my own livelihood to make, I could not do so much as I would. + +It was late, nearly twelve o'clock, as I passed through the region +of Seven Dials. Here and there stood three or four brutal-looking +men, and now and then a squalid woman with a starveling baby in her +arms, in the light of the gin-shops. The babies were the saddest to +see--nursery-plants already in training for the places these men and +women now held, then to fill a pauper's grave, or perhaps a +perpetual cell--say rather, for the awful spaces of silence, where +the railway director can no longer be guilty of a worse sin than +house-breaking, and his miserable brother will have no need of the +shelter of which he deprived him. Now and then a flaunting woman +wavered past--a night-shade, as our old dramatists would have called +her. I could hardly keep down an evil disgust that would have +conquered my pity, when a scanty white dress would stop beneath a +lamp, and the gay dirty bonnet, turning round, reveal a painted +face, from which shone little more than an animal intelligence, not +brightened by the gin she had been drinking. Vague noises of strife +and of drunken wrath flitted around me as I passed an alley, or an +opening door let out its evil secret. Once I thought I heard the +dull thud of a blow on the head. The noisome vapours were fit for +any of Swedenborg's hells. There were few sounds, but the very +quiet seemed infernal. The night was hot and sultry. A skinned +cat, possibly still alive, fell on the street before me. Under one +of the gas-lamps lay something long: it was a tress of dark hair, +torn perhaps from some woman's head: she had beautiful hair at +least. Once I heard the cry of murder, but where, in that chaos of +humanity, right or left, before or behind me, I could not even +guess. Home to such regions, from gorgeous stage-scenery and +dresses, from splendid, mirror-beladen casinos, from singing-halls, +and places of private and prolonged revelry, trail the daughters of +men at all hours from midnight till morning. Next day they drink +hell-fire that they may forget. Sleep brings an hour or two of +oblivion, hardly of peace; but they must wake, worn and miserable, +and the waking brings no hope: their only known help lies in the +gin-shop. What can be done with them? But the secrets God keeps +must be as good as those he tells. + +But no sights of the night ever affected me so much as walking +through this same St. Giles's on a summer Sunday morning, when +church-goers were in church. Oh! the faces that creep out into the +sunshine then, and haunt their doors! Some of them but skins drawn +over skulls, living Death's-heads, grotesque in their hideousness. + +I was not very far from Falconer's abode. My mind was oppressed +with sad thoughts and a sense of helplessness. I began to wonder +what Falconer might at that moment be about. I had not seen him for +a long time--a whole fortnight. He might be at home: I would go and +see, and if there were light in his windows I would ring his bell. + +I went. There was light in his windows. He opened the door +himself, and welcomed me. I went up with him, and we began to talk. +I told him of my sad thoughts, and my feelings of helplessness. + +'He that believeth shall not make haste,' he said. 'There is plenty +of time. You must not imagine that the result depends on you, or +that a single human soul can be lost because you may fail. The +question, as far as you are concerned, is, whether you are to be +honoured in having a hand in the work that God is doing, and will +do, whether you help him or not. Some will be honoured: shall it be +me? And this honour gained excludes no one: there is work, as there +is bread in his house, enough and to spare. It shows no faith in +God to make frantic efforts or frantic lamentations. Besides, we +ought to teach ourselves to see, as much as we may, the good that is +in the condition of the poor.' + +'Teach me to see that, then,' I said. 'Show me something.' + +'The best thing is their kindness to each other. There is an +absolute divinity in their self-denial for those who are poorer than +themselves. I know one man and woman, married people, who pawned +their very furniture and wearing apparel to procure cod-liver oil +for a girl dying in consumption. She was not even a relative, only +an acquaintance of former years. They had found her destitute and +taken her to their own poor home. There are fathers and mothers who +will work hard all the morning, and when dinner-time comes "don't +want any," that there may be enough for their children--or half +enough, more likely. Children will take the bread out of their own +mouths to put in that of their sick brother, or to stick in the fist +of baby crying for a crust--giving only a queer little helpless +grin, half of hungry sympathy, half of pleasure, as they see it +disappear. The marvel to me is that the children turn out so well +as they do; but that applies to the children in all ranks of life. +Have you ever watched a group of poor children, half-a-dozen of +them with babies in their arms?' + +'I have, a little, and have seen such a strange mixture of +carelessness and devotion.' + +'Yes. I was once stopped in the street by a child of ten, with face +absolutely swollen with weeping, asking me to go and see baby who +was very ill. She had dropped him four times that morning, but had +no idea that could have done him any harm. The carelessness is +ignorance. Their form of it is not half so shocking as that of the +mother who will tremble at the slightest sign of suffering in her +child, but will hear him lie against his brother without the +smallest discomfort. Ah! we shall all find, I fear, some day, that +we have differed from each other, where we have done best, only in +mode--perhaps not even in degree. A grinding tradesman takes +advantage of the over supply of labour to get his work done at +starvation prices: I owe him love, and have never thought of paying +my debt except in boundless indignation.' + +'I wish I had your faith and courage, Mr. Falconer,' I said. + +'You are in a fair way of having far more,' he returned. 'You are +not so old as I am, by a long way. But I fear you are getting out +of spirits. Is to-morrow a hard day with you?' + +'I have next to nothing to do to-morrow.' + +'Then will you come to me in the evening? We will go out together.' + +Of course I was only too glad to accept the proposal. But our talk +did not end here. The morning began to shine before I rose to leave +him; and before I reached my abode it was broad daylight. But what +a different heart I carried within me! And what a different London +it was outside of me! The scent of the hayfields came on the +hardly-moving air. It was a strange morning--a new day of unknown +history--in whose young light the very streets were transformed, +looking clear and clean, and wondrously transparent in perspective, +with unknown shadows lying in unexpected nooks, with projection and +recess, line and bend, as I had never seen them before. The light +was coming as if for the first time since the city sprang into +being--as if a thousand years had rolled over it in darkness and +lamplight, and now, now, after the prayers and longings of ages, the +sun of God was ascending the awful east, and the spirit-voice had +gone forth: 'Arise, shine, for thy light is come.' + +It was a well-behaved, proper London through which I walked home. +Here and there, it is true, a debauched-looking man, with pale +face, and red sleepy eyes, or a weary, withered girl, like a +half-moon in the daylight, straggled somewhither. But they looked +strange to the London of the morning. They were not of it. Alas +for those who creep to their dens, like the wild beasts when the sun +arises, because the light has shaken them out of the world. All the +horrid phantasms of the Valley of the Shadow of Death that had risen +from the pit with the vaporous night had sunk to escape the arrows +of the sun, once more into its bottomless depth. If any horrid deed +was doing now, how much more horrid in the awful still light of this +first hour of a summer morn! How many evil passions now lay sunk +under the holy waves of sleep! How many heartaches were gnawing +only in dreams, to wake with the brain, and gnaw in earnest again! +And over all brooded the love of the Lord Christ, who is Lord over +all blessed for ever, and shall yet cast death and hell into the +lake of fire--the holy purifying Fate. + +I got through my sole engagement--a very dreary one, for surely +never were there stupider young people in the whole region of rank +than those to whom duty and necessity sent me on the Wednesday +mornings of that London season--even with some enjoyment. For the +lessons Falconer had been giving me clung to me and grew on me until +I said thus to myself: 'Am I to believe only for the poor, and not +for the rich? Am I not to bear with conceit even, hard as it is to +teach? for is not this conceit itself the measure as the consequence +of incapacity and ignorance? They cannot help being born stupid, +any more than some of those children in St. Giles's can help being +born preternaturally, unhealthily clever. I am going with my friend +this evening: that hope is enough to make me strong for one day at +least.' So I set myself to my task, and that morning wiled the +first gleam of intelligent delight out of the eyes of one poor +little washed-out ladyship. I could have kissed her from positive +thankfulness. + +The day did wear over. The evening did come. I was with my +friend--for friend I could call him none the less and all the more +that I worshipped him. + +'I have business in Westminster,' he said, 'and then on the other +side of the water.' + +'I am more and more astonished at your knowledge of London, Mr. +Falconer,' I said. 'You must have a great faculty for places.' + +'I think rather the contrary,' he answered. 'But there is no end to +the growth of a faculty, if one only uses it--especially when his +whole nature is interested in its efficiency, and makes demands upon +it. The will applies to the intellect; the intellect communicates +its necessities to the brain; the brain bestirs itself, and grows +more active; the eyes lend their aid; the memory tries not to be +behind; and at length you have a man gifted in localities.' + +'How is it that people generally can live in such quiet ignorance of +the regions that surround them, and the kind of humanity so near +them?' I said after a pause. + +'It does seem strange. It is as if a man should not know who were +in his own house. Would-be civilization has for the very centre of +its citadel, for the citizens of its innermost city, for the heart +around which the gay and fashionable, the learned, the artistic, the +virtuous, the religious are gathered, a people some of whom are +barbarous, some cruel, many miserable, many unhappy, save for brief +moments not of hope, but of defiance, distilled in the alembic of +the brain from gin: what better life could steam up from such a +Phlegethon! Look there: "Cream of the Valley!" As if the mocking +serpent must with sweet words of Paradise deepen the horrors of the +hellish compound, to which so many of our brothers and sisters made +in the image of God, fly as to their only Saviour from the misery of +feeling alive.' + +'How is it that the civilized people of London do not make a +simultaneous inroad upon the haunts of the demons and drive them +out?' + +'It is a mercy they do not. They would only do infinite mischief. +The best notion civilization seems to have is--not to drive out the +demons, but to drive out the possessed; to take from them the poor +refuges they have, and crowd them into deeper and more fetid +hells--to make room for what?--more and more temples in which Mammon +may be worshipped. The good people on the other hand invade them +with foolish tracts, that lie against God; or give their money to +build churches, where there is as yet no people that will go to +them. Why, the other day, a young clergyman bored me, and would +have been boring me till now, I think, if I would have let him, to +part with a block of my houses, where I know every man, woman, and +child, and keep them in comparative comfort and cleanliness and +decency, to say no more, that he might pull them down and build a +church upon the site--not quite five minutes' walk from the church +where he now officiates.' + +It was a blowing, moon-lit night. The gaslights flickered and +wavered in the gusts of wind. It was cold, very cold for the +season. Even Falconer buttoned his coat over his chest. He got a +few paces in advance of me sometimes, when I saw him towering black +and tall and somewhat gaunt, like a walking shadow. The wind +increased in violence. It was a north-easter, laden with dust, and +a sense of frozen Siberian steppes. We had to stoop and head it at +the corners of streets. Not many people were out, and those who +were, seemed to be hurrying home. A few little provision-shops, and +a few inferior butchers' stalls were still open. Their great jets +of gas, which looked as if they must poison the meat, were flaming +fierce and horizontal, roaring like fiery flags, and anon dying into +a blue hiss. Discordant singing, more like the howling of wild +beasts, came from the corner houses, which blazed like the gates of +hell. Their doors were ever on the swing, and the hot odours of +death rushed out, and the cold blast of life rushed in. We paused a +little before one of them--over the door, upon the sign, was in very +deed the name Death. There were ragged women within who took their +half-dead babies from their bare, cold, cheerless bosoms, and gave +them of the poison of which they themselves drank renewed despair in +the name of comfort. They say that most of the gin consumed in +London is drunk by women. And the little clay-coloured baby-faces +made a grimace or two, and sank to sleep on the thin tawny breasts +of the mothers, who having gathered courage from the essence of +despair, faced the scowling night once more, and with bare necks and +hopeless hearts went--whither? Where do they all go when the +gin-hells close their yawning jaws? Where do they lie down at +night? They vanish like unlawfully risen corpses in the graves of +cellars and garrets, in the charnel-vaults of pestiferously-crowded +lodging-houses, in the prisons of police-stations, under dry arches, +within hoardings; or they make vain attempts to rest the night out +upon door-steps or curbstones. All their life long man denies them +the one right in the soil which yet is so much theirs, that once +that life is over, he can no longer deny it--the right of room to +lie down. Space itself is not allowed to be theirs by any right of +existence: the voice of the night-guardian commanding them to move +on, is as the howling of a death-hound hunting them out of the air +into their graves. + +In St. James's we came upon a group around the gates of a great +house. Visitors were coming and going, and it was a show to be had +for nothing by those who had nothing to pay. Oh! the children with +clothes too ragged to hold pockets for their chilled hands, that +stared at the childless duchess descending from her lordly carriage! +Oh! the wan faces, once lovely as theirs, it may be, that gazed +meagre and pinched and hungry on the young maidens in rose-colour +and blue, tripping lightly through the avenue of their eager +eyes--not yet too envious of unattainable felicity to gaze with +admiring sympathy on those who seemed to them the angels, the +goddesses of their kind. 'O God!' I thought, but dared not speak, +'and thou couldst make all these girls so lovely! Thou couldst give +them all the gracious garments of rose and blue and white if thou +wouldst! Why should these not be like those? They are hungry even, +and wan and torn. These too are thy children. There is wealth +enough in thy mines and in thy green fields, room enough in thy +starry spaces, O God!' But a voice--the echo of Falconer's +teaching, awoke in my heart--'Because I would have these more +blessed than those, and those more blessed with them, for they are +all my children.' + +By the Mall we came into Whitehall, and so to Westminster Bridge. +Falconer had changed his mind, and would cross at once. The +present bridge was not then finished, and the old bridge alongside +of it was still in use for pedestrians. We went upon it to reach +the other side. Its centre rose high above the other, for the line +of the new bridge ran like a chord across the arc of the old. +Through chance gaps in the boarding between, we looked down on the +new portion which was as yet used by carriages alone. The moon had, +throughout the evening, alternately shone in brilliance from amidst +a lake of blue sky, and been overwhelmed in billowy heaps of +wind-tormented clouds. As we stood on the apex of the bridge, +looking at the night, the dark river, and the mass of human effort +about us, the clouds gathered and closed and tumbled upon her in +crowded layers. The wind howled through the arches beneath, swept +along the boarded fences, and whistled in their holes. The +gas-lights blew hither and thither, and were perplexed to live at +all. + +We were standing at a spot where some shorter pieces had been used +in the hoarding; and, although I could not see over them, Falconer, +whose head rose more than half a foot above mine, was looking on the +other bridge below. Suddenly he grasped the top with his great +hands, and his huge frame was over it in an instant. I was on the +top of the hoarding the same moment, and saw him prostrate some +twelve feet below. He was up the next instant, and running with +huge paces diagonally towards the Surrey side. He had seen the +figure of a woman come flying along from the Westminster side, +without bonnet or shawl. When she came under the spot where we +stood, she had turned across at an obtuse angle towards the other +side of the bridge, and Falconer, convinced that she meant to throw +herself into the river, went over as I have related. She had all +but scrambled over the fence--for there was no parapet yet--by the +help of the great beam that ran along to support it, when he caught +her by her garments. So poor and thin were those garments, that if +she had not been poor and thin too, she would have dropped from them +into the darkness below. He took her in his arms, lifted her down +upon the bridge, and stood as if protecting her from a pursuing +death. I had managed to find an easier mode of descent, and now +stood a little way from them. + +'Poor girl! poor girl!' he said, as if to himself: 'was this the +only way left?' + +Then he spoke tenderly to her. What he said I could not hear--I +only heard the tone. + +'O sir!' she cried, in piteous entreaty, 'do let me go. Why should +a wretched creature like me be forced to live? It's no good to you, +sir. Do let me go.' + +'Come here,' he said, drawing her close to the fence. 'Stand up +again on the beam. Look down.' + +She obeyed, in a mechanical kind of way. But as he talked, and she +kept looking down on the dark mystery beneath, flowing past with +every now and then a dull vengeful glitter--continuous, forceful, +slow, he felt her shudder in his still clasping arm. + +'Look,' he said, 'how it crawls along--black and slimy! how silent +and yet how fierce! Is that a nice place to go to down there? +Would there be any rest there, do you think, tumbled about among +filth and creeping things, and slugs that feed on the dead; among +drowned women like yourself drifting by, and murdered men, and +strangled babies? Is that the door by which you would like to go +out of the world?' + +'It's no worse,' she faltered, '--not so bad as what I should leave +behind.' + +'If this were the only way out of it, I would not keep you from it. +I would say, "Poor thing! there is no help: she must go." But +there is another way.' + +'There is no other way, sir--if you knew all,' she said. + +'Tell me, then.' + +'I cannot. I dare not. Please--I would rather go.' + +She looked, from the mere glimpses I could get of her, somewhere +about five-and-twenty, making due allowance for the wear of +suffering so evident even in those glimpses. I think she might have +been beautiful if the waste of her history could have been restored. +That she had had at least some advantages of education, was evident +from both her tone and her speech. But oh, the wild eyes, and the +tortured lips, drawn back from the teeth with an agony of +hopelessness, as she struggled anew, perhaps mistrusting them, to +escape from the great arms that held her! + +'But the river cannot drown you,' Falconer said. 'It can only stop +your breath. It cannot stop your thinking. You will go on +thinking, thinking, all the same. Drowning people remember in a +moment all their past lives. All their evil deeds come up before +them, as if they were doing them all over again. So they plunge +back into the past and all its misery. While their bodies are +drowning, their souls are coming more and more awake.' + +'That is dreadful,' she murmured, with her great eyes fixed on his, +and growing steadier in their regard. She had ceased to struggle, +so he had slackened his hold of her, and she was leaning back +against the fence. + +'And then,' he went on, 'what if, instead of closing your eyes, as +you expected, and going to sleep, and forgetting everything, you +should find them come open all at once, in the midst of a multitude +of eyes all round about you, all looking at you, all thinking about +you, all judging you? What if you should hear, not a tumult of +voices and noises, from which you could hope to hide, but a solemn +company talking about you--every word clear and plain, piercing your +heart with what you could not deny,--and you standing naked and +shivering in the midst of them?' + +'It is too dreadful!' she cried, making a movement as if the very +horror of the idea had a fascination to draw her towards the +realization of it. 'But,' she added, yielding to Falconer's renewed +grasp, 'they wouldn't be so hard upon me there. They would not be +so cruel as men are here.' + +'Surely not. But all men are not cruel. I am not cruel,' he added, +forgetting himself for a moment, and caressing with his huge hand +the wild pale face that glimmered upon him as it were out of the +infinite night--all but swallowed up in it. + +She drew herself back, and Falconer, instantly removing his hand, +said, + +'Look in my face, child, and see whether you cannot trust me.' + +As he uttered the words, he took off his hat, and stood bare-headed +in the moon, which now broke out clear from the clouds. She did +look at him. His hair blew about his face. He turned it towards +the wind and the moon, and away from her, that she might be +undisturbed in her scrutiny. But how she judged of him, I cannot +tell; for the next moment he called out in a tone of repressed +excitement, + +'Gordon, Gordon, look there--above your head, on the other bridge.' + +I looked and saw a gray head peering over the same gap through which +Falconer had looked a few minutes before. I knew something of his +personal quest by this time, and concluded at once that he thought +it was or might be his father. + +'I cannot leave the poor thing--I dare not,' he said. + +I understood him, and darted off at full speed for the Surrey end of +the bridge. What made me choose that end, I do not know; but I was +right. + +I had some reason to fear that I might be stopped when I reached it, +as I had no business to be upon the new bridge. I therefore +managed, where the upper bridge sank again towards a level with the +lower, to scramble back upon it. As I did so the tall gray-headed +man passed me with an uncertain step. I did not see his face. I +followed him a few yards behind. He seemed to hear and dislike the +sound of my footsteps, for he quickened his pace. I let him +increase the distance between us, but followed him still. He turned +down the river. I followed. He began to double. I doubled after +him. Not a turn could he get before me. He crossed all the main +roads leading to the bridges till he came to the last--when he +turned toward London Bridge. At the other end, he went down the +stairs into Thames Street, and held eastward still. It was not +difficult to keep up with him, for his stride though long was slow. +He never looked round, and I never saw his face; but I could not +help fancying that his back and his gait and his carriage were very +like Falconer's. + +We were now in a quarter of which I knew nothing, but as far as I +can guess from after knowledge, it was one of the worst districts in +London, lying to the east of Spital Square. It was late, and there +were not many people about. + +As I passed a court, I was accosted thus: + +''Ain't you got a glass of ale for a poor cove, gov'nor?' + +'I have no coppers,' I said hastily. 'I am in a hurry besides,' I +added as I walked on. + +'Come, come!' he said, getting up with me in a moment, 'that ain't a +civil answer to give a cove after his lush, that 'ain't got a +blessed mag.' + +As he spoke he laid his hand rather heavily on my arm. He was a +lumpy-looking individual, like a groom who had been discharged for +stealing his horse's provender, and had not quite worn out the +clothes he had brought with him. From the opposite side at the same +moment, another man appeared, low in stature, pale, and marked with +the small-pox. + +He advanced upon me at right angles. I shook off the hand of the +first, and I confess would have taken to my heels, for more reasons +than one, but almost before I was clear of him, the other came +against me, and shoved me into one of the low-browed entries which +abounded. + +I was so eager to follow my chase that I acted foolishly throughout. +I ought to have emptied my pockets at once; but I was unwilling to +lose a watch which was an old family piece, and of value besides. + +'Come, come! I don't carry a barrel of ale in my pocket,' I said, +thinking to keep them in good-humour. I know better now. Some of +these roughs will take all you have in the most good-humoured way in +the world, bandying chaff with you all the time. I had got amongst +another set, however. + +'Leastways you've got as good,' said a third, approaching from the +court, as villanous-looking a fellow as I have ever seen. + +'This is hardly the right way to ask for it,' I said, looking out +for a chance of bolting, but putting my hand in my pocket at the +same time. I confess again I acted very stupidly throughout the +whole affair, but it was my first experience. + +'It's a way we've got down here, anyhow,' said the third with a +brutal laugh. 'Look out, Savoury Sam,' he added to one of them. + +'Now I don't want to hurt you,' struck in the first, coming nearer, +'but if you gives tongue, I'll make cold meat of you, and gouge your +pockets at my leisure, before ever a blueskin can turn the corner.' + +Two or three more came sidling up with their hands in their pockets. + +'What have you got there, Slicer?' said one of them, addressing the +third, who looked like a ticket-of-leave man. + +'We've cotched a pig-headed counter-jumper here, that didn't know +Jim there from a man-trap, and went by him as if he'd been a +bull-dog on a long-chain. He wants to fight cocum. But we won't +trouble him. We'll help ourselves. Shell out now.' + +As he spoke he made a snatch at my watch-chain. I forgot myself and +hit him. The same moment I received a blow on the head, and felt +the blood running down my face. I did not quite lose my senses, +though, for I remember seeing yet another man--a tall fellow, coming +out of the gloom of the court. How it came into my mind, I do not +know, and what I said I do not remember, but I must have mentioned +Falconer's name somehow. + +The man they called Slicer, said, + +'Who's he? Don't know the--.' + +Words followed which I cannot write. + +'What! you devil's gossoon!' returned an Irish voice I had not heard +before. 'You don't know Long Bob, you gonnof!' + +All that passed I heard distinctly, but I was in a half faint, I +suppose, for I could no longer see. + +'Now what the devil in a dice-box do you mean?' said Slicer, +possessing himself of my watch. 'Who is the blasted cove?--not that +I care a flash of damnation.' + +'A man as 'll knock you down if he thinks you want it, or give you a +half-a-crown if he thinks you want it--all's one to him, only he'll +have the choosing which.' + +'What the hell's that to me? Look spry. He mustn't lie there all +night. It's too near the ken. Come along, you Scotch haddock.' + +I was aware of a kick in the side as he spoke. + +'I tell you what it is, Slicer,' said one whose voice I had not yet +heard, 'if so be this gentleman's a friend of Long Bob, you just let +him alone, I say.' + +I opened my eyes now, and saw before me a tall rather slender man in +a big loose dress-coat, to whom Slicer had turned with the words, + +'You say! Ha! ha! Well, I say--There's my Scotch haddock! who'll +touch him?' + +'I'll take him home,' said the tall man, advancing towards me. I +made an attempt to rise. But I grew deadly ill, fell back, and +remember nothing more. + +When I came to myself I was lying on a bed in a miserable place. A +middle-aged woman of degraded countenance, but kindly eyes, was +putting something to my mouth with a teaspoon: I knew it by the +smell to be gin. But I could not yet move. They began to talk +about me, and I lay and listened. Indeed, while I listened, I lost +for a time all inclination to get up, I was so much interested in +what I heard. + +'He's comin' to hisself,' said the woman. 'He'll be all right by and +by. I wonder what brings the likes of him into the likes of this +place. It must look a kind of hell to them gentle-folks, though we +manage to live and die in it.' + +'I suppose,' said another, 'he's come on some of Mr. Falconer's +business.' + +'That's why Job's took him in charge. They say he was after +somebody or other, they think.--No friend of Mr. Falconer's would be +after another for any mischief,' said my hostess. + +'But who is this Mr. Falconer?--Is Long Bob and he both the same +alias?' asked a third. + +'Why, Bessy, ain't you no better than that damned Slicer, who ought +to ha' been hung up to dry this many a year? But to be sure you +'ain't been long in our quarter. Why, every child hereabouts knows +Mr. Falconer. Ask Bobby there.' + +'Who's Mr. Falconer, Bobby?' + +A child's voice made reply, + +'A man with a long, long beard, that goes about, and sometimes grows +tired and sits on a door-step. I see him once. But he ain't Mr. +Falconer, nor Long Bob neither,' added Bobby in a mysterious tone. +'I know who he is.' + +'What do you mean, Bobby? Who is he, then?' + +The child answered very slowly and solemnly, + +'He's Jesus Christ.' + +The woman burst into a rude laugh. + +'Well,' said Bobby in an offended tone, 'Slicer's own Tom says so, +and Polly too. We all says so. He allus pats me on the head, and +gives me a penny.' + +Here Bobby began to cry, bitterly offended at the way Bessy had +received his information, after considering him sufficiently +important to have his opinion asked. + +'True enough,' said his mother. 'I see him once a-sittin' on a +door-step, lookin' straight afore him, and worn-out like, an' a lot +o' them childer standin' all about him, an' starin' at him as mum as +mice, for fear of disturbin' of him. When I come near, he got up +with a smile on his face, and give each on 'em a penny all round, +and walked away. Some do say he's a bit crazed like; but I never +saw no sign o' that; and if any one ought to know, that one's Job's +Mary; and you may believe me when I tell you that he was here night +an' mornin' for a week, and after that off and on, when we was all +down in the cholerer. Ne'er a one of us would ha' come through but +for him.' + +I made an attempt to rise. The woman came to my bedside. + +'How does the gentleman feel hisself now?' she asked kindly. + +'Better, thank you,' I said. 'I am ashamed of lying like this, but I +feel very queer.' + +'And it's no wonder, when that devil Slicer give you one o' his even +down blows on the top o' your head. Nobody knows what he carry in +his sleeve that he do it with--only you've got off well, young man, +and that I tell you, with a decent cut like that. Only don't you go +tryin' to get up now. Don't be in a hurry till your blood comes +back like.' + +I lay still again for a little. When I lifted my hand to my head, I +found it was bandaged up. I tried again to rise. The woman went to +the door, and called out, + +'Job, the gentleman's feelin' better. He'll soon be able to move, I +think. What will you do with him now?' + +'I'll go and get a cab,' said Job; and I heard him go down a stair. + +I raised myself, and got on the floor, but found I could not stand. +By the time the cab arrived, however, I was able to crawl to it. +When Job came, I saw the same tall thin man in the long dress coat. +His head was bound up too. + +'I am sorry to see you too have been hurt--for my sake, of course,' +I said. 'Is it a bad blow?' + +'Oh! it ain't over much. I got in with a smeller afore he came +right down with his slogger. But I say, I hope as how you are a +friend of Mr. Falconer's, for you see we can't afford the likes of +this in this quarter for every chance that falls in Slicer's way. +Gentlemen has no business here.' + +'On the contrary, I mean to come again soon, to thank you all for +being so good to me.' + +'Well, when you comes next, you'd better come with him, you know.' + +'You mean with Mr. Falconer?' + +'Yes, who else? But are you able to go now? for the sooner you're +out of this the better.' + +'Quite able. Just give me your arm.' + +He offered it kindly. Taking a grateful farewell of my hostess, I +put my hand in my pocket, but there was nothing there. Job led me +to the mouth of the court, where a cab, evidently of a sort with the +neighbourhood, was waiting for us. I got in. Job was shutting the +door. + +'Come along with me, Job,' I said. 'I'm going straight to Mr. +Falconer's. He will like to see you, especially after your kindness +to me.' + +'Well, I don't mind if I do look arter you a little longer; for to +tell the truth,' said Job, as he opened the door, and got in beside +me, 'I don't over and above like the look of the--horse.' + +'It's no use trying to rob me over again,' I said; but he gave no +reply. He only shouted to the cabman to drive to John Street, +telling him the number. + +I can scarcely recall anything more till we reached Falconer's +chambers. Job got out and rang the bell. Mrs. Ashton came down. +Her master was not come home. + +'Tell Mr. Falconer,' I said, 'that I'm all right, only I couldn't +make anything of it.' + +'Tell him,' growled Job, 'that he's got his head broken, and won't +be out o' bed to-morrow. That's the way with them fine-bred ones. +They lies a-bed when the likes o' me must go out what they calls +a-custamongering, broken head and all.' + +'You shall stay at home for a week if you like, Job--that is if I've +got enough to give you a week's earnings. I'm not sure though till +I look, for I'm not a rich man any more than yourself.' + +'Rubbish!' said Job as he got in again; 'I was only flummuxing the +old un. Bless your heart, sir, I wouldn't stay in--not for nothink. +Not for a bit of a pat on the crown, nohow. Home ain't none so +nice a place to go snoozing in--nohow. Where do you go to, +gov'nor?' + +I told him. When I got out, and was opening the door, leaning on +his arm, I said I was very glad they hadn't taken my keys. + +'Slicer nor Savoury Sam neither's none the better o' you, and I +hopes you're not much the worse for them,' said Job, as he put into +my hands my purse and watch. 'Count it, gov'nor, and see if it's all +right. Them pusses is mannyfactered express for the convenience o' +the fakers. Take my advice, sir, and keep a yellow dump (sovereign) +in yer coat-tails, a flatch yenork (half-crown) in yer waistcoat, +and yer yeneps (pence) in yer breeches. You won't lose much nohow +then. Good-night, sir, and I wish you better.' + +'But I must give you something for plaster,' I said. 'You'll take a +yellow dump, at least?' + +'We'll talk about that another day,' said Job; and with a second +still heartier good-night, he left me. I managed to crawl up to my +room, and fell on my bed once more fainting. But I soon recovered +sufficiently to undress and get into it. I was feverish all night +and next day, but towards evening begun to recover. + +I kept expecting Falconer to come and inquire after me; but he never +came. Nor did he appear the next day or the next, and I began to be +very uneasy about him. The fourth day I sent for a cab, and drove +to John Street. He was at home, but Mrs. Ashton, instead of showing +me into his room, led me into her kitchen, and left me there. + +A minute after, Falconer came to me. The instant I saw him I +understood it all. I read it in his face: he had found his father. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +ANDREW AT LAST. + +Having at length persuaded the woman to go with him, Falconer made +her take his arm, and led her off the bridge. In Parliament Street +he was looking about for a cab as they walked on, when a man he did +not know, stopped, touched his hat, and addressed him. + +'I'm thinkin', sir, ye'll be sair wantit at hame the nicht It wad be +better to gang at ance, an' lat the puir fowk luik efter themsels +for ae nicht.' + +'I'm sorry I dinna ken ye, man. Do ye ken me?' + +'Fine that, Mr. Falconer. There's mony ane kens you and praises +God.' + +'God be praised!' returned Falconer. 'Why am I wanted at home?' + +''Deed I wad raither not say, sir.--Hey!' + +This last exclamation was addressed to a cab just disappearing down +King Street from Whitehall. The driver heard, turned, and in a +moment more was by their side. + +'Ye had better gang into her an' awa' hame, and lea' the poor lassie +to me. I'll tak guid care o' her.' + +She clung to Falconer's arm. The man opened the door of the cab. +Falconer put her in, told the driver to go to Queen Square, and if +he could not make haste, to stop the first cab that could, got in +himself, thanked his unknown friend, who did not seem quite +satisfied, and drove off. + +Happily Miss St. John was at home, and there was no delay. Neither +was any explanation of more than six words necessary. He jumped +again into the cab and drove home. Fortunately for his mood, though +in fact it mattered little for any result, the horse was fresh, and +both able and willing. + +When he entered John Street, he came to observe before reaching his +own door that a good many men were about in little quiet +groups--some twenty or so, here and there. When he let himself in +with his pass-key, there were two men in the entry. Without +stopping to speak, he ran up to his own chambers. When he got into +his sitting-room, there stood De Fleuri, who simply waved his hand +towards the old sofa. On it lay an elderly man, with his eyes half +open, and a look almost of idiocy upon his pale, puffed face, which +was damp and shining. His breathing was laboured, but there was no +further sign of suffering. He lay perfectly still. Falconer saw at +once that he was under the influence of some narcotic, probably +opium; and the same moment the all but conviction darted into his +mind that Andrew Falconer, his grandmother's son, lay there before +him. That he was his own father he had no feeling yet. He turned +to De Fleuri. + +'Thank you, friend,' he said. 'I shall find time to thank you.' + +'Are we right?' asked De Fleuri. + +'I don't know. I think so,' answered Falconer; and without another +word the man withdrew. + +His first mood was very strange. It seemed as if all the romance +had suddenly deserted his life, and it lay bare and hopeless. He +felt nothing. No tears rose to the brim of their bottomless +wells--the only wells that have no bottom, for they go into the +depths of the infinite soul. He sat down in his chair, stunned as +to the heart and all the finer chords of his nature. The man on the +horsehair sofa lay breathing--that was all. The gray hair about the +pale ill-shaven face glimmered like a cloud before him. What should +he do or say when he awaked? How approach this far-estranged soul? +How ever send the cry of father into that fog-filled world? Could +he ever have climbed on those knees and kissed those lips, in the +far-off days when the sun and the wind of that northern atmosphere +made his childhood blessed beyond dreams? The actual--that is the +present phase of the ever-changing--looked the ideal in the face; +and the mirror that held them both, shook and quivered at the +discord of the faces reflected. A kind of moral cold seemed to +radiate from the object before him, and chill him to the very bones. +This could not long be endured. He fled from the actual to the +source of all the ideal--to that Saviour who, the infinite mediator, +mediates between all hopes and all positions; between the most +debased actual and the loftiest ideal; between the little scoffer of +St. Giles's and his angel that ever beholds the face of the Father +in heaven. He fell on his knees, and spoke to God, saying that he +had made this man; that the mark of his fingers was on the man's +soul somewhere. He prayed to the making Spirit to bring the man to +his right mind, to give him once more the heart of a child, to begin +him yet again at the beginning. Then at last, all the evil he had +done and suffered would but swell his gratitude to Him who had +delivered him from himself and his own deeds. Having breathed this +out before the God of his life, Falconer rose, strengthened to meet +the honourable debased soul when it should at length look forth from +the dull smeared windows of those ill-used eyes. + +He felt his pulse. There was no danger from the narcotic. The coma +would pass away. Meantime he would get him to bed. When he began +to undress him a new reverence arose which overcame all disgust at +the state in which he found him. At length one sad little fact +about his dress, revealing the poverty-stricken attempt of a man to +preserve the shadow of decency, called back the waters of the +far-ebbed ocean of his feelings. At the prick of a pin the heart's +blood will flow: at the sight of--a pin it was--Robert burst into +tears, and wept like a child; the deadly cold was banished from his +heart, and he not only loved, but knew that he loved--felt the love +that was there. Everything then about the worn body and shabby +garments of the man smote upon the heart of his son, and through his +very poverty he was sacred in his eyes. The human heart awakened +the filial--reversing thus the ordinary process of Nature, who by +means of the filial, when her plans are unbroken, awakes the human; +and he reproached himself bitterly for his hardness, as he now +judged his late mental condition--unfairly, I think. He soon had +him safe in bed, unconscious of the helping hands that had been busy +about him in his heedless sleep; unconscious of the radiant planet +of love that had been folding him round in its atmosphere of +affection. + +But while he thus ministered, a new question arose in his mind--to +meet with its own new, God-given answer. What if this should not be +the man after all?--if this love had been spent in mistake, and did +not belong to him at all? The answer was, that he was a man. The +love Robert had given he could not, would not withdraw. The man who +had been for a moment as his father he could not cease to regard +with devotion. At least he was a man with a divine soul. He might +at least be somebody's father. Where love had found a moment's rest +for the sole of its foot, there it must build its nest. + +When he had got him safe in bed, he sat down beside him to think +what he would do next. This sleep gave him very needful leisure to +think. He could determine nothing--not even how to find out if he +was indeed his father. If he approached the subject without guile, +the man might be fearful and cunning--might have reasons for being +so, and for striving to conceal the truth. But this was the first +thing to make sure of, because, if it was he, all the hold he had +upon him lay in his knowing it for certain. He could not think. He +had had little sleep the night before. He must not sleep this +night. He dragged his bath into his sitting-room, and refreshed his +faculties with plenty of cold water, then lighted his pipe and went +on thinking--not without prayer to that Power whose candle is the +understanding of man. All at once he saw how to begin. He went +again into the chamber, and looked at the man, and handled him, and +knew by his art that a waking of some sort was nigh. Then he went +to a corner of his sitting-room, and from beneath the table drew out +a long box, and from the box lifted Dooble Sandy's auld wife, tuned +the somewhat neglected strings, and laid the instrument on the +table. + +When, keeping constant watch over the sleeping man, he judged at +length that his soul had come near enough to the surface of the +ocean of sleep to communicate with the outer world through that +bubble his body, which had floated upon its waves all the night +unconscious, he put his chair just outside the chamber door, which +opened from his sitting-room, and began to play gently, softly, far +away. For a while he extemporized only, thinking of Rothieden, and +the grandmother, and the bleach-green, and the hills, and the waste +old factory, and his mother's portrait and letters. As he dreamed +on, his dream got louder, and, he hoped, was waking a more and more +vivid dream in the mind of the sleeper. 'For who can tell,' thought +Falconer, 'what mysterious sympathies of blood and childhood's +experience there may be between me and that man?--such, it may be, +that my utterance on the violin will wake in his soul the very +visions of which my soul is full while I play, each with its own +nebulous atmosphere of dream-light around it.' For music wakes its +own feeling, and feeling wakes thought, or rather, when perfected, +blossoms into thought, thought radiant of music as those lilies that +shine phosphorescent in the July nights. He played more and more +forcefully, growing in hope. But he had been led astray in some +measure by the fulness of his expectation. Strange to tell, doctor +as he was, he had forgotten one important factor in his calculation: +how the man would awake from his artificial sleep. He had not +reckoned of how the limbeck of his brain would be left discoloured +with vile deposit, when the fumes of the narcotic should have +settled and given up its central spaces to the faintness of +desertion. + +Robert was very keen of hearing. Indeed he possessed all his senses +keener than any other man I have known. He heard him toss on his +bed. Then he broke into a growl, and damned the miauling, which, he +said, the strings could never have learned anywhere but in a cat's +belly. But Robert was used to bad language; and there are some bad +things which, seeing that there they are, it is of the greatest +consequence to get used to. It gave him, no doubt, a pang of +disappointment to hear such an echo to his music from the soul which +he had hoped especially fitted to respond in harmonious unison with +the wail of his violin. But not for even this moment did he lose +his presence of mind. He instantly moderated the tone of the +instrument, and gradually drew the sound away once more into the +distance of hearing. But he did not therefore let it die. Through +various changes it floated in the thin æther of the soul, changes +delicate as when the wind leaves the harp of the reeds by a river's +brink, and falls a-ringing at the heather bells, or playing with the +dry silvery pods of honesty that hang in the poor man's garden, till +at length it drew nearer once more, bearing on its wings the wail of +red Flodden, the Flowers of the Forest. Listening through the +melody for sounds of a far different kind, Robert was aware that +those sounds had ceased; the growling was still; he heard no more +turnings to and fro. How it was operating he could not tell, +further than that there must be some measure of soothing in its +influence. He ceased quite, and listened again. For a few moments +there was no sound. Then he heard the half-articulate murmuring of +one whose organs have been all but overcome by the beneficent +paralysis of sleep, but whose feeble will would compel them to +utterance. He was nearly asleep again. Was it a fact, or a fancy +of Robert's eager heart? Did the man really say, + +'Play that again, father. It's bonnie, that! I aye likit the +Flooers o' the Forest. Play awa'. I hae had a frichtsome dream. I +thocht I was i' the ill place. I doobt I'm no weel. But yer fiddle +aye did me gude. Play awa', father!' + +All the night through, till the dawn of the gray morning, Falconer +watched the sleeping man, all but certain that he was indeed his +father. Eternities of thought passed through his mind as he +watched--this time by the couch, as he hoped, of a new birth. He +was about to see what could be done by one man, strengthened by all +the aids that love and devotion could give, for the redemption of +his fellow. As through the darkness of the night and a sluggish fog +to aid it, the light of a pure heaven made its slow irresistible +way, his hope grew that athwart the fog of an evil life, the +darkness that might be felt, the light of the Spirit of God would +yet penetrate the heart of the sinner, and shake the wickedness out +of it. Deeper and yet deeper grew his compassion and his sympathy, +in prospect of the tortures the man must go through, before the will +that he had sunk into a deeper sleep than any into which opium could +sink his bodily being, would shake off its deathly lethargy, and +arise, torn with struggling pain, to behold the light of a new +spiritual morning. All that he could do he was prepared to do, +regardless of entreaty, regardless of torture, anger, and hate, with +the inexorable justice of love, the law that will not, must not, +dares not yield--strong with an awful tenderness, a wisdom that +cannot be turned aside, to redeem the lost soul of his father. And +he strengthened his heart for the conflict by saying that if he +would do thus for his father, what would not God do for his child? +Had He not proved already, if there was any truth in the grand +story of the world's redemption through that obedience unto the +death, that his devotion was entire, and would leave nothing undone +that could be done to lift this sheep out of the pit into whose +darkness and filth he had fallen out of the sweet Sabbath of the +universe? + +He removed all his clothes, searched the pockets, found in them one +poor shilling and a few coppers, a black cutty pipe, a box of snuff, +a screw of pigtail, a knife with a buckhorn handle and one broken +blade, and a pawn-ticket for a keyed flute, on the proceeds of which +he was now sleeping--a sleep how dearly purchased, when he might +have had it free, as the gift of God's gentle darkness! Then he +destroyed the garments, committing them to the fire as the hoped +farewell to the state of which they were the symbols and signs. + +He found himself perplexed, however, by the absence of some of the +usual symptoms of the habit of opium, and concluded that his poor +father was in the habit of using stimulants as well as narcotics, +and that the action of the one interfered with the action of the +other. + +He called his housekeeper. She did not know whom her master +supposed his guest to be, and regarded him only as one of the many +objects of his kindness. He told her to get some tea ready, as the +patient would most likely wake with a headache. He instructed her +to wait upon him as a matter of course, and explain nothing. He had +resolved to pass for the doctor, as indeed he was; and he told her +that if he should be at all troublesome, he would be with her at +once. She must keep the room dark. He would have his own breakfast +now; and if the patient remained quiet, would sleep on the sofa. + +He woke murmuring, and evidently suffered from headache and nausea. +Mrs. Ashton took him some tea. He refused it with an oath--more of +discomfort than of ill-nature--and was too unwell to show any +curiosity about the person who had offered it. Probably he was +accustomed to so many changes of abode, and to so many bewilderments +of the brain, that he did not care to inquire where he was or who +waited upon him. But happily for the heart's desire of Falconer, +the debauchery of his father had at length reached one of many +crises. He had caught cold before De Fleuri and his comrades found +him. He was now ill--feverish and oppressed. Through the whole of +the following week they nursed and waited upon him without his +asking a single question as to where he was or who they were; during +all which time Falconer saw no one but De Fleuri and the many poor +fellows who called to inquire after him and the result of their +supposed success. He never left the house, but either watched by +the bedside, or waited in the next room. Often would the patient +get out of bed, driven by the longing for drink or for opium, +gnawing him through all the hallucinations of delirium; but he was +weak, and therefore manageable. If in any lucid moments he thought +where he was, he no doubt supposed that he was in a hospital, and +probably had sense enough to understand that it was of no use to +attempt to get his own way there. He was soon much worn, and his +limbs trembled greatly. It was absolutely necessary to give him +stimulants, or he would have died, but Robert reduced them gradually +as he recovered strength. + +But there was an infinite work to be done beyond even curing him of +his evil habits. To keep him from strong drink and opium, even till +the craving after them was gone, would be but the capturing of the +merest outwork of the enemy's castle. He must be made such that, +even if the longing should return with tenfold force, and all the +means for its gratification should lie within the reach of his +outstretched hand, he would not touch them. God only was able to do +that for him. He would do all that he knew how to do, and God would +not fail of his part. For this he had raised him up; to this he had +called him; for this work he had educated him, made him a physician, +given him money, time, the love and aid of his fellows, and, beyond +all, a rich energy of hope and faith in his heart, emboldening him +to attempt whatever his hand found to do. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +ANDREW REBELS. + +As Andrew Falconer grew better, the longing of his mind after former +excitement and former oblivion, roused and kept alive the longing of +his body, until at length his thoughts dwelt upon nothing but his +diseased cravings. His whole imagination, naturally not a feeble +one, was concentrated on the delights in store for him as soon as he +was well enough to be his own master, as he phrased it, once more. +He soon began to see that, if he was in a hospital, it must be a +private one, and at last, irresolute as he was both from character +and illness, made up his mind to demand his liberty. He sat by his +bedroom fire one afternoon, for he needed much artificial warmth. +The shades of evening were thickening the air. He had just had one +of his frequent meals, and was gazing, as he often did, into the +glowing coals. Robert had come in, and after a little talk was +sitting silent at the opposite corner of the chimney-piece. + +'Doctor,' said Andrew, seizing the opportunity, 'you've been very +kind to me, and I don't know how to thank you, but it is time I was +going. I am quite well now. Would you kindly order the nurse to +bring me my clothes to-morrow morning, and I will go.' + +This he said with the quavering voice of one who speaks because he +has made up his mind to speak. A certain something, I believe a +vague molluscous form of conscience, made him wriggle and shift +uneasily upon his chair as he spoke. + +'No, no,' said Robert, 'you are not fit to go. Make yourself +comfortable, my dear sir. There is no reason why you should go.' + +'There is something I don't understand about it. I want to go.' + +'It would ruin my character as a professional man to let a patient +in your condition leave the house. The weather is unfavourable. I +cannot--I must not consent.' + +'Where am I? I don't understand it. I want to understand it.' + +'Your friends wish you to remain where you are for the present.' + +'I have no friends.' + +'You have one, at least, who puts his house here at your service.' + +'There's something about it I don't like. Do you suppose I am +incapable of taking care of myself?' + +'I do indeed,' answered his son with firmness. + +'Then you are quite mistaken,' said Andrew, angrily. 'I am quite +well enough to go, and have a right to judge for myself. It is very +kind of you, but I am in a free country, I believe.' + +'No doubt. All honest men are free in this country. But--' + +He saw that his father winced, and said no more. Andrew resumed, +after a pause in which he had been rousing his feeble +drink-exhausted anger, + +'I tell you I will not be treated like a child. I demand my clothes +and my liberty.' + +'Do you know where you were found that night you were brought here?' + +'No. But what has that to do with it? I was ill. You know that as +well as I.' + +'You are ill now because you were lying then on the wet ground under +a railway-arch--utterly incapable from the effects of opium, or +drink, or both. You would have been taken to the police-station, +and would probably have been dead long before now, if you had not +been brought here.' + +He was silent for some time. Then he broke out, + +'I tell you I will go. I do not choose to live on charity. I will +not. I demand my clothes.' + +'I tell you it is of no use. When you are well enough to go out you +shall go out, but not now.' + +'Where am I? Who are you?' + +He looked at Robert with a keen, furtive glance, in which were +mingled bewilderment and suspicion. + +'I am your best friend at present.' + +He started up--fiercely and yet feebly, for a thought of terror had +crossed him. + +'You do not mean I am in a madhouse?' + +Robert made no reply. He left him to suppose what he pleased. +Andrew took it for granted that he was in a private asylum, sank +back in his chair, and from that moment was quiet as a lamb. But it +was easy to see that he was constantly contriving how to escape. +This mental occupation, however, was excellent for his recovery; +and Robert dropped no hint of his suspicion. Nor were many +precautions necessary in consequence; for he never left the house +without having De Fleuri there, who was a man of determination, +nerve, and, now that he ate and drank, of considerable strength. + +As he grew better, the stimulants given him in the form of medicine +at length ceased. In their place Robert substituted other +restoratives, which prevented him from missing the stimulants so +much, and at length got his system into a tolerably healthy +condition, though at his age, and after so long indulgence, it could +hardly be expected ever to recover its tone. + +He did all he could to provide him with healthy amusement--played +backgammon, draughts, and cribbage with him, brought him Sir +Walter's and other novels to read, and often played on his violin, +to which he listened with great delight. At times of depression, +which of course were frequent, the Flowers of the Forest made the +old man weep. Falconer put yet more soul into the sounds than he +had ever put into them before. He tried to make the old man talk of +his childhood, asking him about the place of his birth, the kind of +country, how he had been brought up, his family, and many questions +of the sort. His answers were vague, and often contradictory. +Indeed, the moment the subject was approached, he looked suspicious +and cunning. He said his name was John Mackinnon, and Robert, +although his belief was strengthened by a hundred little +circumstances, had as yet received no proof that he was Andrew +Falconer. Remembering the pawn-ticket, and finding that he could +play on the flute, he brought him a beautiful instrument--in fact a +silver one--the sight of which made the old man's eyes sparkle. He +put it to his lips with trembling hands, blew a note or two, burst +into the tears of weakness, and laid it down. But he soon took it +up again, and evidently found both pleasure in the tones and sadness +in the memories they awakened. At length Robert brought a tailor, +and had him dressed like a gentleman--a change which pleased him +much. The next step was to take him out every day for a drive, upon +which his health began to improve more rapidly. He ate better, grew +more lively, and began to tell tales of his adventures, of the truth +of which Robert was not always certain, but never showed any doubt. +He knew only too well that the use of opium is especially +destructive to the conscience. Some of his stories he believed more +readily than others, from the fact that he suddenly stopped in them, +as if they were leading him into regions of confession which must be +avoided, resuming with matter that did not well connect itself with +what had gone before. At length he took him out walking, and he +comported himself with perfect propriety. + +But one day as they were going along a quiet street, Robert met an +acquaintance, and stopped to speak with him. After a few moments' +chat he turned, and found that his father, whom he had supposed to +be standing beside him, had vanished. A glance at the other side of +the street showed the probable refuge--a public-house. Filled but +not overwhelmed with dismay, although he knew that months might be +lost in this one moment, Robert darted in. He was there, with a +glass of whisky in his hand, trembling now more from eagerness than +weakness. He struck it from his hold. But he had already swallowed +one glass, and he turned in a rage. He was a tall and naturally +powerful man--almost as strongly built as his son, with long arms +like his, which were dangerous even yet in such a moment of +factitious strength and real excitement. Robert could not lift his +arm even to defend himself from his father, although, had he judged +it necessary, I believe he would not, in the cause of his +redemption, have hesitated to knock him down, as he had often served +others whom he would rather a thousand times have borne on his +shoulders. He received his father's blow on the cheek. For one +moment it made him dizzy, for it was well delivered. But when the +bar-keeper jumped across the counter and approached with his fist +doubled, that was another matter. He measured his length on the +floor, and Falconer seized his father, who was making for the +street, and notwithstanding his struggles and fierce efforts to +strike again, held him secure and himself scathless, and bore him +out of the house. + +A crowd gathers in a moment in London, speeding to a fray as the +vultures to carrion. On the heels of the population of the +neighbouring mews came two policemen, and at the same moment out +came the barman to the assistance of Andrew. But Falconer was as +well known to the police as if he had a ticket-of-leave, and a good +deal better. + +'Call a four-wheel cab,' he said to one of them. 'I'm all right.' + +The man started at once. Falconer turned to the other. + +'Tell that man in the apron,' he said, 'that I'll make him all due +reparation. But he oughtn't to be in such a hurry to meddle. He +gave me no time but to strike hard.' + +'Yes, sir,' answered the policeman obediently. The crowd thought he +must be a great man amongst the detectives; but the bar-keeper vowed +he would 'summons' him for the assault. + +'You may, if you like,' said Falconer. 'When I think of it, you +shall do so. You know where I live?' he said, turning to the +policeman. + +'No, sir, I don't. I only know you well enough.' + +'Put your hand in my coat-pocket, then, and you'll find a card-case. +The other. There! Help yourself.' + +He said this with his arms round Andrew's, who had ceased to cry out +when he saw the police. + +'Do you want to give this gentleman in charge, sir?' + +'No. It is a little private affair of my own, this.' + +'Hadn't you better let him go, sir, and we'll find him for you when +you want him?' + +'No. He may give me in charge if he likes. Or if you should want +him, you will find him at my house.' + +Then pinioning his prisoner still more tightly in his arms, he +leaned forward, and whispered in his ear, + +'Will you go home quietly, or give me in charge? There is no other +way, Andrew Falconer.' + +He ceased struggling. Through all the flush of the contest his face +grew pale. His arms dropped by his side. Robert let him go, and he +stood there without offering to move. The cab came up; the +policeman got out; Andrew stepped in of his own accord, and Robert +followed. + +'You see it's all right,' he said. 'Here, give the barman a +sovereign. If he wants more, let me know. He deserved all he got, +but I was wrong. John Street.' + +His father did not speak a word, or ask a question all the way home. +Evidently he thought it safer to be silent. But the drink he had +taken, though not enough to intoxicate him, was more than enough to +bring back the old longing with redoubled force. He paced about the +room the rest of the day like a wild beast in a cage, and in the +middle of the night, got up and dressed, and would have crept +through the room in which Robert lay, in the hope of getting out. +But Robert slept too anxiously for that. The captive did not make +the slightest noise, but his very presence was enough to wake his +son. He started at a bound from his couch, and his father retreated +in dismay to his chamber. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +THE BROWN LETTER. + +At length the time arrived when Robert would make a further attempt, +although with a fear and trembling to quiet which he had to seek the +higher aid. His father had recovered his attempt to rush anew upon +destruction. He was gentler and more thoughtful, and would again +sit for an hour at a time gazing into the fire. From the expression +of his countenance upon such occasions, Robert hoped that his +visions were not of the evil days, but of those of his innocence. + +One evening when he was in one of these moods--he had just had his +tea, the gas was lighted, and he was sitting as I have +described--Robert began to play in the next room, hoping that the +music would sink into his heart, and do something to prepare the way +for what was to follow. Just as he had played over the Flowers of +the Forest for the third time, his housekeeper entered the room, and +receiving permission from her master, went through into Andrew's +chamber, and presented a packet, which she said, and said truly, for +she was not in the secret, had been left for him. He received it +with evident surprise, mingled with some consternation, looked at +the address, looked at the seal, laid it on the table, and gazed +again with troubled looks into the fire. He had had no +correspondence for many years. Falconer had peeped in when the +woman entered, but the moment she retired he could watch him no +longer. He went on playing a slow, lingering voluntary, such as the +wind plays, of an amber autumn evening, on the æolian harp of its +pines. He played so gently that he must hear if his father should +speak. + +For what seemed hours, though it was but half-an-hour, he went on +playing. At length he heard a stifled sob. He rose, and peeped +again into the room. The gray head was bowed between the hands, and +the gaunt frame was shaken with sobs. On the table lay the +portraits of himself and his wife; and the faded brown letter, so +many years folded in silence and darkness, lay open beside them. He +had known the seal, with the bush of rushes and the Gaelic motto. +He had gently torn the paper from around it, and had read the +letter from the grave--no, from the land beyond, the land of light, +where human love is glorified. Not then did Falconer read the +sacred words of his mother; but afterwards his father put them into +his hands. I will give them as nearly as I can remember them, for +the letter is not in my possession. + +'My beloved Andrew, I can hardly write, for I am at the point of +death. I love you still--love you as dearly as before you left me. +Will you ever see this? I will try to send it to you. I will +leave it behind me, that it may come into your hands when and how it +may please God. You may be an old man before you read these words, +and may have almost forgotten your young wife. Oh! if I could take +your head on my bosom where it used to lie, and without saying a +word, think all that I am thinking into your heart. Oh! my love, my +love! will you have had enough of the world and its ways by the time +this reaches you? Or will you be dead, like me, when this is found, +and the eyes of your son only, my darling little Robert, read the +words? Oh, Andrew, Andrew! my heart is bleeding, not altogether for +myself, not altogether for you, but both for you and for me. Shall +I never, never be able to let out the sea of my love that swells +till my heart is like to break with its longing after you, my own +Andrew? Shall I never, never see you again? That is the terrible +thought--the only thought almost that makes me shrink from dying. +If I should go to sleep, as some think, and not even dream about +you, as I dream and weep every night now! If I should only wake in +the crowd of the resurrection, and not know where to find you! Oh, +Andrew, I feel as if I should lose my reason when I think that you +may be on the left hand of the Judge, and I can no longer say my +love, because you do not, cannot any more love God. I will tell you +the dream I had about you last night, which I think was what makes +me write this letter. I was standing in a great crowd of people, +and I saw the empty graves about us on every side. We were waiting +for the great white throne to appear in the clouds. And as soon as +I knew that, I cried, "Andrew, Andrew!" for I could not help it. +And the people did not heed me; and I cried out and ran about +everywhere, looking for you. At last I came to a great gulf. When +I looked down into it, I could see nothing but a blue deep, like the +blue of the sky, under my feet. It was not so wide but that I could +see across it, but it was oh! so terribly deep. All at once, as I +stood trembling on the very edge, I saw you on the other side, +looking towards me, and stretching out your arms as if you wanted +me. You were old and much changed, but I knew you at once, and I +gave a cry that I thought all the universe must have heard. You +heard me. I could see that. And I was in a terrible agony to get +to you. But there was no way, for if I fell into the gulf I should +go down for ever, it was so deep. Something made me look away, and +I saw a man coming quietly along the same side of the gulf, on the +edge, towards me. And when he came nearer to me, I saw that he was +dressed in a gown down to his feet, and that his feet were bare and +had a hole in each of them. So I knew who it was, Andrew. And I +fell down and kissed his feet, and lifted up my hands, and looked +into his face--oh, such a face! And I tried to pray. But all I +could say was, "O Lord, Andrew, Andrew!" Then he smiled, and said, +"Daughter, be of good cheer. Do you want to go to him?" And I +said, "Yes, Lord." Then he said, "And so do I. Come." And he took my +hand and led me over the edge of the precipice; and I was not +afraid, and I did not sink, but walked upon the air to go to you. +But when I got to you, it was too much to bear; and when I thought +I had you in my arms at last, I awoke, crying as I never cried +before, not even when I found that you had left me to die without +you. Oh, Andrew, what if the dream should come true! But if it +should not come true! I dare not think of that, Andrew. I couldn't +be happy in heaven without you. It may be very wicked, but I do not +feel as if it were, and I can't help it if it is. But, dear +husband, come to me again. Come back, like the prodigal in the New +Testament. God will forgive you everything. Don't touch drink +again, my dear love. I know it was the drink that made you do as +you did. You could never have done it. It was the drink that drove +you to do it. You didn't know what you were doing. And then you +were ashamed, and thought I would be angry, and could not bear to +come back to me. Ah, if you were to come in at the door, as I +write, you would see whether or not I was proud to have my Andrew +again. But I would not be nice for you to look at now. You used to +think me pretty--you said beautiful--so long ago. But I am so thin +now, and my face so white, that I almost frighten myself when I look +in the glass. And before you get this I shall be all gone to dust, +either knowing nothing about you, or trying to praise God, and +always forgetting where I am in my psalm, longing so for you to +come. I am afraid I love you too much to be fit to go to heaven. +Then, perhaps, God will send me to the other place, all for love of +you, Andrew. And I do believe I should like that better. But I +don't think he will, if he is anything like the man I saw in my +dream. But I am growing so faint that I can hardly write. I never +felt like this before. But that dream has given me strength to die, +because I hope you will come too. Oh, my dear Andrew, do, do repent +and turn to God, and he will forgive you. Believe in Jesus, and he +will save you, and bring me to you across the deep place. But I +must make haste. I can hardly see. And I must not leave this +letter open for anybody but you to read after I am dead. Good-bye, +Andrew. I love you all the same. I am, my dearest Husband, your +affectionate Wife, + +'H. FALCONER.' + +Then followed the date. It was within a week of her death. The +letter was feebly written, every stroke seeming more feeble by the +contrasted strength of the words. When Falconer read it afterwards, +in the midst of the emotions it aroused--the strange lovely feelings +of such a bond between him and a beautiful ghost, far away somewhere +in God's universe, who had carried him in her lost body, and nursed +him at her breasts--in the midst of it all, he could not help +wondering, he told me, to find the forms and words so like what he +would have written himself. It seemed so long ago when that faded, +discoloured paper, with the gilt edges, and the pale brown ink, and +folded in the large sheet, and sealed with the curious wax, must +have been written; and here were its words so fresh, so new! not +withered like the rose-leaves that scented the paper from the +work-box where he had found it, but as fresh as if just shaken from +the rose-trees of the heart's garden. It was no wonder that Andrew +Falconer should be sitting with his head in his hands when Robert +looked in on him, for he had read this letter. + +When Robert saw how he sat, he withdrew, and took his violin again, +and played all the tunes of the old country he could think of, +recalling Dooble Sandy's workshop, that he might recall the music he +had learnt there. + +No one who understands the bit and bridle of the association of +ideas, as it is called in the skeleton language of mental +philosophy, wherewith the Father-God holds fast the souls of his +children--to the very last that we see of them, at least, and +doubtless to endless ages beyond--will sneer at Falconer's notion of +making God's violin a ministering spirit in the process of +conversion. There is a well-authenticated story of a convict's +having been greatly reformed for a time, by going, in one of the +colonies, into a church, where the matting along the aisle was of +the same pattern as that in the church to which he had gone when a +boy--with his mother, I suppose. It was not the matting that so far +converted him: it was not to the music of his violin that Falconer +looked for aid, but to the memories of childhood, the mysteries of +the kingdom of innocence which that could recall--those memories +which + + Are yet the fountain light of all our day, + Are yet a master light of all our seeing. + +For an hour he did not venture to go near him. When he entered the +room he found him sitting in the same place, no longer weeping, but +gazing into the fire with a sad countenance, the expression of which +showed Falconer at once that the soul had come out of its cave of +obscuration, and drawn nearer to the surface of life. He had not +seen him look so much like one 'clothed, and in his right mind,' +before. He knew well that nothing could be built upon this; that +this very emotion did but expose him the more to the besetting sin; +that in this mood he would drink, even if he knew that he would in +consequence be in danger of murdering the wife whose letter had made +him weep. But it was progress, notwithstanding. He looked up at +Robert as he entered, and then dropped his eyes again. He regarded +him perhaps as a presence doubtful whether of angel or devil, even +as the demoniacs regarded the Lord of Life who had come to set them +free. Bewildered he must have been to find himself, towards the +close of a long life of debauchery, wickedness, and the growing +pains of hell, caught in a net of old times, old feelings, old +truths. + +Now Robert had carefully avoided every indication that might +disclose him to be a Scotchman even, nor was there the least sign of +suspicion in Andrew's manner. The only solution of the mystery that +could have presented itself to him was, that his friends were at the +root of it--probably his son, of whom he knew absolutely nothing. +His mother could not be alive still. Of his wife's relatives there +had never been one who would have taken any trouble about him after +her death, hardly even before it. John Lammie was the only person, +except Dr. Anderson, whose friendship he could suppose capable of +this development. The latter was the more likely person. But he +would be too much for him yet; he was not going to be treated like a +child, he said to himself, as often as the devil got uppermost. + +My reader must understand that Andrew had never been a man of +resolution. He had been wilful and headstrong; and these qualities, +in children especially, are often mistaken for resolution, and +generally go under the name of strength of will. There never was a +greater mistake. The mistake, indeed, is only excusable from the +fact that extremes meet, and that this disposition is so opposite to +the other, that it looks to the careless eye most like it. He never +resisted his own impulses, or the enticements of evil companions. +Kept within certain bounds at home, after he had begun to go wrong, +by the weight of opinion, he rushed into all excesses when abroad +upon business, till at length the vessel of his fortune went to +pieces, and he was a waif on the waters of the world. But in +feeling he had never been vulgar, however much so in action. There +was a feeble good in him that had in part been protected by its very +feebleness. He could not sin so much against it as if it had been +strong. For many years he had fits of shame, and of grief without +repentance; for repentance is the active, the divine part--the +turning again; but taking more steadily both to strong drink and +opium, he was at the time when De Fleuri found him only the dull +ghost of Andrew Falconer walking in a dream of its lost carcass. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +FATHER AND SON. + +Once more Falconer retired, but not to take his violin. He could +play no more. Hope and love were swelling within him. He could not +rest. Was it a sign from heaven that the hour for speech had +arrived? He paced up and down the room. He kneeled and prayed for +guidance and help. Something within urged him to try the rusted +lock of his father's heart. Without any formed resolution, without +any conscious volition, he found himself again in his room. There +the old man still sat, with his back to the door, and his gaze fixed +on the fire, which had sunk low in the grate. Robert went round in +front of him, kneeled on the rug before him, and said the one word, + +'Father!' + +Andrew started violently, raised his hand, which trembled as with a +palsy, to his head, and stared wildly at Robert. But he did not +speak. Robert repeated the one great word. Then Andrew spoke, and +said in a trembling, hardly audible voice, + +'Are you my son?--my boy Robert, sir?' + +'I am. I am. Oh, father, I have longed for you by day, and dreamed +about you by night, ever since I saw that other boys had fathers, +and I had none. Years and years of my life--I hardly know how +many--have been spent in searching for you. And now I have found +you!' + +The great tall man, in the prime of life and strength, laid his big +head down on the old man's knee, as if he had been a little child. +His father said nothing, but laid his hand on the head. For some +moments the two remained thus, motionless and silent. Andrew was +the first to speak. And his words were the voice of the spirit that +striveth with man. + +'What am I to do, Robert?' + +No other words, not even those of passionate sorrow, or overflowing +affection, could have been half so precious in the ears of Robert. +When a man once asks what he is to do, there is hope for him. +Robert answered instantly, + +'You must come home to your mother.' + +'My mother!' Andrew exclaimed. 'You don't mean to say she's alive?' + +'I heard from her yesterday--in her own hand, too,' said Robert. + +'I daren't. I daren't,' murmured Andrew. + +'You must, father,' returned Robert. 'It is a long way, but I will +make the journey easy for you. She knows I have found you. She is +waiting and longing for you. She has hardly thought of anything but +you ever since she lost you. She is only waiting to see you, and +then she will go home, she says. I wrote to her and said, "Grannie, +I have found your Andrew." And she wrote back to me and said, "God +be praised. I shall die in peace."' + +A silence followed. + +'Will she forgive me?' said Andrew. + +'She loves you more than her own soul,' answered Robert. 'She loves +you as much as I do. She loves you as God loves you.' + +'God can't love me,' said Andrews, feebly. 'He would never have left +me if he had loved me.' + +'He has never left you from the very first. You would not take his +way, father, and he just let you try your own. But long before that +he had begun to get me ready to go after you. He put such love to +you in my heart, and gave me such teaching and such training, that I +have found you at last. And now I have found you, I will hold you. +You cannot escape--you will not want to escape any more, father?' + +Andrew made no reply to this appeal. It sounded like imprisonment +for life, I suppose. But thought was moving in him. After a long +pause, during which the son's heart was hungering for a word whereon +to hang a further hope, the old man spoke again, muttering as if he +were only speaking his thoughts unconsciously. + +'Where's the use? There's no forgiveness for me. My mother is +going to heaven. I must go to hell. No. It's no good. Better +leave it as it is. I daren't see her. It would kill me to see +her.' + +'It will kill her not to see you; and that will be one sin more on +your conscience, father.' + +Andrew got up and walked about the room. And Robert only then arose +from his knees. + +'And there's my mother,' he said. + +Andrew did not reply; but Robert saw when he turned next towards the +light, that the sweat was standing in beads on his forehead. + +'Father,' he said, going up to him. + +The old man stopped in his walk, turned, and faced his son. + +'Father,' repeated Robert, 'you've go to repent; and God won't let +you off; and you needn't think it. You'll have to repent some day.' + +'In hell, Robert,' said Andrew, looking him full in the eyes, as he +had never looked at him before. It seemed as if even so much +acknowledgment of the truth had already made him bolder and +honester. + +'Yes. Either on earth or in hell. Would it not be better on earth?' + +'But it will be no use in hell,' he murmured. + +In those few words lay the germ of the preference for hell of poor +souls, enfeebled by wickedness. They will not have to do anything +there--only to moan and cry and suffer for ever, they think. It is +effort, the out-going of the living will that they dread. The +sorrow, the remorse of repentance, they do not so much regard: it is +the action it involves; it is the having to turn, be different, and +do differently, that they shrink from; and they have been taught to +believe that this will not be required of them there--in that awful +refuge of the will-less. I do not say they think thus: I only say +their dim, vague, feeble feelings are such as, if they grew into +thought, would take this form. But tell them that the fire of God +without and within them will compel them to bethink themselves; that +the vision of an open door beyond the smoke and the flames will ever +urge them to call up the ice-bound will, that it may obey; that the +torturing spirit of God in them will keep their consciences awake, +not to remind them of what they ought to have done, but to tell them +what they must do now, and hell will no longer fascinate them. Tell +them that there is no refuge from the compelling Love of God, save +that Love itself--that He is in hell too, and that if they make +their bed in hell they shall not escape him, and then, perhaps, they +will have some true presentiment of the worm that dieth not and the +fire that is not quenched. + +'Father, it will be of use in hell,' said Robert. 'God will give you +no rest even there. You will have to repent some day, I do +believe--if not now under the sunshine of heaven, then in the +torture of the awful world where there is no light but that of the +conscience. Would it not be better and easier to repent now, with +your wife waiting for you in heaven, and your mother waiting for you +on earth?' + +Will it be credible to my reader, that Andrew interrupted his son +with the words, + +'Robert, it is dreadful to hear you talk like that. Why, you don't +believe in the Bible!' + +His words will be startling to one who has never heard the lips of a +hoary old sinner drivel out religion. To me they are not so +startling as the words of Christian women and bishops of the Church +of England, when they say that the doctrine of the everlasting +happiness of the righteous stands or falls with the doctrine of the +hopeless damnation of the wicked. Can it be that to such the word +is everything, the spirit nothing? No. It is only that the devil is +playing a very wicked prank, not with them, but in them: they are +pluming themselves on being selfish after a godly sort. + +'I do believe the Bible, father,' returned Robert, 'and have ordered +my life by it. If I had not believed the Bible, I fear I should +never have looked for you. But I won't dispute about it. I only +say I believe that you will be compelled to repent some day, and +that now is the best time. Then, you will not only have to repent, +but to repent that you did not repent now. And I tell you, father, +that you shall go to my grandmother.' + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +CHANGE OF SCENE. + +But various reasons combined to induce Falconer to postpone yet for +a period their journey to the North. Not merely did his father +require an unremitting watchfulness, which it would be difficult to +keep up in his native place amongst old friends and acquaintances, +but his health was more broken than he had at first supposed, and +change of air and scene without excitement was most desirable. He +was anxious too that the change his mother must see in him should be +as little as possible attributable to other causes than those that +years bring with them. To this was added that his own health had +begun to suffer from the watching and anxiety he had gone through, +and for his father's sake, as well as for the labour which yet lay +before him, he would keep that as sound as he might. He wrote to +his grandmother and explained the matter. She begged him to do as +he thought best, for she was so happy that she did not care if she +should never see Andrew in this world: it was enough to die in the +hope of meeting him in the other. But she had no reason to fear +that death was at hand; for, although much more frail, she felt as +well as ever. + +By this time Falconer had introduced me to his father. I found him +in some things very like his son; in others, very different. His +manners were more polished; his pleasure in pleasing much greater: +his humanity had blossomed too easily, and then run to seed. Alas, +to no seed that could bear fruit! There was a weak expression about +his mouth--a wavering interrogation: it was so different from the +firmly-closed portals whence issued the golden speech of his son! +He had a sly, sidelong look at times, whether of doubt or cunning, +I could not always determine. His eyes, unlike his son's, were of a +light blue, and hazy both in texture and expression. His hands were +long-fingered and tremulous. He gave your hand a sharp squeeze, and +the same instant abandoned it with indifference. I soon began to +discover in him a tendency to patronize any one who showed him a +particle of respect as distinguished from common-place civility. +But under all outward appearances it seemed to me that there was a +change going on: at least being very willing to believe it, I found +nothing to render belief impossible. + +He was very fond of the flute his son had given him, and on that +sweetest and most expressionless of instruments he played +exquisitely. + +One evening when I called to see them, Falconer said, + +'We are going out of town for a few weeks, Gordon: will you go with +us?' + +'I am afraid I can't.' + +'Why? You have no teaching at present, and your writing you can do +as well in the country as in town.' + +'That is true; but still I don't see how I can. I am too poor for +one thing.' + +'Between you and me that is nonsense.' + +'Well, I withdraw that,' I said. 'But there is so much to be done, +specially as you will be away, and Miss St John is at the Lakes.' + +'That is all very true; but you need a change. I have seen for some +weeks that you are failing. Mind, it is our best work that He +wants, not the dregs of our exhaustion. I hope you are not of the +mind of our friend Mr. Watts, the curate of St. Gregory's.' + +'I thought you had a high opinion of Mr. Watts,' I returned. + +'So I have. I hope it is not necessary to agree with a man in +everything before we can have a high opinion of him.' + +'Of course not. But what is it you hope I am not of his opinion +in?' + +'He seems ambitious of killing himself with work--of wearing himself +out in the service of his master--and as quickly as possible. A +good deal of that kind of thing is a mere holding of the axe to the +grindstone, not a lifting of it up against thick trees. Only he +won't be convinced till it comes to the helve. I met him the other +day; he was looking as white as his surplice. I took upon me to +read him a lecture on the holiness of holidays. "I can't leave my +poor," he said. "Do you think God can't do without you?" I asked. +"Is he so weak that he cannot spare the help of a weary man? But I +think he must prefer quality to quantity, and for healthy work you +must be healthy yourself. How can you be the visible sign of the +Christ-present amongst men, if you inhabit an exhausted, irritable +brain? Go to God's infirmary and rest a while. Bring back health +from the country to those that cannot go to it. If on the way it be +transmuted into spiritual forms, so much the better. A little more +of God will make up for a good deal less of you.' + +'What did he say to that?' + +'He said our Lord died doing the will of his Father. I told +him--"Yes, when his time was come, not sooner. Besides, he often +avoided both speech and action." "Yes," he answered, "but he could +tell when, and we cannot." "Therefore," I rejoined, "you ought to +accept your exhaustion as a token that your absence will be the best +thing for your people. If there were no God, then perhaps you ought +to work till you drop down dead--I don't know."' + +'Is he gone yet?' + +'No. He won't go. I couldn't persuade him.' + +'When do you go?' + +'To-morrow.' + +'I shall be ready, if you really mean it.' + +'That's an if worthy only of a courtier. There may be much virtue +in an if, as Touchstone says, for the taking up of a quarrel; but +that if is bad enough to breed one,' said Falconer, laughing. 'Be at +the Paddington Station at noon to-morrow. To tell the whole truth, +I want you to help me with my father.' + +This last was said at the door as he showed me out. + +In the afternoon we were nearing Bristol. It was a lovely day in +October. Andrew had been enjoying himself; but it was evidently +rather the pleasure of travelling in a first-class carriage like a +gentleman than any delight in the beauty of heaven and earth. The +country was in the rich sombre dress of decay. + +'Is it not remarkable,' said my friend to me, 'that the older I +grow, I find autumn affecting me the more like spring?' + +'I am thankful to say,' interposed Andrew, with a smile in which was +mingled a shade of superiority, 'that no change of the seasons ever +affects me.' + +'Are you sure you are right in being thankful for that, father?' +asked his son. + +His father gazed at him for a moment, seemed to bethink himself +after some feeble fashion or other, and rejoined, + +'Well, I must confess I did feel a touch of the rheumatism this +morning.' + +How I pitied Falconer! Would he ever see of the travail of his soul +in this man? But he only smiled a deep sweet smile, and seemed to +be thinking divine things in that great head of his. + +At Bristol we went on board a small steamer, and at night were +landed at a little village on the coast of North Devon. The hotel +to which we went was on the steep bank of a tumultuous little river, +which tumbled past its foundation of rock, like a troop of watery +horses galloping by with ever-dissolving limbs. The elder Falconer +retired almost as soon as we had had supper. My friend and I +lighted our pipes, and sat by the open window, for although the +autumn was so far advanced, the air here was very mild. For some +time we only listened to the sound of the waters. + +'There are three things,' said Falconer at last, taking his pipe out +of his mouth with a smile, 'that give a peculiarly perfect feeling +of abandonment: the laughter of a child; a snake lying across a +fallen branch; and the rush of a stream like this beneath us, whose +only thought is to get to the sea.' + +We did not talk much that night, however, but went soon to bed. +None of us slept well. We agreed in the morning that the noise of +the stream had been too much for us all, and that the place felt +close and torpid. Andrew complained that the ceaseless sound +wearied him, and Robert that he felt the aimless endlessness of it +more than was good for him. I confess it irritated me like an +anodyne unable to soothe. We were clearly all in want of something +different. The air between the hills clung to them, hot and +moveless. We would climb those hills, and breathe the air that +flitted about over their craggy tops. + +As soon as we had breakfasted, we set out. It was soon evident that +Andrew could not ascend the steep road. We returned and got a +carriage. When we reached the top, it was like a resurrection, like +a dawning of hope out of despair. The cool friendly wind blew on +our faces, and breathed strength into our frames. Before us lay the +ocean, the visible type of the invisible, and the vessels with their +white sails moved about over it like the thoughts of men feebly +searching the unknown. Even Andrew Falconer spread out his arms to +the wind, and breathed deep, filling his great chest full. + +'I feel like a boy again,' he said. + +His son strode to his side, and laid his arm over his shoulders. + +'So do I, father,' he returned; 'but it is because I have got you.' + +The old man turned and looked at him with a tenderness I had never +seen on his face before. As soon as I saw that, I no longer doubted +that he could be saved. + +We found rooms in a farm-house on the topmost height. + +'These are poor little hills, Falconer,' I said. 'Yet they help one +like mountains.' + +'The whole question is,' he returned, 'whether they are high enough +to lift you out of the dirt. Here we are in the airs of +heaven--that is all we need.' + +'They make me think how often, amongst the country people of +Scotland, I have wondered at the clay-feet upon which a golden head +of wisdom stood! What poor needs, what humble aims, what a narrow +basement generally, was sufficient to support the statues of +pure-eyed Faith and white-handed Hope,' + +'Yes,' said Falconer: 'he who is faithful over a few things is a +lord of cities. It does not matter whether you preach in +Westminster Abbey, or teach a ragged class, so you be faithful. The +faithfulness is all.' + +After an early dinner we went out for a walk, but we did not go far +before we sat down upon the grass. Falconer laid himself at full +length and gazed upwards. + +'When I look like this into the blue sky,' he said, after a moment's +silence, 'it seems so deep, so peaceful, so full of a mysterious +tenderness, that I could lie for centuries, and wait for the dawning +of the face of God out of the awful loving-kindness.' + +I had never heard Falconer talk of his own present feelings in this +manner; but glancing at the face of his father with a sense of his +unfitness to hear such a lofty utterance, I saw at once that it was +for his sake that he had thus spoken. The old man had thrown +himself back too, and was gazing into the sky, puzzling himself, I +could see, to comprehend what his son could mean. I fear he +concluded, for the time, that Robert was not gifted with the amount +of common-sense belonging of right to the Falconer family, and that +much religion had made him a dreamer. Still, I thought I could see +a kind of awe pass like a spiritual shadow across his face as he +gazed into the blue gulfs over him. No one can detect the first +beginnings of any life, and those of spiritual emotion must more +than any lie beyond our ken: there is infinite room for hope. +Falconer said no more. We betook ourselves early within doors, and +he read King Lear to us, expounding the spiritual history of the +poor old king after a fashion I had never conceived--showing us how +the said history was all compressed, as far as human eye could see +of it, into the few months that elapsed between his abdication and +his death; how in that short time he had to learn everything that he +ought to have been learning all his life; and how, because he had +put it off so long, the lessons that had then to be given him were +awfully severe. + +I thought what a change it was for the old man to lift his head into +the air of thought and life, out of the sloughs of misery in which +he had been wallowing for years. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +IN THE COUNTRY. + +The next morning Falconer, who knew the country, took us out for a +drive. We passed through lanes and gates out upon all open moor, +where he stopped the carriage, and led us a few yards on one side. +Suddenly, hundreds of feet below us, down what seemed an almost +precipitous descent, we saw the wood-embosomed, stream-trodden +valley we had left the day before. Enough had been cleft and +scooped seawards out of the lofty table-land to give room for a few +little conical hills with curious peaks of bare rock. At the bases +of these hills flowed noisily two or three streams, which joined in +one, and trotted out to sea over rocks and stones. The hills and +the sides of the great cleft were half of them green with grass, and +half of them robed in the autumnal foliage of thick woods. By the +streams and in the woods nestled pretty houses; and away at the +mouth of the valley and the stream lay the village. All around, on +our level, stretched farm and moorland. + +When Andrew Falconer stood so unexpectedly on the verge of the steep +descent, he trembled and started back with fright. His son made him +sit down a little way off, where yet we could see into the valley. +The sun was hot, the air clear and mild, and the sea broke its blue +floor into innumerable sparkles of radiance. We sat for a while in +silence. + +'Are you sure,' I said, in the hope of setting my friend talking, +'that there is no horrid pool down there? no half-trampled thicket, +with broken pottery and shreds of tin lying about? no dead carcass, +or dirty cottage, with miserable wife and greedy children? When I +was a child, I knew a lovely place that I could not half enjoy, +because, although hidden from my view, an ugly stagnation, half mud, +half water, lay in a certain spot below me. When I had to pass it, +I used to creep by with a kind of dull terror, mingled with hopeless +disgust, and I have never got over the feeling.' + +'You remind me much of a friend of mine of whom I have spoken to you +before,' said Falconer, 'Eric Ericson. I have shown you many of his +verses, but I don't think I ever showed you one little poem +containing an expression of the same feeling. I think I can repeat +it. + +'Some men there are who cannot spare +A single tear until they feel +The last cold pressure, and the heel +Is stamped upon the outmost layer. + +And, waking, some will sigh to think +The clouds have borrowed winter's wing-- +Sad winter when the grasses spring +No more about the fountain's brink. + +And some would call me coward-fool: +I lay a claim to better blood; +But yet a heap of idle mud +Hath power to make me sorrowful. + +I sat thinking over the verses, for I found the feeling a little +difficult to follow, although the last stanza was plain enough. +Falconer resumed. + +'I think this is as likely as any place,' he said, 'to be free of +such physical blots. For the moral I cannot say. But I have +learned, I hope, not to be too fastidious--I mean so as to be unjust +to the whole because of the part. The impression made by a whole is +just as true as the result of an analysis, and is greater and more +valuable in every respect. If we rejoice in the beauty of the +whole, the other is sufficiently forgotten. For moral ugliness, it +ceases to distress in proportion as we labour to remove it, and +regard it in its true relations to all that surrounds it. There is +an old legend which I dare say you know. The Saviour and his +disciples were walking along the way, when they came upon a dead +dog. The disciples did not conceal their disgust. The Saviour +said: "How white its teeth are!"' + +'That is very beautiful,' I rejoined. 'Thank God for that. It is +true, whether invented or not. But,' I added, 'it does not quite +answer to the question about which we have been talking. The Lord +got rid of the pain of the ugliness by finding the beautiful in it.' + +'It does correspond, however, I think, in principle,' returned +Falconer; 'only it goes much farther, making the exceptional beauty +hallow the general ugliness--which is the true way, for beauty is +life, and therefore infinitely deeper and more powerful than +ugliness which is death. "A dram of sweet," says Spenser, 'is worth +a pound of sour."' + +It was so delightful to hear him talk--for what he said was not only +far finer than my record of it, but the whole man spoke as well as +his mouth--that I sought to start him again. + +'I wish,' I said, 'that I could see things as you do--in great +masses of harmonious unity. I am only able to see a truth sparkling +here and there, and to try to lay hold of it. When I aim at more, I +am like Noah's dove, without a place to rest the sole of my foot.' + +'That is the only way to begin. Leave the large vision to itself, +and look well after your sparkles. You will find them grow and +gather and unite, until you are afloat on a sea of radiance--with +cloud shadows no doubt.' + +'And yet,' I resumed, 'I never seem to have room.' + +'That is just why.' + +'But I feel that I cannot find it. I know that if I fly to that +bounding cape on the far horizon there, I shall only find a place--a +place to want another in. There is no fortunate island out on that +sea.' + +'I fancy,' said Falconer, 'that until a man loves space, he will +never be at peace in a place. At least so I have found it. I am +content if you but give me room. All space to me throbs with being +and life; and the loveliest spot on the earth seems but the +compression of space till the meaning shines out of it, as the fire +flies out of the air when you drive it close together. To seek +place after place for freedom, is a constant effort to flee from +space, and a vain one, for you are ever haunted by the need of it, +and therefore when you seek most to escape it, fancy that you love +it and want it.' + +'You are getting too mystical for me now,' I said. 'I am not able to +follow you.' + +'I fear I was on the point of losing myself. At all events I can go +no further now. And indeed I fear I have been but skirting the +Limbo of Vanities.' + +He rose, for we could both see that this talk was not in the least +interesting to our companion. We got again into the carriage, +which, by Falconer's orders, was turned and driven in the opposite +direction, still at no great distance from the lofty edge of the +heights that rose above the shore. + +We came at length to a lane bounded with stone walls, every stone of +which had its moss and every chink its fern. The lane grew more and +more grassy; the walls vanished; and the track faded away into a +narrow winding valley, formed by the many meeting curves of opposing +hills. They were green to the top with sheep-grass, and spotted +here and there with patches of fern, great stones, and tall withered +foxgloves. The air was sweet and healthful, and Andrew evidently +enjoyed it because it reminded him again of his boyhood. The only +sound we heard was the tinkle of a few tender sheep-bells, and now +and then the tremulous bleating of a sheep. With a gentle winding, +the valley led us into a more open portion of itself, where the old +man paused with a look of astonished pleasure. + +Before us, seaward, rose a rampart against the sky, like the +turreted and embattled wall of a huge eastern city, built of loose +stones piled high, and divided by great peaky rocks. In the centre +rose above them all one solitary curiously-shaped mass, one of the +oddest peaks of the Himmalays in miniature. From its top on the +further side was a sheer descent to the waters far below the level +of the valley from which it immediately rose. It was altogether a +strange freaky fantastic place, not without its grandeur. It looked +like the remains of a frolic of the Titans, or rather as if reared +by the boys and girls, while their fathers and mothers 'lay +stretched out huge in length,' and in breadth too, upon the slopes +around, and laughed thunderously at the sportive invention of their +sons and daughters. Falconer helped his father up to the edge of +the rampart that he might look over. Again he started back, 'afraid +of that which was high,' for the lowly valley was yet at a great +height above the diminished waves. On the outside of the rampart +ran a narrow path whence the green hill-side went down steep to the +sea. The gulls were screaming far below us; we could see the little +flying streaks of white. Beyond was the great ocean. A murmurous +sound came up from its shore. + +We descended and seated ourselves on the short springy grass of a +little mound at the foot of one of the hills, where it sank slowly, +like the dying gush of a wave, into the hollowest centre of the +little vale. + +'Everything tends to the cone-shape here,' said Falconer,--'the +oddest and at the same time most wonderful of mathematical figures.' + +'Is it not strange,' I said, 'that oddity and wonder should come so +near?' + +'They often do in the human world as well,' returned he. 'Therefore +it is not strange that Shelley should have been so fond of this +place. It is told of him that repeated sketches of the spot were +found on the covers of his letters. I know nothing more like +Shelley's poetry than this valley--wildly fantastic and yet +beautiful--as if a huge genius were playing at grandeur, and +producing little models of great things. But there is one grand +thing I want to show you a little further on.' + +We rose, and walked out of the valley on the other side, along the +lofty coast. When we reached a certain point, Falconer stood and +requested us to look as far as we could, along the cliffs to the +face of the last of them. + +'What do you see?' he asked. + +'A perpendicular rock, going right down into the blue waters,' I +answered. + +'Look at it: what is the outline of it like? Whose face is it?' + +'Shakspere's, by all that is grand!' I cried. + +'So it is,' said Andrew. + +'Right. Now I'll tell you what I would do. If I were very rich, +and there were no poor people in the country, I would give a +commission to some great sculptor to attack that rock and work out +its suggestion. Then, it I had any money left, we should find one +for Bacon, and one for Chaucer, and one for Milton; and, as we are +about it, we may fancy as many more as we like; so that from the +bounding rocks of our island, the memorial faces of our great +brothers should look abroad over the seas into the infinite sky +beyond.' + +'Well, now,' said the elder, 'I think it is grander as it is.' + +'You are quite right, father,' said Robert. 'And so with many of our +fancies for perfecting God's mighty sketches, which he only can +finish.' + +Again we seated ourselves and looked out over the waves. + +'I have never yet heard,' I said, 'how you managed with that poor +girl that wanted to drown herself--on Westminster Bridge, I +mean--that night, you remember.' + +'Miss St. John has got her in her own house at present. She has +given her those two children we picked up at the door of the +public-house to take care of. Poor little darlings! they are +bringing back the life in her heart already. There is actually a +little colour in her cheek--the dawn, I trust, of the eternal life. +That is Miss St. John's way. As often as she gets hold of a poor +hopeless woman, she gives her a motherless child. It is wonderful +what the childless woman and motherless child do for each other.' + +'I was much amused the other day with the lecture one of the police +magistrates gave a poor creature who was brought before him for +attempting to drown herself. He did give her a sovereign out of the +poor box, though.' + +'Well, that might just tide her over the shoal of self-destruction,' +said Falconer. 'But I cannot help doubting whether any one has a +right to prevent a suicide from carrying out his purpose, who is not +prepared to do a good deal more for him than that. What would you +think of the man who snatched the loaf from a hungry thief, threw it +back into the baker's cart, and walked away to his club-dinner? +Harsh words of rebuke, and the threat of severe punishment upon a +second attempt--what are they to the wretch weary of life? To some +of them the kindest punishment would be to hang them for it. It is +something else than punishment that they need. If the comfortable +alderman had but "a feeling of their afflictions," felt in himself +for a moment how miserable he must be, what a waste of despair must +be in his heart, before he would do it himself, before the awful +river would appear to him a refuge from the upper air, he would +change his tone. I fear he regards suicide chiefly as a burglarious +entrance into the premises of the respectable firm of Vension, Port, +& Co.' + +'But you mustn't be too hard upon him, Falconer; for if his God is +his belly, how can he regard suicide as other than the most awful +sacrilege?' + +'Of course not. His well-fed divinity gives him one great +commandment: "Thou shalt love thyself with all thy heart. The great +breach is to hurt thyself--worst of all to send thyself away from +the land of luncheons and dinners, to the country of thought and +vision." But, alas! he does not reflect on the fact that the god +Belial does not feed all his votaries; that he has his elect; that +the altar of his inner-temple too often smokes with no sacrifice of +which his poor meagre priests may partake. They must uphold the +Divinity which has been good to them, and not suffer his worship to +fall into disrepute.' + +'Really, Robert,' said his father, 'I am afraid to think what you +will come to. You will end in denying there is a God at all. You +don't believe in hell, and now you justify suicide. Really--I must +say--to say the least of it--I have not been accustomed to hear such +things.' + +The poor old man looked feebly righteous at his wicked son. I +verily believe he was concerned for his eternal fate. Falconer gave +a pleased glance at me, and for a moment said nothing. Then he +began, with a kind of logical composure: + +'In the first place, father, I do not believe in such a God as some +people say they believe in. Their God is but an idol of the +heathen, modified with a few Christian qualities. For hell, I don't +believe there is any escape from it but by leaving hellish things +behind. For suicide, I do not believe it is wicked because it hurts +yourself, but I do believe it is very wicked. I only want to put it +on its own right footing.' + +'And pray what do you consider its right footing?' + +'My dear father, I recognize no duty as owing to a man's self. +There is and can be no such thing. I am and can be under no +obligation to myself. The whole thing is a fiction, and of evil +invention. It comes from the upper circles of the hell of +selfishness. Or, perhaps, it may with some be merely a form of +metaphysical mistake; but an untruth it is. Then for the duty we do +owe to other people: how can we expect the men or women who have +found life to end, as it seems to them, in a dunghill of misery--how +can we expect such to understand any obligation to live for the sake +of the general others, to no individual of whom, possibly, do they +bear an endurable relation? What remains?--The grandest, noblest +duty from which all other duty springs: the duty to the possible +God. Mind, I say possible God, for I judge it the first of my duties +towards my neighbour to regard his duty from his position, not from +mine.' + +'But,' said I, 'how would you bring that duty to bear on the mind of +a suicide?' + +'I think some of the tempted could understand it, though I fear not +one of those could who judge them hardly, and talk sententiously of +the wrong done to a society which has done next to nothing for her, +by the poor, starved, refused, husband-tortured wretch perhaps, who +hurries at last to the might of the filthy flowing river which, the +one thread of hope in the web of despair, crawls through the city of +death. What should I say to him? I should say: "God liveth: thou +art not thine own but his. Bear thy hunger, thy horror in his name. +I in his name will help thee out of them, as I may. To go before +he calleth thee, is to say 'Thou forgettest,' unto him who numbereth +the hairs of thy head. Stand out in the cold and the sleet and the +hail of this world, O son of man, till thy Father open the door and +call thee. Yea, even if thou knowest him not, stand and wait, lest +there should be, after all, such a loving and tender one, who, for +the sake of a good with which thou wilt be all-content, and without +which thou never couldst be content, permits thee there to +stand--for a time--long to his sympathizing as well as to thy +suffering heart."' + +Here Falconer paused, and when he spoke again it was from the +ordinary level of conversation. Indeed I fancied that he was a +little uncomfortable at the excitement into which his feelings had +borne him. + +'Not many of them could understand this, I dare say: but I think +most of them could feel it without understanding it. Certainly the +"belly with good capon lined" will neither understand nor feel it. +Suicide is a sin against God, I repeat, not a crime over which +human laws have any hold. In regard to such, man has a duty +alone--that, namely, of making it possible for every man to live. +And where the dread of death is not sufficient to deter, what can +the threat of punishment do? Or what great thing is gained if it +should succeed? What agonies a man must have gone through in whom +neither the horror of falling into such a river, nor of the knife in +the flesh instinct with life, can extinguish the vague longing to +wrap up his weariness in an endless sleep!' + +'But,' I remarked, 'you would, I fear, encourage the trade in +suicide. Your kindness would be terribly abused. What would you do +with the pretended suicides?' + +'Whip them, for trifling with and trading upon the feelings of their +kind.' + +'Then you would drive them to suicide in earnest.' + +'Then they might be worth something, which they were not before.' + +'We are a great deal too humane for that now-a-days, I fear. We +don't like hurting people.' + +'No. We are infested with a philanthropy which is the offspring of +our mammon-worship. But surely our tender mercies are cruel. We +don't like to hang people, however unfit they may be to live amongst +their fellows. A weakling pity will petition for the life of the +worst murderer--but for what? To keep him alive in a confinement as +like their notion of hell as they dare to make it--namely, a place +whence all the sweet visitings of the grace of God are withdrawn, +and the man has not a chance, so to speak, of growing better. In +this hell of theirs they will even pamper his beastly body.' + +'They have the chaplain to visit them.' + +'I pity the chaplain, cut off in his labours from all the aids which +God's world alone can give for the teaching of these men. Human +beings have not the right to inflict such cruel punishment upon +their fellow-man. It springs from a cowardly shrinking from +responsibility, and from mistrust of the mercy of God;--perhaps +first of all from an over-valuing of the mere life of the body. +Hanging is tenderness itself to such a punishment.' + +'I think you are hardly fair, though, Falconer. It is the fear of +sending them to hell that prevents them from hanging them.' + +'Yes. You are right, I dare say. They are not of David's mind, who +would rather fall into the hands of God than of men. They think +their hell is not so hard as his, and may be better for them. But I +must not, as you say, forget that they do believe their everlasting +fate hangs upon their hands, for if God once gets his hold of them +by death, they are lost for ever.' + +'But the chaplain may awake them to a sense of their sins.' + +'I do not think it is likely that talk will do what the discipline +of life has not done. It seems to me, on the contrary, that the +clergyman has no commission to rouse people to a sense of their +sins. That is not his work. He is far more likely to harden them +by any attempt in that direction. Every man does feel his sins, +though he often does not know it. To turn his attention away from +what he does feel by trying to rouse in him feelings which are +impossible to him in his present condition, is to do him a great +wrong. The clergyman has the message of salvation, not of sin, to +give. Whatever oppression is on a man, whatever trouble, whatever +conscious something that comes between him and the blessedness of +life, is his sin; for whatever is not of faith is sin; and from all +this He came to save us. Salvation alone can rouse in us a sense of +our sinfulness. One must have got on a good way before he can be +sorry for his sins. There is no condition of sorrow laid down as +necessary to forgiveness. Repentance does not mean sorrow: it means +turning away from the sins. Every man can do that, more or less. +And that every man must do. The sorrow will come afterwards, all +in good time. Jesus offers to take us out of our own hands into +his, if we will only obey him.' + +The eyes of the old man were fixed on his son as he spoke, He did +seem to be thinking. I could almost fancy that a glimmer of +something like hope shone in his eyes. + +It was time to go home, and we were nearly silent all the way. + +The next morning was so wet that we could not go out, and had to +amuse ourselves as we best might in-doors. But Falconer's resources +never failed. He gave us this day story after story about the poor +people he had known. I could see that his object was often to get +some truth into his father's mind without exposing it to rejection +by addressing it directly to himself; and few subjects could be more +fitted for affording such opportunity than his experiences among the +poor. + +The afternoon was still rainy and misty. In the evening I sought to +lead the conversation towards the gospel-story; and then Falconer +talked as I never heard him talk before. No little circumstance in +the narratives appeared to have escaped him. He had thought about +everything, as it seemed to me. He had looked under the surface +everywhere, and found truth--mines of it--under all the upper soil +of the story. The deeper he dug the richer seemed the ore. This +was combined with the most pictorial apprehension of every outward +event, which he treated as if it had been described to him by the +lips of an eye-witness. The whole thing lived in his words and +thoughts. + +'When anything looks strange, you must look the deeper,' he would +say. + +At the close of one of our fits of talk, he rose and went to the +window. + +'Come here,' he said, after looking for a moment. + +All day a dropping cloud had filled the space below, so that the +hills on the opposite side of the valley were hidden, and the whole +of the sea, near as it was. But when we went to the window we found +that a great change had silently taken place. The mist continued to +veil the sky, and it clung to the tops of the hills; but, like the +rising curtain of a stage, it had rolled half-way up from their +bases, revealing a great part of the sea and shore, and half of a +cliff on the opposite side of the valley: this, in itself of a deep +red, was now smitten by the rays of the setting sun, and glowed over +the waters a splendour of carmine. As we gazed, the vaporous +curtain sank upon the shore, and the sun sank under the waves, and +the sad gray evening closed in the weeping night, and clouds and +darkness swathed the weary earth. For doubtless the earth needs its +night as well as the creatures that live thereon. + +In the morning the rain had ceased, but the clouds remained. But +they were high in the heavens now, and, like a departing sorrow, +revealed the outline and form which had appeared before as an +enveloping vapour of universal and shapeless evil. The mist was now +far enough off to be seen and thought about. It was clouds now--no +longer mist and rain. And I thought how at length the evils of the +world would float away, and we should see what it was that made it +so hard for us to believe and be at peace. + +In the afternoon the sky had partially cleared, but clouds hid the +sun as he sank towards the west. We walked out. A cold autumnal +wind blew, not only from the twilight of the dying day, but from the +twilight of the dying season. A sorrowful hopeless wind it seemed, +full of the odours of dead leaves--those memories of green woods, +and of damp earth--the bare graves of the flowers. Would the summer +ever come again? + +We were pacing in silence along a terraced walk which overhung the +shore far below. More here than from the hilltop we seemed to look +immediately into space, not even a parapet intervening betwixt us +and the ocean. The sound of a mournful lyric, never yet sung, was +in my brain; it drew nearer to my mental grasp; but ere it alighted, +its wings were gone, and it fell dead on my consciousness. Its +meaning was this: 'Welcome, Requiem of Nature. Let me share in thy +Requiescat. Blow, wind of mournful memories. Let us moan together. +No one taketh from us the joy of our sorrow. We may mourn as we +will.' + +But while I brooded thus, behold a wonder! The mass about the +sinking sun broke up, and drifted away in cloudy bergs, as if +scattered on the diverging currents of solar radiance that burst +from the gates of the west, and streamed east and north and south +over the heavens and over the sea. To the north, these masses built +a cloudy bridge across the sky from horizon to horizon, and beneath +it shone the rosy-sailed ships floating stately through their +triumphal arch up the channel to their home. Other clouds floated +stately too in the upper sea over our heads, with dense forms, +thinning into vaporous edges. Some were of a dull angry red; some +of as exquisite a primrose hue as ever the flower itself bore on its +bosom; and betwixt their edges beamed out the sweetest, purest, most +melting, most transparent blue, the heavenly blue which is the +symbol of the spirit as red is of the heart. I think I never saw a +blue to satisfy me before. Some of these clouds threw shadows of +many-shaded purple upon the green sea; and from one of the shadows, +so dark and so far out upon the glooming horizon that it looked like +an island, arose as from a pier, a wondrous structure of dim, fairy +colours, a multitude of rainbow-ends, side by side, that would have +spanned the heavens with a gorgeous arch, but failed from the very +grandeur of the idea, and grew up only a few degrees against the +clouded west. I stood rapt. The two Falconers were at some +distance before me, walking arm in arm. They stood and gazed +likewise. It was as if God had said to the heavens and the earth +and the chord of the seven colours, 'Comfort ye, comfort ye my +people.' And I said to my soul, 'Let the tempest rave in the world; +let sorrow wail like a sea-bird in the midst thereof; and let thy +heart respond to her shivering cry; but the vault of heaven encloses +the tempest and the shrieking bird and the echoing heart; and the +sun of God's countenance can with one glance from above change the +wildest winter day into a summer evening compact of poets' dreams.' + +My companions were walking up over the hill. I could see that +Falconer was earnestly speaking in his father's ear. The old man's +head was bent towards the earth. I kept away. They made a turn +from home. I still followed at a distance. The evening began to +grow dark. The autumn wind met us again, colder, stronger, yet more +laden with the odours of death and the frosts of the coming winter. +But it no longer blew as from the charnel-house of the past; it +blew from the stars through the chinks of the unopened door on the +other side of the sepulchre. It was a wind of the worlds, not a +wind of the leaves. It told of the march of the spheres, and the +rest of the throne of God. We were going on into the universe--home +to the house of our Father. Mighty adventure! Sacred repose! And +as I followed the pair, one great star throbbed and radiated over my +head. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +THREE GENERATIONS. + +The next week I went back to my work, leaving the father and son +alone together. Before I left, I could see plainly enough that the +bonds were being drawn closer between them. A whole month passed +before they returned to London. The winter then had set in with +unusual severity. But it seemed to bring only health to the two +men. When I saw Andrew next, there was certainly a marked change +upon him. Light had banished the haziness from his eye, and his +step was a good deal firmer. I can hardly speak of more than the +physical improvement, for I saw very little of him now. Still I did +think I could perceive more of judgment in his face, as if he +sometimes weighed things in his mind. But it was plain that Robert +continued very careful not to let him a moment out of his knowledge. +He busied him with the various sights of London, for Andrew, +although he knew all its miseries well, had never yet been inside +Westminster Abbey. If he could only trust him enough to get him +something to do! But what was he fit for? To try him, he proposed +once that he should write some account of what he had seen and +learned in his wanderings; but the evident distress with which he +shrunk from the proposal was grateful to the eyes and heart of his +son. + +It was almost the end of the year when a letter arrived from John +Lammie, informing Robert that his grandmother had caught a violent +cold, and that, although the special symptoms had disappeared, it +was evident her strength was sinking fast, and that she would not +recover. + +He read the letter to his father. + +'We must go and see her, Robert, my boy,' said Andrew. + +It was the first time that he had shown the smallest desire to visit +her. Falconer rose with glad heart, and proceeded at once to make +arrangements for their journey. + +It was a cold, powdery afternoon in January, with the snow thick on +the ground, save where the little winds had blown the crown of the +street bare before Mrs. Falconer's house. A post-chaise with four +horses swept wearily round the corner, and pulled up at her door. +Betty opened it, and revealed an old withered face very sorrowful, +and yet expectant. Falconer's feelings I dare not, Andrew's I +cannot attempt to describe, as they stepped from the chaise and +entered. Betty led the way without a word into the little parlour. +Robert went next, with long quiet strides, and Andrew followed with +gray, bowed head. Grannie was not in her chair. The doors which +during the day concealed the bed in which she slept, were open, and +there lay the aged woman with her eyes closed. The room was as it +had always been, only there seemed a filmy shadow in it that had not +been there before. + +'She's deein', sir,' whispered Betty. 'Ay is she. Och hone!' + +Robert took his father's hand, and led him towards the bed. They +drew nigh softly, and bent over the withered, but not even yet very +wrinkled face. The smooth, white, soft hands lay on the sheet, +which was folded back over her bosom. She was asleep, or rather, +she slumbered. + +But the soul of the child began to grow in the withered heart of the +old man as he regarded his older mother, and as it grew it forced +the tears to his eyes, and the words to his lips. + +'Mother!' he said, and her eyelids rose at once. He stooped to kiss +her, with the tears rolling down his face. The light of heaven +broke and flashed from her aged countenance. She lifted her weak +hands, took his head, and held it to her bosom. + +'Eh! the bonnie gray heid!' she said, and burst into a passion of +weeping. She had kept some tears for the last. Now she would spend +all that her griefs had left her. But there came a pause in her +sobs, though not in her weeping, and then she spoke. + +'I kent it a' the time, O Lord. I kent it a' the time. He's come +hame. My Anerew, my Anerew! I'm as happy 's a bairn. O Lord! O +Lord!' + +And she burst again into sobs, and entered paradise in radiant +weeping. + +Her hands sank away from his head, and when her son gazed in her +face he saw that she was dead. She had never looked at Robert. + +The two men turned towards each other. Robert put out his arms. +His father laid his head on his bosom, and went on weeping. Robert +held him to his heart. + +When shall a man dare to say that God has done all he can? + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + +THE WHOLE STORY. + +The men laid their mother's body with those of the generations that +had gone before her, beneath the long grass in their country +churchyard near Rothieden--a dreary place, one accustomed to trim +cemeteries and sentimental wreaths would call it--to Falconer's mind +so friendly to the forsaken dust, because it lapt it in sweet +oblivion. + +They returned to the dreary house, and after a simple meal such as +both had used to partake of in their boyhood, they sat by the fire, +Andrew in his mother's chair, Robert in the same chair in which he +had learned his Sallust and written his versions. Andrew sat for a +while gazing into the fire, and Robert sat watching his face, where +in the last few months a little feeble fatherhood had begun to dawn. + +'It was there, father, that grannie used to sit, every day, +sometimes looking in the fire for hours, thinking about you, I +know,' Robert said at length. + +Andrew stirred uneasily in his chair. + +'How do you know that?' he asked. + +'If there was one thing I could be sure of, it was when grannie was +thinking about you, father. Who wouldn't have known it, father, +when her lips were pressed together, as if she had some dreadful +pain to bear, and her eyes were looking away through the fire--so +far away! and I would speak to her three times before she would +answer? She lived only to think about God and you, father. God and +you came very close together in her mind. Since ever I can +remember, almost, the thought of you was just the one thing in this +house.' + +Then Robert began at the beginning of his memory, and told his +father all that he could remember. When he came to speak about his +solitary musings in the garret, he said--and long before he reached +this part, he had relapsed into his mother tongue: + +'Come and luik at the place, father. I want to see 't again, +mysel'.' + +He rose. His father yielded and followed him. Robert got a candle +in the kitchen, and the two big men climbed the little narrow stair +and stood in the little sky of the house, where their heads almost +touched the ceiling. + +'I sat upo' the flure there,' said Robert, 'an' thoucht and thoucht +what I wad du to get ye, father, and what I wad du wi' ye whan I had +gotten ye. I wad greit whiles, 'cause ither laddies had a father +an' I had nane. An' there's whaur I fand mamma's box wi' the letter +in 't and her ain picter: grannie gae me that ane o' you. An' +there's whaur I used to kneel doon an' pray to God. An' he's heard +my prayers, and grannie's prayers, and here ye are wi' me at last. +Instead o' thinkin' aboot ye, I hae yer ain sel'. Come, father, I +want to say a word o' thanks to God, for hearin' my prayer.' + +He took the old man's hand, led him to the bedside, and kneeled with +him there. + +My reader can hardly avoid thinking it was a poor sad triumph that +Robert had after all. How the dreams of the boy had dwindled in +settling down into the reality! He had his father, it was true, but +what a father! And how little he had him! + +But this was not the end; and Robert always believed that the end +must be the greater in proportion to the distance it was removed, to +give time for its true fulfilment. And when he prayed aloud beside +his father, I doubt not that his thanksgiving and his hope were +equal. + +The prayer over, he took his father's hand and led him down again to +the little parlour, and they took their seats again by the fire; and +Robert began again and went on with his story, not omitting the +parts belonging to Mary St. John and Eric Ericson. + +When he came to tell how he had encountered him in the deserted +factory: + +'Luik here, father, here's the mark o' the cut,' he said, parting +the thick hair on the top of his head. + +His father hid his face in his hands. + +'It wasna muckle o' a blow that ye gied me, father,' he went on, +'but I fell against the grate, and that was what did it. And I +never tellt onybody, nae even Miss St. John, wha plaistered it up, +hoo I had gotten 't. And I didna mean to say onything aboot it; but +I wantit to tell ye a queer dream, sic a queer dream it garred me +dream the same nicht.' + +As he told the dream, his father suddenly grew attentive, and before +he had finished, looked almost scared; but he said nothing. When he +came to relate his grandmother's behaviour after having discovered +that the papers relating to the factory were gone, he hid his face +in his hands once more. He told him how grannie had mourned and +wept over him, from the time when he heard her praying aloud as he +crept through her room at night to their last talk together after +Dr. Anderson's death. He set forth, as he could, in the simplest +language, the agony of her soul over her lost son. He told him then +about Ericson, and Dr. Anderson, and how good they had been to him, +and at last of Dr. Anderson's request that he would do something for +him in India. + +'Will ye gang wi' me, father?' he asked. + +'I'll never leave ye again, Robert, my boy,' he answered. 'I have +been a bad man, and a bad father, and now I gie mysel' up to you to +mak the best o' me ye can. I daurna leave ye, Robert.' + +'Pray to God to tak care o' ye, father. He'll do a'thing for ye, +gin ye'll only lat him.' + +'I will, Robert.' + +'I was mysel' dreidfu' miserable for a while,' Robert resumed, 'for +I cudna see or hear God at a'; but God heard me, and loot me ken +that he was there an' that a' was richt. It was jist like whan a +bairnie waukens up an' cries oot, thinkin' it 's its lane, an' +through the mirk comes the word o' the mither o' 't, sayin', "I'm +here, cratur: dinna greit." And I cam to believe 'at he wad mak you +a good man at last. O father, it's been my dream waukin' an' +sleepin' to hae you back to me an' grannie, an' mamma, an' the +Father o' 's a', an' Jesus Christ that's done a'thing for 's. An' +noo ye maun pray to God, father. Ye will pray to God to haud a grip +o' ye--willna ye, father?' + +'I will, I will, Robert. But I've been an awfu' sinner. I believe +I was the death o' yer mother, laddie.' + +Some closet of memory was opened; a spring of old tenderness gushed +up in his heart; at some window of the past the face of his dead +wife looked out: the old man broke into a great cry, and sobbed and +wept bitterly. Robert said no more, but wept with him. + +Henceforward the father clung to his son like a child. The heart of +Falconer turned to his Father in heaven with speechless +thanksgiving. The ideal of his dreams was beginning to dawn, and +his life was new-born. + +For a few days Robert took Andrew about to see those of his old +friends who were left, and the kindness with which they all received +him, moved Andrew's heart not a little. Every one who saw him +seemed to feel that he or she had a share in the redeeming duty of +the son. Robert was in their eyes like a heavenly messenger, whom +they were bound to aid; for here was the possessed of demons clothed +and in his right mind. Therefore they overwhelmed both father and +son with kindness. Especially at John Lammie's was he received with +a perfection of hospitality; as if that had been the father's house +to which he had returned from his prodigal wanderings. + +The good old farmer begged that they would stay with him for a few +days. + +'I hae sae mony wee things to luik efter at Rothieden, afore we +gang,' said Robert. + +'Weel, lea' yer father here. We s' tak guid care o' 'im, I promise +ye.' + +'There's only ae difficulty. I believe ye are my father's frien', +Mr. Lammie, as ye hae been mine, and God bless ye; sae I'll jist +tell you the trowth, what for I canna lea' him. I'm no sure eneuch +yet that he could withstan' temptation. It's the drink ye ken. +It's months sin' he's tasted it; but--ye ken weel eneuch--the +temptation's awfu'. Sin' ever I got him back, I haena tasted ae +mou'fu' o' onything that cud be ca'd strong drink mysel', an' as +lang 's he lives, not ae drap shall cross my lips--no to save my +life.' + +'Robert,' said Mr. Lammie, giving him his hand with solemnity, 'I +sweir by God that he shanna see, smell, taste, nor touch drink in +this hoose. There's but twa boatles o' whusky, i' the shape o' +drink, i' the hoose; an' gin ye say 'at he sall bide, I'll gang and +mak them an' the midden weel acquant.' + +Andrew was pleased at the proposal. Robert too was pleased that his +father should be free of him for a while. It was arranged for three +days. Half-an-hour after, Robert came upon Mr. Lammie emptying the +two bottles of whisky into the dunghill in the farmyard. + +He returned with glad heart to Rothieden. It did not take him long +to arrange his grandmother's little affairs. He had already made up +his mind about her house and furniture. He rang the bell one +morning for Betty. + +'Hae ye ony siller laid up, Betty?' + +'Ay. I hae feifteen poun' i' the savin's bank.' + +'An' what do ye think o' doin'?' + +'I'll get a bit roomy, an' tak in washin'. + +'Weel, I'll tell ye what I wad like ye to do. Ye ken Mistress +Elshender?' + +'Fine that. An' a verra dacent body she is.' + +'Weel, gin ye like, ye can haud this hoose, an' a' 'at's in't, jist +as it is, till the day o' yer deith. And ye'll aye keep it in +order, an' the ga'le-room ready for me at ony time I may happen to +come in upo' ye in want o' a nicht's quarters. But I wad like ye, +gin ye hae nae objections, to tak Mistress Elshender to bide wi' ye. +She's turnin' some frail noo, and I'm unner great obligation to her +Sandy, ye ken.' + +'Ay, weel that. He learnt ye to fiddle, Robert--I hoombly beg your +pardon, sir, Mister Robert.' + +'Nae offence, Betty, I assure ye. Ye hae been aye gude to me, and I +thank ye hertily.' + +Betty could not stand this. Her apron went up to her eyes. + +'Eh, sir,' she sobbed, 'ye was aye a gude lad.' + +'Excep' whan I spak o' Muckledrum, Betty.' + +She laughed and sobbed together. + +'Weel, ye'll tak Mistress Elshender in, winna ye?' + +'I'll do that, sir. And I'll try to do my best wi' her.' + +'She can help ye, ye ken, wi' yer washin', an' sic like.' + +'She's a hard-workin' wuman, sir. She wad do that weel.' + +'And whan ye're in ony want o' siller, jist write to me. An' gin +onything suld happen to me, ye ken, write to Mr. Gordon, a frien' o' +mine. There's his address in Lonnon.' + +'Eh, sir, but ye are kin'. God bless ye for a'.' + +She could bear no more, and left the room crying. + +Everything settled at Rothieden, he returned to Bodyfauld. The most +welcome greeting he had ever received in his life, lay in the shine +of his father's eyes when he entered the room where he sat with Miss +Lammie. The next day they left for London. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + +THE VANISHING. + +They came to see me the very evening of their arrival. As to +Andrew's progress there could be no longer any doubt. All that was +necessary for conviction on the point was to have seen him before +and to see him now. The very grasp of his hand was changed. But +not yet would Robert leave him alone. + +It will naturally occur to my reader that his goodness was not much +yet. It was not. It may have been greater than we could be sure +of, though. But if any one object that such a conversion, even if +it were perfected, was poor, inasmuch as the man's free will was +intromitted with, I answer: 'The development of the free will was +the one object. Hitherto it was not free.' I ask the man who says +so: 'Where would your free will have been if at some period of your +life you could have had everything you wanted?' If he says it is +nobler in a man to do with less help, I answer, 'Andrew was not +noble: was he therefore to be forsaken? The prodigal was not left +without the help of the swine and their husks, at once to keep him +alive and disgust him with the life. Is the less help a man has +from God the better?' According to you, the grandest thing of all +would be for a man sunk in the absolute abysses of sensuality all at +once to resolve to be pure as the empyrean, and be so, without help +from God or man. But is the thing possible? As well might a hyena +say: I will be a man, and become one. That would be to create. +Andrew must be kept from the evil long enough to let him at least +see the good, before he was let alone. But when would we be let +alone? For a man to be fit to be let alone, is for a man not to +need God, but to be able to live without him. Our hearts cry out, +'To have God is to live. We want God. Without him no life of ours +is worth living. We are not then even human, for that is but the +lower form of the divine. We are immortal, eternal: fill us, O +Father, with thyself. Then only all is well.' More: I heartily +believe, though I cannot understand the boundaries of will and +inspiration, that what God will do for us at last is infinitely +beyond any greatness we could gain, even if we could will ourselves +from the lowest we could be, into the highest we can imagine. It is +essential divine life we want; and there is grand truth, however +incomplete or perverted, in the aspiration of the Brahmin. He is +wrong, but he wants something right. If the man had the power in +his pollution to will himself into the right without God, the fact +that he was in that pollution with such power, must damn him there +for ever. And if God must help ere a man can be saved, can the help +of man go too far towards the same end? Let God solve the +mystery--for he made it. One thing is sure: We are his, and he will +do his part, which is no part but the all in all. If man could do +what in his wildest self-worship he can imagine, the grand result +would be that he would be his own God, which is the Hell of Hells. + +For some time I had to give Falconer what aid I could in being with +his father while he arranged matters in prospect of their voyage to +India. Sometimes he took him with him when he went amongst his +people, as he called the poor he visited. Sometimes, when he wanted +to go alone, I had to take him to Miss St. John, who would play and +sing as I had never heard any one play or sing before. Andrew on +such occasions carried his flute with him, and the result of the two +was something exquisite. How Miss St. John did lay herself out to +please the old man! And pleased he was. I think her kindness did +more than anything else to make him feel like a gentleman again. +And in his condition that was much. + +At length Falconer would sometimes leave him with Miss St. John, +till he or I should go for him: he knew she could keep him safe. He +knew that she would keep him if necessary. + +One evening when I went to see Falconer, I found him alone. It was +one of these occasions. + +'I am very glad you have come, Gordon,' he said. 'I was wanting to +see you. I have got things nearly ready now. Next month, or at +latest, the one after, we shall sail; and I have some business with +you which had better be arranged at once. No one knows what is +going to happen. The man who believes the least in chance knows as +little as the man who believes in it the most. My will is in the +hands of Dobson. I have left you everything.' + +I was dumb. + +'Have you any objection?' he said, a little anxiously. + +'Am I able to fulfil the conditions?' I faltered. + +'I have burdened you with no conditions,' he returned. 'I don't +believe in conditions. I know your heart and mind now. I trust you +perfectly.' + +'I am unworthy of it.' + +'That is for me to judge.' + +'Will you have no trustees?' + +'Not one.' + +'What do you want me to do with your property?' + +'You know well enough. Keep it going the right way.' + +'I will always think what you would like.' + +'No; do not. Think what is right; and where there is no right or +wrong plain in itself, then think what is best. You may see good +reason to change some of my plans. You may be wrong; but you must +do what you see right--not what I see or might see right.' + +'But there is no need to talk so seriously about it,' I said. 'You +will manage it yourself for many years yet. Make me your steward, +if you like, during your absence: I will not object to that.' + +'You do not object to the other, I hope?' + +'No.' + +'Then so let it be. The other, of course. I have, being a lawyer +myself, taken good care not to trust myself only with the arranging +of these matters. I think you will find them all right.' + +'But supposing you should not return--you have compelled me to make +the supposition--' + +'Of course. Go on.' + +'What am I to do with the money in the prospect of following you?' + +'Ah! that is the one point on which I want a word, although I do not +think it is necessary. I want to entail the property.' + +'How?' + +'By word of mouth,' he answered, laughing. 'You must look out for a +right man, as I have done, get him to know your ways and ideas, and +if you find him worthy--that is a grand wide word--our Lord gave it +to his disciples--leave it all to him in the same way I have left it +to you, trusting to the spirit of truth that is in him, the spirit +of God. You can copy my will--as far as it will apply, for you may +have, one way or another, lost the half of it by that time. But, by +word of mouth, you must make the same condition with him as I have +made with you--that is, with regard to his leaving it, and the +conditions on which he leaves it, adding the words, "that it may +descend thus in perpetuum." And he must do the same.' + +He broke into a quiet laugh. I knew well enough what he meant. But +he added: + +'That means, of course, for as long as there is any.' + +'Are you sure you are doing right, Falconer?' I said. + +'Quite. It is better to endow one man, who will work as the Father +works, than a hundred charities. But it is time I went to fetch my +father. Will you go with me?' + +This was all that passed between us on the subject, save that, on +our way, he told me to move to his rooms, and occupy them until he +returned. + +'My papers,' he added, 'I commit to your discretion.' + +On our way back from Queen Square, he joked and talked merrily. +Andrew joined in. Robert showed himself delighted with every +attempt at gaiety or wit that Andrew made. When we reached the +house, something that had occurred on the way made him turn to +Martin Chuzzlewit, and he read Mrs. Gamp's best to our great +enjoyment. + +I went down with the two to Southampton, to see them on board the +steamer. I staid with them there until she sailed. It was a lovely +morning in the end of April, when at last I bade them farewell on +the quarter-deck. My heart was full. I took his hand and kissed +it. He put his arms round me, and laid his cheek to mine. I was +strong to bear the parting. + +The great iron steamer went down in the middle of the Atlantic, and +I have not yet seen my friend again. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + +IN EXPECTATIONE. + +I had left my lodging and gone to occupy Falconer's till his return. +There, on a side-table among other papers, I found the following +verses. The manuscript was much scored and interlined, but more +than decipherable, for he always wrote plainly. I copied them out +fair, and here they are for the reader that loves him. + +Twilight is near, and the day grows old; + The spiders of care are weaving their net; +All night 'twill be blowing and rainy and cold; + I cower at his door from the wind and wet. + +He sent me out the world to see, + Drest for the road in a garment new; +It is clotted with clay, and worn beggarly-- + The porter will hardly let me through! + +I bring in my hand a few dusty ears-- + Once I thought them a tribute meet! +I bring in my heart a few unshed tears: + Which is my harvest--the pain or the wheat? + +A broken man, at the door of his hall + I listen, and hear it go merry within; +The sounds are of birthday-festival! + Hark to the trumpet! the violin! + +I know the bench where the shadowed folk + Sit 'neath the music-loft--there none upbraids! +They will make me room who bear the same yoke, + Dear publicans, sinners, and foolish maids! + +An ear has been hearing my heart forlorn! + A step comes soft through the dancing-din! +Oh Love eternal! oh woman-born! + Son of my Father to take me in! + +One moment, low at our Father's feet + Loving I lie in a self-lost trance; +Then walk away to the sinners' seat, + With them, at midnight, to rise and dance! + + + + +THE END + + + + +FOOTNOTES: + +1 In Scotch the ch and gh are almost always guttural. The gh +according to Mr. Alexander Ellis, the sole authority in the past +pronunciation of the country, was guttural in England in the time of +Shakspere. + +2 An exclamation of pitiful sympathy, inexplicable to the +understanding. Thus the author covers his philological ignorance of +the cross-breeding of the phrase. + +3 Extra--over all--ower a'--orra--one more than is wanted. + +4 Tennyson's Morte d'Arthur. + Atque animum nunc huc celerem, nunc dividit illuc. + Æneid: IV. 285 + +5 This line is one of many instances in which my reader will see +both the carelessness of Ericson and my religion towards his +remains. + +6 Why should Sir Walter Scott, who felt the death of Camp, his +bullterrier, so much that he declined a dinner engagement in +consequence, say on the death of his next favourite, a grayhound +bitch--'Rest her body, since I dare not say soul!'? Where did he +get that dare not? Is it well that the daring of genius should be +circumscribed by an unbelief so common-place as to be capable only +of subscription? + +7 Amongst Ericson's papers I find the following sonnets, which +belong to the mood here embodied: + + Oft, as I rest in quiet peace, am I +Thrust out at sudden doors, and madly driven +Through desert solitudes, and thunder-riven +Black passages which have not any sky. +The scourge is on me now, with all the cry +Of ancient life that hath with murder striven. +How many an anguish hath gone up to heaven! +How many a hand in prayer been lifted high +When the black fate came onward with the rush +Of whirlwind, avalanche, or fiery spume! +Even at my feet is cleft a shivering tomb +Beneath the waves; or else with solemn hush +The graveyard opens, and I feel a crush +As if we were all huddled in one doom. + + Comes there, O Earth, no breathing time for thee? +No pause upon thy many-chequered lands? +Now resting on my bed with listless hands, +I mourn thee resting not. Continually +Hear I the plashing borders of the sea +Answer each other from the rocks and sands. +Troop all the rivers seawards; nothing stands, +But with strange noises hasteth terribly. +Loam-eared hyenas go a moaning by. +Howls to each other all the bloody crew +Of Afric's tigers. But, O men, from you +Comes this perpetual sound more loud and high +Than aught that vexes air. I hear the cry +Of infant generations rising too. + +8 This sonnet and the preceding are both one line deficient. + +9 To these two sonnets Falconer had appended this note. + +'Something I wrote to Ericson concerning these, during my first +college vacation, produced a reply of which the following is a +passage: "On writing the first I was not aware that James and John +were the Sons of Thunder. For a time it did indeed grieve me to +think of the spiritual-minded John as otherwise than a still and +passionless lover of Christ."' + + + + +Note from John Bechard, creator of this Electronic text. + +The following is a list of Scottish words which are found in George +MacDonald's "Robert Falconer". I have compiled this list myself and +worked out the definitions from context with the help of Margaret +West, from Leven in Fife, Scotland, and also by referring to a word +list found in a collection of poems by Robert Burns, "Chamber's +Scots Dialect Dictionary from the 17th century to the Present" c. +1911 and "Scots-English English-Scots Dictionary" Lomond Books c. +1998. I have tried to be as thorough as possible given the limited +resources and welcome any feedback on this list which may be wrong +(my e-mail address is JaBBechard@aol.com). This was never meant to +be a comprehensive list of the National Scottish Language, but +rather an aid to understanding some of the conversations and +references in this text in the Broad Scots. I do apologise for any +mistakes or omissions. I aimed for my list to be very +comprehensive, and it often repeats the same word in a plural or +diminutive form. As well, it includes words that are quite obvious +to native English speakers, only spelled in such a way to +demonstrate the regional pronunciation. + +This list is a compressed form that consists of three columns for +'word', 'definition', and 'additional notes'. It is set up with a +comma between each item and a hard return at the end of each +definition. This means that this section could easily be cut and +pasted into its own text file and imported into a database or +spreadsheet as a comma separated variable file (.csv file). Failing +that, you could do a search and replace for commas in this section +(I have not used any commas in my words, definitions or notes) and +replace the commas with spaces or tabs. + +Word,Definition,Notes +a',all; every,also have +a' gait,everywhere, +a' thing,everything; anything, +abeelity,ability, +abettin',abetting, +a'body,everyone; everybody, +aboon,above; up; over, +aboord,aboard, +aboot,about, +aboot it an' aboot it,all about, +abune,above; up; over, +accep's,accepts, +accoont,account, +accoonts,accounts, +accordin',according, +acquant,acquainted, +a'-creatin',all-creating, +ae,one, +aff,off; away; past; beyond, +aff-gang,outlet, +afflickit,afflicted, +affoord,afford, +affront,affront; disgrace; shame, +affrontet,affronted; disgraced,also ashamed; shamed +afit,afoot; on foot, +afore,before; in front of, +aforehan',beforehand, +aften,often, +aftener,more often, +agen,against, +aheid,ahead, +ahin',behind; after; at the back of, +ahint,behind; after; at the back of, +aiblins,perhaps; possibly, +aidin',aiding, +ailin',ailing; sick, +ain,own,also one +airin',airing, +airm,arm, +airm-cheir,armchair, +airms,arms,also coat of arms; crest +airmy,army, +airth,earth, +aise,ashes, +ait,eat, +aither,either, +aiths,oaths, +aitin',eating, +aits,oats, +alane,alone, +alang,along, +Algerine,Algerian, +alloo,allow, +allooed,allowed, +Almichty,Almighty; God, +amaist,almost, +amang,among; in; together with, +amen's,amends, +amo',among, +amuntit,amounted, +an',and, +ance,once, +ane,one,also a single person or thing +aneath,beneath; under, +anent,opposite to; in front of,also concerning +Anerew,Andrew, +anes,ones, +angert,angered; angry,also grieved +anither,another, +answerin',answering, +answert,answered, +a'ready,already, +aricht,aright, +aside,beside,also aside +aspirin',aspiring, +astarn,astern, +'at,that, +ate,hate,also eat +a'thegither,all together, +a'thing,everything; anything, +'at's,that is; that has, +attreebuted,attributed, +atweel,indeed; truely; of course, +atween,between, +aucht,eight; eighth,also ought; own; possess +aul',old, +auld,old, +aulder,older, +aumrie,cupboard; pantry; store-closet, +aumry,cupboard; pantry; store-closet, +a'-uphaudin',all-upholding; all-supporting, +ava,at all; of all,exclamation of banter; ridicule +awa,away; distant,also off; go away +awa',away; distant,also off; go away +awaur,aware, +Awbrahawm,Abraham, +aweel,ah well; well then; well, +awfu',awful, +awpron,apron, +ay,yes; indeed,exclamation of surprise; wonder +aye,yes; indeed, +ayont,beyond; after, +bade,did bide, +badena,did not bide, +bagonet,bayonet, +bailey,civic dignitary; magistrate, +bairn,child, +bairnie,little child,diminutive +bairns,children, +baith,both, +bakehoose,bakery, +baneless,insipid; without pith, +banes,bones, +barfut,barefoot, +barrin',barring, +barrowfu',wheelbarrow full, +baubee,halfpenny, +baubees,halfpennies, +bauchles,old pair of shoes,also shoes down at the heel +baukie,bat, +beggit,begged, +beginnin',beginning, +begud,began, +behaud,withhold; wait; delay,also behold +behavin',behaving, +bein',being, +beir,bear, +beirer,bearer, +beirs,bears, +bejan,first year's student,at a Scottish university +belangs,belongs, +believin',believing, +ben' leather,thick leather for soling boots/shoes, +bena,be not; is not, +bend-leather,thick leather for soling boots/shoes, +benn,in; inside; into; within; inwards,also inner room +benn the hoose,in/into the parlour,best room of the house +beowty,beauty, +beuks,books, +beyon',beyond, +bide,endure; bear; remain; live,also desire; wish +bides,endures; bears; remains; lives,also stays for +biggit,built, +bilin',boiling,also the whole quantity +bin',bind, +binna,be not, +birse,bristle; hair; plume of hair, +bit,but; bit,also small; little--diminutive +bitch,,term of contempt usually applied to a man +bitin',biting, +bittie,little bit,diminutive +bittock,a little bit; a short distance, +blaeberries,blueberries, +blastit,blasted, +blate,over-modest; bashful; shy, +blaud,spoil; injure; soil, +blaudit,spoiled; injured; soiled, +blaw,blow, +blecks,nonplusses; perplexes; beats, +blessin',blessing, +blether,talk nonsense; babble; boast, +bletherin',talking nonsense; babbling; boasting, +blethers,talks nonsense; babbles; boasts,nonsense; foolish talk +blin',blind, +blink,take a hasty glance; ogle,also shine; gleam; twinkle; glimmer +blinner,blinder, +blude,blood, +bluidy,bloody, +boasom,bosom, +boatles,bottles, +boddom,bottom, +body,person; fellow,also body +boglet,bamboozled; terrified, +bonnet,man's cap, +bonnetfu',bonnetful; capful, +bonnets,man's caps, +bonnie,good; beautiful; pretty; handsome, +bonniest,best; most beautiful; prettiest,also considerable +bonny,good; beautiful; pretty; handsome, +boodie,ghost; hobgoblin, +booin',bowing, +bools,marbles, +boon',bound, +boord,board (i.e. room and board), +bothie,cottage in common for farm-servants, +boucht,bought, +bourach,heap; cluster; mound, +bowat,stable-lantern, +bowie,small barrel or cask, +boxie,little box,diminutive +brae,hill; hillside; high ground by a river, +braid,broad; having a strong accent, +brak,break, +brakfast,breakfast, +brat,child,term of contempt +braw,beautiful; good; fine,also lovely (girl); handsome (boy) +brawly,admirably; very; very much; well, +breedth,breadth, +breeks,breeches; trousers, +breid,bread, +breist,breast, +breists,breasts, +breith,breath, +breme-bush,broom-bush,also simpleton +brewin',brewing, +brig,bridge, +brither,brother, +brithers,brothers; fellows, +brithren,brethren; brothers, +brocht,brought, +broo,brow; eyebrow, +broucht,brought, +browst,brewage; booze,also the consequences of one's own acts +bruik,broke, +brunt,burned, +bude,would prefer to; behoved,also must; had to +budena,must not; could not; might not, +buff,nonsense, +buik,book,also Bible +buiks,books, +bund,bound, +burd alane,quite alone,also the only surviving child of a family +burn,water; stream; brook, +burnin',burning, +burnside,along the side of a stream, +buss,bush; shrub; thicket, +butes,boots, +butt,main room in a croft; outside,includes kitchen and storage +butt the hoose,into the house; into the kitchen, +by ordinar,out of the ordinary; supernatural,also unusual +by ordinar',out of the ordinary; supernatural,also unusual +by-ordinar,out of the ordinary; supernatural,also unusual +byous,exceedingly; extraordinary; very, +ca,drive; impel; hammer, +ca',call; name, +ca'd,called, +cadger,carrier; pedlar, +ca'in',calling, +cairds,cards, +cairriage,carriage, +cairriet,carried, +cairry,carry, +cairryin',carrying, +calfie,little calf,diminutive +callant,stripling; lad,term of affection +cam,came, +cam',came, +camna,did not come, +camstairie,unmanageable; wild; obstinate, +camstairy,unmanageable; wild; obstinate, +camstary,unmanageable; wild; obstinate, +can'le,candle, +canna,cannot,also cotton-grass +canny,cautious; prudent; shrewd; artful, +cap,wooden cup or bowl, +capt'n,captain, +carena,do not care, +carldoddies,stalks of rib-grass,also term of endearment +carritchis,catechism, +ca's,calls, +cast up,taunt; reproach, +catchin',catching, +cattle,lice; fleas,used contemptuously of persons +cauld,cold, +caure,calves, +'cause,because, +caw,drive; impel; hammer, +cawed,driven; impeled; hammered, +cawin',driving; impeling; hammering, +ceevil,civil, +'cep',except; but, +chackit,checkered, +chairge,charge, +chap,knock; hammer; strike; rap, +chappit,knocked; hammered; struck; rapped, +chaps,knocks; hammers; strikes; raps, +chaumer,chamber; room; bedroom, +cheep,chirp; creak; hint; word, +cheerman,chairman, +chessel,tub for pressing cheese, +chice,choice, +chiel',child; young person; fellow,term of fondness or intimacy +chield,child; young person; fellow,term of fondness or intimacy +chimla-lug,fireside, +chits,sweetbreads, +chop,shop; store, +circumspec',circumspect, +claes,clothes; dress, +claikin',clucking (like a hen),also talk much in a trivial way +claith,cloth, +clams,vice or pincers,used by saddlers and shoemakers +clap,press down; pat; fondle, +clashes,blows; slaps; messes,also gossip; tittle-tattle +clash-pyet,tell-tale; scandal-monger, +clean,altogether; entirely,also comely; shapely; empty; clean +cleant,cleaned, +clear-e'ed,clear-eyed, +cleed,clothe; shelter, +cleedin',clothing; sheltering, +cleuks,claws; hands; paws, +clo'en,cloven, +clomb,climbed, +clood,cloud, +cloods,clouds, +cloody,cloudy, +close,narrow alley; blind alley,also enclosed land +closin',closing, +clype,tell tales; gossip, +coaties,children's coats; petticoats, +coaton,cotton, +coats,petticoats, +coch,coach, +coches,coaches, +coff,buy, +colliginer,college student,also college boy +Come yer wa's butt.,Come on in., +comin',coming, +comman'ment,commandment, +compleen,complain, +con thanks,return thanks, +considerin',considering, +contradickit,contradicted, +contrairy,contrary, +contred,contradicted; thwarted; crossed, +convence,convince, +conversin',conversing, +convertit,converted, +coorse,coarse,also course +coort,court, +corbie,crow; raven, +cornel,colonel, +correck,correct, +cottar,farm tenant; cottager, +cottars,farm tenants; cottagers, +cottar-wark,stipulated work done by the cottager, +couldna,could not, +coupit,tilted; tumbled; drank off, +couples,rafters, +crackin',cracking, +cracklin',crackling, +crap o' the wa',natural shelf between wall and roof, +crappit,topped; cropped; lopped, +crappit heids,stuffed head of cod or haddock, +crater,creature, +cratur,creature, +craturs,creatures, +cried,called; summoned, +crookit,crooked, +croon,crown, +croudin',cooing; croaking; groaning, +Cry Moany,Cremona,make of violin +cryin',calling; summoning, +cryin' doon,decrying; depreciating, +cud,could, +cudna,could not, +culd,could, +cumber,encumbrance; inconvenience, +cunnin',cunning, +curst,cursed, +cuttin',cutting, +cutty pipe,short tobacco-pipe, +cwytes,petticoats, +dacent,decent, +dame,young unmarried woman; damsel,also farmer's wife +damnin',damning; condemning, +dancin',dancing, +dang,knock; bang; drive,also damn +darnin',darning, +dauchter,daughter, +daunerin',strolling; sauntering; ambling, +daur,dare; challenge, +daured,dared; challenged, +daurna,dare not; do not dare, +daursay,dare say, +dauty,darling; pet,term of endearment +dawtie,darling; pet,term of endearment +daylicht,daylight, +debosh,excessive indulgence; debauch,also extravagance; waste +deboshed,debauched; worthless, +deceitfu',deceitful, +deceivin',deceiving, +dee,do,also die +deed,died,also deed; indeed +'deed,indeed, +dee'd,died, +deein',doing,also dying +deevil,devil, +deevil-ma'-care,devil-may-care; utterly careless,also no matter +deevilry,devilry, +deevils,devils, +deid,dead, +deif,deaf, +deil,devil,also not +de'il,devil,also not +De'il a bit!,Not at all! Not a bit!, +deith,death, +deleeberately,deliberately, +dementit,demented; mad; crazy, +denner,dinner, +desertit,deserted, +desperate,exceedingly; beyond measure,also irreclaimable; very bad +didna,did not, +differ,difference; dissent,also differ +dingin',overcoming; wearying; vexing,also raining/snowing heavily +dinna,do not, +direckly,directly; immediately, +dirt,worthless persons or things,term of contempt +dishcloot,cloth for washing dishes, +disna,does not, +disoun,disown, +distinckly,distinctly, +div,do, +divots,thin flat pieces of sod, +dochter,daughter, +doesna,does not, +doin',doing, +doin's,doings, +doited,foolish; stupefied; crazy, +dominie,minister; schoolmaster,slightly contemptuous +dooble,double; duplicate,also double dealing; devious +dooble-sole,double-sole, +doobt,suspect; know; doubt,have an unpleasant conviction +doobtin',suspecting; knowing,also doubting +doobtless,doubtless, +doobts,suspects; knows,also doubts +dooce,gentle; sensible; sober; prudent, +dooms,extremely; exceedingly; very, +doon,down, +doonricht,downright, +door-cheek,door-post; threshold; doorway, +door-stane,flagstone at the threshold of a door, +dother,daughter, +dottled,crazy; in dotage, +douce,gentle; sensible; sober; prudent, +dowie,sad; lonely; depressing; dismal,also ailing +draigon,dragon; also boy's paper kite,reference to Revelation 12-13 +draigons,dragons,also boys' paper kites +dram,glass of whisky, +drap,drop; small quantity of, +drap i' the hoose,presence of someone unknown, +drappit,dropped, +drappy,little drop; a little (liquor),diminutive +drauchts,plans; schemes; policies,also lineaments of the face +drave,drove, +drawin',drawing, +dreadfu',dreadful, +dreamin',dreaming, +drear,dreary; dreariness; tedium, +dreidfu',dreadful; dreadfully, +drift,snow driven by the wind, +driftin',drifting,snow driven by the wind +drinkin',drinking, +drivin',driving, +droont,drowned, +drucken,drunken; tipsy, +drum-heid,drum head, +drunken,drank; drunk, +du,do, +duin',doing, +dumfoundered,perplexed; stunned; amazed, +dune,done, +dunna,do not, +duv,do, +duvna,do not, +dwalls,dwells, +d'ye,do you, +dyke,wall of stone or turf, +eaves-drapper,eavesdropper, +Ebberdeen,Aberdeen, +ee,eye, +een,eyes, +e'en,even; just; simply; equal,also eyes; evening +efter,after; afterwards, +efterhin,after; afterwards, +efternune,afternoon, +eident,industrious; diligent; steady, +elbuck,elbow, +eleckit,elected,chosen by God for salvation (Calvinism) +ellwand,ell-wand; ruler; yardstick,1 ell = 37 inches or 94 cm +en',end, +endit,ended, +eneuch,enough, +Englan',England, +enjoyin',enjoying, +eppiteet,appetite, +er,ere; before, +er',ere; before, +Erse,Irish; Gaelic, +etairnity,eternity, +ewie,young ewe, +exackly,exactly, +excep',except, +expairience,experience, +expeckin',expecting, +expecs,expects, +eyther,either, +fa',fall; befall, +fac',fact; truth; reality, +fac's,facts; truths; realities, +factor,manager of a landed property,lets farms; collects rents +fact'ry,factory, +faddom,fathom, +fa'en,fallen, +failin',failing, +faimilies,families, +faimily,family, +fain,eager; anxious; fond,also fondly; gladly +fa'in',falling, +fairmy,little farm,diminutive +Faith!,Indeed!; Truly!,exclamation +fallow,fellow; chap, +fan',found,also felt +fand,found, +farrer,farther, +fash,trouble; inconvenience; vex, +faun't,found, +faured,favoured; featured, +faut,fault; blame, +fau'ts,faults, +feared,afraid; frightened; scared, +fearfu',fearful; easily frightened, +fearsome,terrifying; fearful; awful, +feart,afraid; frightened; scared, +feelin',feeling, +fegs!,truly!; really!; goodness!,mild oath; exclamation of surprise +feifteen,fifteen, +fell,very; potent; keen; harsh; sharp,intensifies; also turf +feow,few, +ferlie,wonder; novelty; curiosity, +fess,fetch; bring, +fest,fast, +festen,fasten; bind, +fiddlin',fiddling, +fin',find,also feel +fir-can'le,a torch; 'firwood' used as a candle, +fishin',fishing, +fit,foot; base,also fit; capable; able +flax,flax; wick, +flech,flea, +fleys,terrifies; frightens, +fleyt,terrified; frightened, +flingin',kicking; throwing, +flittin',shifting; removing; departing, +flooers,flowers, +flure,floor, +flurin',flooring, +forby,as well; as well as; besides,also over and above +forbye,as well; as well as; besides,also over and above +foresicht,foresight, +foret,forward, +forgather,assemble; encounter,also meet for a special purpose +forgathert,assembled; encountered,also met for a special purpose +forgettin',forgetting, +forgie,forgive, +forgien,forgiven, +fortnicht,fortnight; two weeks, +fou,full; well-fed, +fouchten,fought, +fower-hoors,four o'clock tea, +fowk,folk, +frae,from, +freely,quite; very; thoroughly, +freits,superstitions; charms,also superstitious fancies +fremt,stranger,also strange; foreign +fren',friend, +fricht,frighten; scare away,also fright +frichtit,frightened; scared away, +frichtsome,frightful, +frien',friend, +frien's,friends, +frien'ship,friendship, +fu',full; very; much, +fule,fool, +fummles,fumbles, +fun',found, +fun-buss,whin-bush, +fund,found, +furbye,as well; as well as; besides,also over and above +fushionless,pithless; tasteless; feeble, +fut,foot, +gae,gave, +gaed,went, +gaein',going, +gae's,gave us; gave his, +gaird,guard; watch, +gait,way; fashion,also route; street +gaither,gather, +ga'le,gable, +gane,gone, +gang,go; goes; depart; walk, +gang yer wa's,go on, +gangs,goes; walks, +gar,cause; make; compel, +garred,made; caused; compelled, +garrin',making; causing; compelling, +gars,makes; causes; compels, +gart,made; caused; compelled, +gar't,make it; cause it; compel it, +gate,way; route,also method; fashion; habit +gatherin',gathering, +gaun,going, +'gen,by; in time for; whether, +German Ocean,,old reference to the English Channel & North Sea +gether,gather, +gettin',getting, +gey,fairly; considerably,also considerable +gi',give, +gie,give, +gie a lift,give a helping hand, +gied,gave, +giein',giving, +gien,if; as if; then; whether,also given +gi'en,given, +giena,do not give, +gies,gives, +gie's,gives; give us; give his, +gill,tipple; drink, +gin,if; as if; then; whether, +gird,hoop for a barrel or tub, +girn,grimace; snarl; twist the features, +glaid,glad, +glaidly,gladly, +glaiss,glass, +gleds,kites; buzzards, +gleg,quick; lively; smart; quick-witted, +Glendronach,particular brand of whisky, +glimmerin',glimmering, +gloamin',twilight; dusk, +gloggie,insipid; artificial; unnatural, +glowered,stared; gazed; scowled, +goin',going, +goon,gown, +goul,howl; yell; whine, +gowd,gold, +gowk,cuckoo; fool; blockhead, +gran',grand; capital; first-rate, +grandmither,grandmother, +gran'father,grandfather, +gran'mither,grandmother, +grat,cried; wept, +gravestane,gravestone; tombstone; headstone, +greet,cry; weep, +greetin',crying; weeping, +greit,cry; weep, +greitin',crying; weeping, +greits,cries; weeps, +grew,greyhound, +grip,grasp; understand,also hold +grips,grasps; understands,seizures; colic +growin',growing, +grun',ground, +grup,grip; grasp, +grups,grips; grasp, +grutten,cried; wept, +gude,good,also God +gude-bye,goodbye, +gude-hertit,good-hearted, +gudeness,goodness, +guid,good,also God +guide,treat; handle; look after; save; keep, +Guidsake!,For God's sake!, +ha',have,also hall; house +haddie,haddock, +hadna,had not, +hae,have; has,also here +ha'e,have,also here +haein',having, +haena,have not, +hae't,have it, +haill,whole, +hairm,harm, +hairps,harps, +hairst,harvest, +hairst-play,school holidays during harvest, +Haith!,Faith!,exclamation of surprise +haithen,heathen, +haiven,heaven, +halesome,wholesome; pure, +half-dizzen,half-dozen, +half-stervit,half-starved, +hame,home, +han',hand, +han'fu',handful, +hangin',hanging, +hangt,hanged, +hang't,hanged, +han'le,handle, +han'led,handled; treated, +han'let,handled, +han's,hands, +hantle,much; large quantity; far, +hard,heard,also hard +hash,mess; muddle, +hasna,does not have, +haud,hold; keep, +hauden,held; kept, +haudin',holding; keeping, +hauld,hold, +haveless,careless (therefore helpless),also wasteful; incompetent +haven,heaven, +haverin',talking incoherently; babbling, +havers,nonsense; foolish talk; babble, +hay-sow,long oblong stack of hay,shaped like a sow +he that will to Cupar maun to Cupar,a wilful man must have his way, +heap,very much,also heap +heardna,did not hear, +hearin',hearing, +hearken,hearken; hear; listen, +hearkened,hearkened; heard; listened, +hearkenin',hearkening; listening, +hearkent,hearkened; heard; listened, +Hecklebirnie,Hell, +hecklet,cross-questioned; examined, +hed,had,also hid +heepocreet,hypocrite, +heicht,height, +heid,head; heading, +heids,heads; headings, +helpin',helping, +helpit,helped, +her lane,on her own, +hersel',herself, +hert,heart, +hertily,heartily, +herts,hearts, +het,hot; burning, +hev,have, +Hielan',Highland, +Hielan'man,Highland man, +hillo,,a call to attract attention +him lane,on his own, +himsel',himself, +hinder,hinder; hind; latter, +hine,away; afar; to a distance, +hing,hang, +hingin',hanging, +hings,hangs, +hinnerance,hinderance, +hinney,honey, +hintit,hinted, +hips,borders of a district, +hiz,us,emphatic +hizzies,hussies; silly girls, +hoo,how, +hooever,however, +hooly,slowly; cautiously; gently,also 'take your time' +hoomble,humble, +hoombly,humbly, +hoor,hour, +hoo's,how is, +hoose,house, +hooses,houses, +hoot,pshaw,exclamation of doubt or contempt +Hoot awa!,tuts!; nonsense!,also exclamation of sympathy +hoot toot,tut!,exclamation of annoyance +hoots,pshaw,exclamation of doubt or contempt +horse-huves,horse hooves, +hose,stocking, +hostit,coughed, +houp,hope, +houpe,hope, +houps,hopes, +humblet,humbled, +hunger,hunger; starve, +hungert,starved, +hunner,hundred, +huntin',hunting, +hurdies,buttocks, +hurry an' a scurry,uproar; tumult, +hurtit,hurt, +huves,hooves, +hynd,straight; by the nearest road, +i',in; into, +I doobt,I know; I suspect, +I wat,I know; I assure (you), +ilk,every; each,also common; ordinary +ilka,every; each,also common; ordinary +ilkabody,everybody; everyone, +ill,bad; evil; hard; harsh; badly,also misfortune; harm +'ill,will, +ill-contrived,tricky; mischievous,also badly behaved; ill-tempered +ill-doin',badly behaved,also leading an evil life +ill-fashioned,vulgar in habits; ill-mannered,also quarrelsome +ill-faured,unbecoming; ill-mannered; clumsy,also unpleasant +ill-mainnert,ill-mannered, +ill-tongued,foul-tongued; abusive, +ill-used,used wrongly, +ill-willy,ill-tempered; spiteful; grudging,also reluctant +'im,him, +impidence,impudence, +imputin',imputing, +inheritin',inheriting, +in't,in it, +interesstin',interesting, +interferin',interfering, +interruppit,interrupted, +intil,into; in; within, +ir,are, +Ishmeleets,Ishmaelites, +isna,is not; is no, +is't,is it, +ither,other; another; further, +'ither,other; another; further, +itsel',itself, +iver,ever, +jabberin',chattering; idle talking, +jaloosed,suspected; guessed; imagined, +jaud,lass; girl; worthless woman,old worn-out horse +jaw,billow; splash; surge; wave, +jawin',talking; chattering, +Jeames,James, +Jeck,Jack, +jeedgment,judgement, +Jeroozlem,Jerusalem, +jined,joined, +jines,joins, +jist,just, +judgin',judging, +jumps,tallies; coincides, +justifee,justify, +justifeein',justifying, +jyler,jailer, +kailyard,kitchen garden; small cottage garden, +keek,look; peep; spy, +keekin',looking; peeping; prying, +keepit,kept, +kelpie,water-sprite; river-horse, +ken,know; be acquainted with; recognise, +kenna,do not know, +kennin',knowing, +kens,knows, +kent,known; knew, +kep,keep; catch,also intercept; encounter +kickin',kicking, +kickit,kicked, +kin',kind; nature; sort; agreeable,also somewhat; in some degree +kin'ness,kindness, +kirk,church, +kirks,churches, +kirkyaird,churchyard, +kirstened,christened, +kirstenin',christening, +kissin',kissing, +kist,chest; coffer; box; chest of drawers, +kists,chests; coffers; boxes; luggage, +kitchie,kitchen, +kittlins,kittens, +kneipit,knocked, +lad,boy,term of commendation or reverence +laddie,boy,term of affection +laddies,boys,term of affection +lads,boys,term of commendation or reverence +laicher,lower, +laird,landed proprietor; squire; lord, +lameter,cripple,also lame +lammie,little lamb,term of endearment +lan',land; country; ground, +lane,lone; alone; lonely; solitary, +lang,long; big; large; many,also slow; tedious +langed,longed, +langer,longer, +lang-leggit,long legged, +lang's,long as, +lang-tailed,tedious, +lan'less,landless, +lap,leaped, +lapstane,stone on which a shoemaker,hammers his leather +lass,girl; young woman,term of address +lasses,girls; young women, +lassie,girl,term of endearment +lat,let; allow, +lat's,let's; let us; let his, +latten,let; allowed, +lattin',letting; allowing, +lauch,laugh, +lauchin',laughing, +lauchter,laughter, +lave,rest; remainder; others,also leave +laverock,lark (type of bird), +Lawlands,Lowlands, +lea,leave, +lea',leave, +leadin',leading, +leal,loyal; faithful; sincere; true, +learnin',learning,also teaching +learnt,learned,also taught +leavin',leaving, +leddy,lady,also boy; lad; laddy +lee,pasture; fallow ground,also shelter from wind or rain; lie +leear,lier, +leebrary,library, +leed,lied; told lies, +leein',lying; telling lies, +lees,lies, +leevin',living; living being, +leiser,leisure, +len',lend; give; grant,also loan +len'th,length, +leuch,laughed, +leuk,look; watch; appearance, +leys,grasslands, +licht,light, +lichtlie,make light of; disparage, +lickin',thrashing; punishment, +lien,lain, +lift,load; boost; lift; helping hand,also sky; heavens +liket,liked, +likit,liked, +likliheid,likelyhood, +likly,likely, +limmer,rascal; rogue,also loose woman; prostitute +lingel,shoemaker's thread, +links,stretch of sandy grass-covered ground,near the seashore +lint-bells,flowers of the flax, +lippen,trust; depend on,also look after +list,enlist as a soldier, +livin',living, +'ll,will, +lockit,locked, +longin',longing, +Lonnon,London, +loon,rascal; rogue; ragamuffin,also boy; lad +loot,let; allowed; permitted, +Losh!,corrupt form of 'Lord',exclamation of surprise or wonder +losin',losing, +loup,leap; jump; spring, +loup-coonter lads,shopkeepers; salesmen, +loupin',leaping; jumping; springing, +loupin'-on-stane,horse-block, +lowse,loose; free,also dishonest; immoral +luckie-daddie,grandfather,also fondly regarded forefather +luckie-daiddie,grandfather,also fondly regarded forefather +luckie-minnie,grandmother, +lucky,old woman, +lucky-daiddy,grandfather,also fondly regarded forefather +lug,ear; fin (fish); handle,also shallow wooden dish +lugs,ears, +luik,look, +luikin',looking, +luikit,looked, +luiks,looks, +luve,love, +lyin',lying, +lythe,shelter, +'m,him, +ma,my, +magistrand,student about to become M.A.,at Aberdeen University +maijesty,majesty, +mainner,manner, +mainners,manners, +mair,more; greater, +mairch,march, +mairry,marry, +maist,most; almost, +'maist,almost, +maist han',almost, +maister,master; mister, +maistly,mostly; most of all, +maitter,matter, +maitters,matters, +mak,make; do, +mak',make; do, +makin',making; doing, +maks,makes; does, +mak's,makes; does, +man-body,full grown man, +Markis,Marquis, +maukin,hare,also a reference to a poem by Burns +maun,must; have to, +maunna,must not; may not, +mayna,may not, +meanin',meaning, +meddlin',meddling, +meenit,minute, +meenits,minutes, +meenute,minute, +meesery,misery, +mell,mix; be intimate; meddle, +mem,Ma'am; Miss; Madam, +men',mend, +men'in',mending; healing, +men't,mended, +merchan's,merchants; shopkeepers, +mercifu',merciful; favourable, +mere,mare,also mere +merried,married, +merry,marry,also merry +micht,might, +michtna,might not, +michty,mighty; God, +midden,dunghill; manure pile, +middlin',tolerable; mediocre; fairly well, +mids,midst; middle, +mids',midst; middle, +min',mind; recollection,also recollect; remember +min' upo',remember, +mind,mind; recollection,also recollect; remember +ministert,ministered, +minit,minute, +mint,insinuate; hint; feign,also aim at; attempt +mintin',insinuating; hinting; feigning,also aiming at; attempting +mintit,insinuated; hinted; feigned,also aimed at; attempted +mirk,darkness; gloom; night, +mischeef,mischief; injury; harm, +misdoobt,doubt; disbelieve; suspect, +missionar',missionary, +mistak,mistake, +mither,mother, +mithers,mothers, +mizzer,measure, +moedesty,modesty, +mony,many, +moo',mouth, +moose,mouse, +mornin',morning, +morn's,tomorrow, +mou',mouth, +moufu',mouthful, +mou'fu',mouthful, +mould,mould; loose earth; top soil, +muckle,huge; enormous; big; great; much, +muckler,bigger; greater, +mull,snuff-box, +mune,moon, +munelicht,moonlight, +murnin',mourning, +mutch,woman's cap with protruding frill,worn under the bonnet +mutchkin,liquid measure,equal to an English pint +my lane,on my own, +mysel',myself, +na,not; by no means, +nae,no; none; not, +naebody,nobody; no one, +naething,nothing, +nane,none, +nanetheless,nonetheless, +nater,nature, +nat'ral,natural, +natur',nature, +naything,nothing, +nearhan',nearly; almost; near by, +near-han',nearly; almost; near by, +nears,kidneys, +nebs,tips; points; nibs; beaks, +neebor,neighbour, +neebors,neighbours, +neebour,neighbour, +needfu',needful; necessary; needy, +needna,do not need; need not, +ne'er-do-weel,an incorrigible; troublemaker, +neist,next; nearest, +nesty,nasty, +neuk,nook; recess; interior angle,also corner +news,talk; gossip, +nicht,night; evening, +niffer,exchange; barter, +no,not, +no',not, +noething,nothing, +noo,now, +noo',now, +noo a-days,now; in these days, +nor,than; although; if,also nor +nor's,than is, +notwithstandin',notwithstanding, +nuik,corner, +o',of; on, +objeck,object, +obleeged,obliged, +och,,exclamation of sorrow or regret +och hone,alas, +Od,disguised form of 'God',mince oath +odds,consequence; change, +o'er,over; upon; too, +ohn,without; un-,uses past participle not present progressive +Ohone!,Alas!, +on',and,possibly a mispelling--should be an' +onlike,unlike, +onsays,unsays, +ony,any, +onybody,anybody; anyone, +onything,anything, +ook,week, +ooks,weeks, +oor,our, +'oor,hour, +oors,ours, +oorsel's,ourselves, +oot,out, +ootcast,outcast, +oots,outs, +ootside,outside, +opingon,opinion, +opingons,opinions, +opposit,opposite, +or,before; ere; until; by,also or +ordinar,ordinary; usual; natural,also custom; habit +ordinar',ordinary; usual; natural,also custom; habit +orra,odd job (man); exceptional; over all,also idle +o't,of it, +oucht,anything; all,also ought +ouchtna,ought not, +oursel's,ourselves, +ow,oh,exclamation of surprise +ower,over; upon; too, +owerta'en,overtaken, +oye,grandchild; grandson; nephew, +pailace,palace, +paintit,painted, +pairt,part, +pandies,strokes on the palm with a cane, +papistry,Romanism; Popery, +Paradees,Paradise, +parritch,oatmeal porridge, +partic'lar,particular, +pat,put; made, +peacefu',peaceful, +pecks,blows; strikes, +pernickety,precise; particular; fastidious,also difficult to please +perris,parish, +piana,piano, +picter,picture; sight; spectacle, +pictur',picture, +piece,slice of bread; lunch, +pint,point, +pipit,piped; played the (bag)pipes, +pirn,reel; bobbin,on which thread is wound +pit,put; make, +pitawta,potato, +pits,puts; makes, +pitten,put; made, +plack,the smallest coin,worth 1/3 of a penny +plaguit,plagued; troubled, +plaid,plaid used as a blanket, +plaistered,plastered, +plash-mill,fulling-mill, +playacks,playthings; toys, +play-actin',acting, +playin',playing, +playt,played, +pliskie,trick; prank; practical joke, +plisky,trick; prank, +ploy,amusement; sport; escapade, +ploys,amusements; sports; escapades, +poassible,possible, +poddock,frog, +pooch,pocket; pouch, +pooer,power, +pooerfu',powerful, +poored,poured, +poothers,powders, +pop',pope, +porkmanty,portmanteau, +positeeve,positive, +pouch,pouch; pocket, +poun',pound (sterling), +prayin',praying, +preachin',preaching, +pree,taste; try; prove; experience, +prent,print, +prentice-han',novice, +press,wall-cupboard with shelves, +preten',pretend, +preten't,pretended, +prood,proud, +pruv,prove, +pruved,proved, +pu',pull, +public,public house; pub, +public-hoose,public house, +pu'd,pulled, +puddin's,intestines, +puir,poor, +pun',pound (sterling), +putten,put, +quaiet,quiet, +quaiet sough,quiet tongue, +quaieter,quieter, +quaietly,quietly, +quaietness,quietness, +quean,queen; young girl; hussy, +queston,question,also sum +questons,questions,also sums +quest'ons,questions, +quibblin',quibbling, +rade,rode, +rael,real, +railly,really, +raither,rather, +rale,real; true; very, +rampaugin',rampaging, +randy,rough; wild; riotous,also coarse-tongued; abusive +rase,rose, +rash,needle used in weaving, +readin',reading, +reamy,creamy, +rebukit,rebuked, +receipt,recipe, +reckonin',reckoning, +reconceelin',reconciling, +reconcilet,reconciled, +reekit,rigged out; well-dressed, +regairdit,regarded, +reg'ment,regiment, +reid,red, +reik,smoke; vapour, +rejeckit,rejected, +remainin',remaining, +remeid,remedy; cure; redress, +repentin',repenting, +resentin',resenting, +respec',respect, +respecks,respects; considers worthy, +richt,right; correct,also mend +richteous,righteous, +richteousness,righteousness, +richtly,certainly; positively, +rig,ridge; space between furrows,also long narrow hill +rin,run, +rinnin',running, +rins,runs, +risin',rising, +rist,rest, +rivin',renting; tearing; tuging; wrenching, +rizzon,reason, +rizzonin',reasoning, +rizzons,reasons, +roarin',roaring, +rockit,rocked, +ro'd,road; course; way, +Rom',Rome, +roof-tree,beam forming the angle of a roof, +roomy,little room,diminutive +roon,around; round, +roon',around; round, +roset,resin; cobbler's wax, +roset-ends,shoemaker's waxed thread-ends, +rottan,rat, +rouch,rough, +rowdie,hag; beldame, +ruck,bulk; mass; majority, +ruggin',pulling forcibly; tugging; tearing, +ruggin' and rivin',draging forcibly,also contending for possession +runklet,wrinkled; creased; crumpled, +'s,us; his; as; is,also has +s',shall, +sae,so; as, +saft,muddy; soft; silly; foolish, +saiddlet,saddled, +sair,sore; sorely; sad; hard; very; greatly,also serve; satisfy +sair heid,headache, +sair-vroucht,hard-worked, +saitisfee,satisfy, +saitisfeed,satisfied, +saitisfeet,satisfied, +salamander,large poker with a flat heated end,for lighting fires +sall,shall, +sang,song, +sangs,songs, +sanna,shall not, +Sanny,Sandy,also Scotsman +sark,shirt, +sarks,shirts, +sattle,settle, +saven,wise; knowledgeable,also seven +savin',saving,also except +savin's,savings, +Sawtan,Satan, +sax,six, +saxpence,sixpence, +sayin',saying, +scar,cliff; precipice, +scart,scratch; strike a match; scrape, +schuil,school, +schuilin',schooling; education, +schuilmaister,schoolmaster, +schule,school, +schule-time,time for school, +scoonrel,scoundrel, +scoon'rel,scoundrel, +Scotlan',Scotland, +scraich,shriek; scream; bird's shrill cry, +scrattit,scratched; dug, +screed,recite rapidly; talk tediously; reel off,also scraping sound +Scripter,Scripture, +sculduddery,fornication; grossness; obscenity, +scunner,disgust; disgusting; revolting, +scunnert,disgusted; loathed, +scurry,scour; got about from place to place,also wander aimlessly +seck,sack, +seein',seeing, +seekin',seeking, +se'enteen,seventeen, +sel',self, +self-forgettin',self-forgetting, +sellt,sold, +semies,second year's university students,at Aberdeen University +sen',send, +sendin',sending, +sen'in',sending, +servan',servant, +servan's,servants, +sessions-buik,church record of its proceedings, +set,set out; start off; become,also inclined; disposed +Setterday,Saturday, +shacken,shaken, +shackle-bane,wrist; wrist-bone, +Shackspear,Shakespeare, +shak'-doon,shakedown; crude makeshift bed, +shanna,shall not, +sharpset,keen; sharp-witted, +sharp-set,keen; sharp-witted, +shaw,show; reveal,also grove +shawn,shown, +shaws,shows, +shearin',shearing (sheep), +shillin',shilling, +shillin's,shillings, +shinin',shining, +shochlin,waddling; in-kneed, +shochlin',waddling; in-kneed, +shoothers,shoulders, +shortcomin's,shortcomings, +shortent,shortened, +shouldna,should not, +shuit,suit, +shune,shoes, +shutin',shooting, +sib,relation; akin; closely related, +sic,such; so; similar, +siccan,such a; such an, +sicht,sight, +sichtit,sighted, +sicker,secure; safe; firm; sure, +sic-like,suchlike; likewise,like such a person or thing +side,district; region,also the side of +sidin',siding, +siller,silver; money; wealth, +simmer,Summer, +sin,since; ago; since then,also sin; sun +sin',since; ago; since then, +sinfu',sinful, +singin',singing, +sittin',sitting, +skelf,shelf,also splinter +skelpin',digging; ploughing,also beating; striking +skirl,scream; sing shrilly, +slack,slow, +slauchtert,slaughtered, +sleepin',sleeping, +sleepit,slept, +sleicht o' han',sleight of hand, +sliddery,slippery; smooth,also sly; deceitful +slinkin',slinking, +slip,let slip; convey by stealth, +slippin',slipping, +slips,tricks, +sma',small; little; slight; narrow; young, +smacks,single-masted sailing boats,not necessarily a Scottish word +smeddum,spirit; mettle; liveliness, +smilin',smiling, +smokin',smoking; smouldering, +smokin' flax,smouldering wick,reference to Matthew 12:20 +smorin',smothering; suffocating, +snappin',snapping, +snaw,snow, +sneck,door-latch; catch (gate),also latch +snod,smooth; neat; trim; tidy; snug, +sod,sad, +sodger,soldier, +sodgers,soldiers, +sojer,soldier, +some,somewhat; rather; quite; very,also some +somehoo,somehow, +sookit,sucked, +soon',sound, +soonds,sounds, +sornin',taking food or lodging; sponging,taking by force of threat +sortit,sorted, +soucht,sought, +sough,sigh; sound of wind; deep breath, +soun',sound, +soun's,sounds, +soutar,shoemaker; cobbler, +sowl,soul, +sowls,souls, +spak,spoke, +spak',spoke, +spark,speck; spot; blemish; atom, +spaud,spade, +speakin',speaking, +speerit,spirit, +speik,speak, +speikin',speaking, +speir,ask about; enquire; question, +speired,asked about; enquired; questioned, +speirin',asking about; enquiring; questioning, +speirs,asks about; enquires; questions, +speirt,asked about; enquired; questioned, +spen',spend, +spence,storeroom; larder, +speyk,speak, +speykin,speaking, +speykin',speaking, +spier,ask about; enquire; question, +spring,quick lively tune, +spult,spilt, +spunes,spoons, +Squaur,square, +stack,stuck, +stair,stairs; staircase, +stamack,stomach, +stamacks,stomachs, +stampin',stamping, +stan',stand; stop, +stane,stone; measure of weight,1 stone = 14 pounds +stanes,stones, +stan'in',standing, +stan's,stands, +starnie,very small quantity, +startit,started, +steek,shut; close; clench,also stitch (as in clothing) +steekit,shut; closed; clenched, +stept,stepped, +sterve,starve, +stew,dust; vapour; smoke,also stench; stink +stickin',sticking; goring, +stingin',stinging, +stinkin',stinking, +stockin'-fit,feet clothed in stockings,i.e. without shoes +stook,arranging the sheaves in a stook, +stoun',ache; throb, +stown,stolen, +Straddle Vawrious,Stradivarius,make of violin +strae-deith,death in bed; natural death,not a violent death +straik,streak; stroke; blow; caress, +straiks,streaks; strokes; blows; caresses, +strang,strong, +strathspey,Highland dance,like a reel but slower +straucht,straighten; straight, +straught,straight, +stravaguin',saunter; stroll; go about aimlessly, +stren'th,strength, +stucken,stuck, +stud,stood, +stule,stool, +styte,nonsense, +subjec',subject, +subjeck,subject, +subjecks,subjects, +substrackin',subtracting, +sudna,should not, +sufferin',suffering, +suffert,suffered, +suld,should, +suldna,should not, +sumph,soft blunt fellow; simpleton; fool, +sune,soon; early, +sune's,soon as, +sung,singed, +sunk,drivel; loiter,also be in a low dejected state +sup,drink, +supped,drank, +supposin',supposing, +swack,elastic; limber; supple, +swarf,swoon; faint, +sweer,swear, +sweir,swear, +sweirer,swearer, +sweirin',swearing, +sweirs,swears, +sworn,swore, +syde,wide and long; hanging low down, +syne,ago; since; then; at that time,also in (good) time +'t,it, +tae,toe; also tea,also the one; to +taed,toad, +ta'en,taken; seized, +taes,toes, +taings,tongs; prongs, +tak,take; seize, +tak',take; seize, +tak tent,look out; pay attention; watch, +takin',taking, +taks,takes; seizes, +talkin',talking, +tane,the one,also taken +tap,top; tip; head, +tastin',tasting, +taucht,taught, +tauld,told, +tawtie,potato, +taxed,found fault with; scolded, +tay,tea; supper, +tay-time,tea time; supper, +teachin',teaching, +teep,type, +telled,told, +tellin',telling, +tellt,told, +tell't,told, +telt,told, +tent,attention; care; heed; notice, +thae,those; these, +thairm,fiddle-string,also intestine; gut; belly +than,then,also than +thankfu',thankful, +thankit,thanked, +thanksgivin',thanksgiving, +that'll,that will, +the day,today, +the morn,tomorrow, +the nicht,tonight, +the noo,just now; now, +the piece,apiece, +thegither,together, +themsels,themselves, +themsel's,themselves, +thereaboots,thereabouts, +thimmel,thimble, +thinkin',thinking, +thinksna,does not think, +this mony a day,for some time, +tho',though, +thocht,thought, +thochtna,did not think, +thochts,thoughts, +thoo,thou; you (God), +thoomacks,violin-pegs, +thoucht,thought, +thouchts,thoughts, +thrapple,windpipe; throat, +thrivin',thriving, +throu,through, +throu',through, +throuw,through, +throw,through, +thrum,particle; tangle; mess, +ticht,tight, +til,to; till; until; about; at; before, +till,to; till; until; about; at; before, +timmer,timber; wood, +tint,lost; got lost, +'tis,it is, +tither,the other, +tod,fox, +toom,empty; unload, +toomin',emptying; unloading, +toon,town; village, +toon-piper,town piper, +toot,tut!,exclamation of annoyance +Toots!,Tuts!; Tush!, +towie,string, +trailin',dragging forcibly; hauling along, +traivel,travel, +traivellin',travelling, +tramp,trudge,also tramp +transe,passage within a house,also alley; narrow space +tribble,trouble, +trimlin',trembling, +troo,trust; believe, +troosers,trousers, +troth,truth; indeed,also used as an exclamation +trowth,truth; indeed,also used as an exclamation +tryin',trying, +'ts,its, +tu,too; also, +tuik,took, +tum'ler,tumbler; glass (of whisky), +turnin',turning, +turnt,turned, +twa,two; a few, +twa three,several, +twal,twelve, +twalmonth,twelvemonth; year, +'twas,it was, +twise,twice, +tyke,dog,also rough clownish fellow +tyne,lose; get lost; miss, +'ull,will, +umquhile,former; of old; late, +unbecomin',unbecoming, +unco,unknown; odd; strange; uncouth,also very great +unco',unknown; odd; strange; uncouth,also very great +understan',understand, +unner,under, +unnerstan,understand, +unnerstan',understand, +unpleasin',unpleasing; unpleasant, +unsoucht,unsought, +unweel,unwell, +up the stair,upstairs,also to heaven +uphaud,uphold; maintain; support, +uphaudin',upholding; maintaining; supporting, +upo',upon; on to; at, +upsettin',forward; ambitious; stuck-up; proud, +vailue,value, +vainishin',vanishing, +vainities,vanities, +verra,very; true; real, +vex,trouble; vexation, +vraith,apparition, +vrang,wrong, +vratch,wretch, +vrote,wrote, +vroucht,wrought; worked, +wa',wall,also way; away +wad,would, +wadna,would not, +wailin',wailing, +waitin',waiting, +wakin',waking, +wall,well; spring of water, +wallopin',dancing; galloping,also beating; thrashing; knocking +wame,belly; stomach; womb; hollow, +wamlin',rolling; undulating, +wan,reached; gained; got, +wan'erer,wanderer, +wantin',wanting; lacking; without; in want of, +wantit,wanted, +war,were, +wark,work; labour,also show of affection +warl',world; worldly goods,also a large number +warld,world, +warldly,worldly, +warna,were not, +warran',warrant; guarantee, +warst,worst, +wa's,walls,also ways +washin',washing, +wasna,was not, +was't,was it, +wastit,wasted, +wat,wet,see also 'I wat.' +watchin',watching, +watter,water, +wauken,awake; wake, +waukens,wakes, +waukin',waking, +waukit,woke, +waukmill,fulling mill, +wauk-mill,fulling-mill, +waur,worse,also spend money +waure,ware, +weddin',wedding, +wee,small; little; bit,also short time; while +weel,well; fine, +weel-behaved,well-behaved, +weelfaur,welfare, +weel's,well as, +weet,wet; dew; rain, +weicht,weight, +weir,wear,also hedge; fence; enclosure +weirs,wears, +weyver,weaver; knitter,also knitter of stockings; spider +wha,who, +wha',who, +whaever,whoever, +whan,when, +wharever,wherever, +wha's,who is,also whose +whase,whose, +What for no?,Why not?, +What for?,Why?, +whaur,where, +whaur'll,where will, +whaur's,where is; where has, +wheen,little; few; number; quantity, +whiles,sometimes; at times; now and then, +whilie,short time, +whilk,which, +whumle,whelm; overwhelm; upset, +whusky,whisky, +whustle,whistle, +whustled,whistled, +wi',with, +wice,wise, +wife,woman; landlady,also wife +wight,fellow, +willin'ly,willingly, +willna,will not, +win,reach; gain; get; go; come, +win',wind,also reach; gain; get; go; come +winkit,winked, +winna,will not, +winnin',reaching; gaining; getting, +winnock,window, +winsome,large; comely; merry, +wi'oot,without, +wirrycow,scarecrow, +wis,was,also wish +wiss,wish, +wissed,wished, +wit,intelligence; information,also sense; wisdom +wite,blame; reproach; fault, +withoot,without, +withstan',withstand, +wob,web; woven material, +wolums,volumes, +wonner,wonder; marvel, +wonnerfu',wonderful; great; large, +wonnerin',wondering, +wonnert,wondered, +wordy,little word; little saying or proverb,diminutive +workin',working, +worryin',worrying, +wouldna,would not, +wow,woe,exclamation of wonder or grief or satisfaction +wrang,wrong; injured, +writin',writing, +wud,wood; forest,adj.-enraged; angry; mad; also would +wuddyfous,gallows' birds; scamps,also small ill-tempered persons +wull,will; wish; desire,also astray; stray; wild +wuman,woman, +wumman,woman, +wuss,wish, +wynd,narrow lane or street; alley, +wynds,narrow lanes or streets; alleys, +wyte,blame; reproach; fault, +yaird,yard; garden; farmyard,also yard (36 inches) +yairds,yards; gardens,also yards (1 yard = 36 inches) +ye,you; yourself, +year,years,also year +ye'll,you will, +Yellow-beak,first year's student,at Aberdeen University +yer,your, +yer lane,on your own, +ye're,you are, +yersel,yourself, +yer'sel,yourself, +yersel',yourself, +yersels,yourselves, +ye've,you have, +yird,earth, +yon,that; those; that there; these, +yonner,yonder; over there; in that place, +yon's,that is; that (thing) there is, +yoong,young, +yowth,youth, + + + + + +End of The Project Gutenberg Etext Robert Falconer, by George MacDonald + |