Macdonald_Robert_Falconer.txt topic ['13', '324', '378', '393']
CHAPTER I.
A RECOLLECTION.
RoBBRT Falconer, school-boy, aged fourteen, thought he
had never seen his father ; that is, thought he had no recollec-
tion 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 por-
tion of his existence which was bound into one by the reticula-
tions 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. Tliere he saw a tall,
somewhat haggard-looking man, in a shabby black coat (the
vision gradually dawned upon him till it reached the minute-
ness 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 iDoked at him very strangely, and without a word
ROBERT FALCONER.
pushed him aside, and went straight into his grandmother's
parlor, shutting the door behind him. He followed, not
doubting that the man must have a right to go there, but ques-
tioning 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 an-
ticipation*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 beo
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, unfortu-
nately, 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 des-
perate circumstances than the present. At last he went
upstairs 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 grand-
mother's room. But searching about in all holes and corners,
he at length found Klopstock's '' Messiah " translated into Eng-
lish, and took refuge there till Betty came home. Nor did he
ROBERT FALCONER.
go djwn 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 wliicU
he again took refuge with Klopstock in the garret, and re-
mained 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 palimp-
sest of his memory, as he washed it with the vivifying waters
ef recollection.
CHAPTER II.
A VISITOR.
It was a very bare little room in which the boy sat ; but it
was his favorite 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 cup-
board 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 anoihei"
garret, larger, but with a lower roof, uncoiled, 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
o ROBERT FALCONER.
more than half an hour yet ; for if Eobert 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 tha
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 retire-
ment; 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 ^ve him scope enough, nor was
his btain slow in supplying him with material corresponding in
:juantity to the space afforded. His mother had been dead for
so many years that he had only the vaguest recollections of
lier 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
baud 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 baud
their tongues," was the sole variation of which the response
ROBERT FALCONER. T
Bdmitted. 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 familiar-
ity. How they stood with regard to each other will soon
appear.
Whether the visions vanished from his brain because of the
thickening of 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 men-
tioned, stood another door, at right angles to both, of the exist-
ence 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 parlor,
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 dis-
covered looking out at any of the windows opposite. The sole
motion was the occasional drift of a vapor-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 sundown, 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 persons who might meet it in its passage. It was a
keen, knife-edge frost, even in the house, and what Robert saw
to make him stand at the desolate window I do not know, and
8
KUBEBT FALOOKEB.
I believe he could not himself have told. There he did stand,
however, for the space of five minutes or so, with nothing bettei
filling his outer ejes 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, "with such
cold hands 'at he's playin' upo' the drum-head as if he was
leaping in a cask."
Then he stood silent oncfe 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, Eiobert stalked to the summons. As he opened the door,
these words greeted him :
" Is Robert at eh ! it's Bob himself ! Bob, I'm exceed
ingly cold."
" What for dinna ye gang hame, then ? "
" What for wasna ye at the schnil the day ? "
" I put one question at you, and ye answer me wi' anither."
" Weel, I hae nae hame to gang till."
" Weel, and I had a headache. Butwhaur's yerhamegane
till then?"
" 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 unmelodi
ous voice, breaking into the conversation between the two boys;
for the parlor 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 sio a day'i
this."
ROBERT FALCONBR.
As Robert hesitated with his reply, she looked round the
open half of the4|loor. but no sooner saw with whom he was
talking tban her tone changed. Bj this time, Betty, wiping her
hands in her apron, had completed the group by taking her
Btand 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 lad 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 if I war a hoodie? 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 frighten
him"
"Me fright him! What for suld I fright him, laddie?
I'm no sic wonder that onybody needs be frightened at me."
The old lady turned with visible, though by no means profound
offence upon her calm forehead, and, walking back into her
parlor, 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
,10 ROBERT FALCONER.
washing of the dinner dishes ; and the former returned to his
post at the window. He had not stood more than half a min-
ute, thinking what was to be done with his school-fellow deserted
of his mother, when the sound of a coach-horn drew his atten-
tion 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 vapor 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, Bettie. What for no ? "
" You 'at's been in a' day wi' a headache ! I'll just gang
and tell the mistress, and syne we'll see what she'll please to
say tiirt."
" Ye'll do naethin' o' the kin', Betty. Are ye gaein' to
turn telltale 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 remember, is't, Betty? "
"Dinna be ill-tongued, Robert, or I'll jist gang to the mis-
tress."
"Betty, wha began wi' bein' ill-tongued? Gin ye tell my
grandmither that I gaed oot the nicbt, I'll gang to the schuil-
master o' Muckiedrum, and get a sicht o' the kirstenin bulk ;
and 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 Bettie, attempt-
ing to laugh it off. " Be sure ye be back afore tay-time, 'cause
Jrer grannie '11 be speirin' efter ye, and ye wadna hae me
ie aboot ye?"
" I wad hae naebody lie about me. Ye jist needna lat on
ROBERT FALCONER. IJ
'at ye hear her. Ye can be deif eneucli when ye like, Betty.
But I s' be back afore tay-time, or come on the waur."
Bstty, who was in far greater fear of her age being discoT-
ered 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 aay, never had
any intention of going "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 in some mischief unless he were in her own presence and
visibly reading a book ; if he were reading aloud, so much the
better. But Eobert 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 de-
pended in some cabalistic manner upon the concealment of it.
And, certainly, nature herself seemed to favor 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
favorite ; 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 beeu,
what was he to say ? He did not mind misleading his grand-
mother, 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 parlor 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 Nap
pier's upo' the Squaur, and say to Miss Napier, wi' my compli"
12 ROBERT FALCONBR.
ments, that I wad be sair obleeged till her gin she wad len'
me that fine receipt o' hera for crappit heids, and I'll sen' 't
back safe the morn's mornin'. Rin, noo."
This commission fell in admirably with Robert's plana, 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.
Ho found a good many boxes 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 town afore ? " said Dooble
Sanny, as people generally called him, his name being Alex-
ander 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 shoemaker, remarka-
ble for his love of sweet sounds and whiskey. 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, etc. ; 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 trousers.
" Sic a sicht as ye never saw, man," returned Sandy ; " th
bonniest leddy ever man set his ee upo'. I culd nae hae thocht
there had been sic a woman i' this warl'."
" Hoot, Sandy ! " said Robert, " a body wad think she was
ROBERT TALCONBR 13
lost, and ye had the cryin' o' her. Speak lower, man ; sbe'li
mybe hear ye. Is she i' the inn there ? "
"Ay is she," answered Sandy. " See, sic a warl' o' kist8
as she's brocht wi' her," he continued, pointing towards the
pile of luggage. " Saw ye ever sic a heap ? It jist 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 empty kists wi' them. I cannot
mak' itoot."
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 carriage to meet her," said
Crookit Caumil, the ostler.
The 3othie was the name facetiously given by Alexander
Baron Rothie, son of the Marquis of Boarshead, to a house he
had built in the neighborhood, chiefly for the accommodation of
his bachelor friends from London during the shooting season.
"Hand yer tongue, Caumil," said the shoemaker. " She's
nae sic cattle, yon."
" Hand up the bit stable-lantern, man, and lat Robert here
Bee 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., Rothie-
den, Driftshire, Scotland.
As he was not immediate with big answer, Peter Lumley,
one of the group, a lazy ne'er-do-weel who had known better
daySj^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."
14 ROBERT FALCONER.
From Sandj this would have been nothing but a good-hu-
mored attempt at facetiousness. From Lumley it meant spite,
because Robert's praise was in his ears.
" I dinna preten' to ken ae mair than ye do yersel', Mr.
Luraley; 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 naethin' 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.
"Ile'Unobehang'tfor closin' yowrmou', 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 parlor,
held sacred by all about the house. She was paralytic,
and unable to attend to her guests further than by giving or-
ders 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.
BOBERT FALCONER 15
" Noo ye muunna gang awa', till ye get something," she said,
after talring the receipt in request from a drawer within her
reaqh, 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, 3 e 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 ho 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
Win' piper 0' Portcloddie? Can ye tell me, Miss Napier?"
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 0' 'm. I div my best,
mem, but, never taatin' mysel', I canna aye tell hoo muckle's
i' the wame 0' 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 Napier, 'at they're sae
ta'en wi'?" asked Robert..
' Atweel, I dinna ken yet. She's ower bonnie by a'.accoonta
16 ROBERT FALCONER.
to be gaein' about 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. Sha
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 relation to the auld captain, and she's gaein' doon the
street as sune's Caumil's ready to tak' her bit boxiea i' the
barrow. But I doobt there'll be maist three barrowfu'a 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 towns-people, but had now fallen in estima-
tion. Upon a stone at the door of what seemed an out-house
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,"
ROBKRT FALCONER. 17
The fact was, that Shargar's character, whether by imputa-
tion frcftn his mother, or derived from his own actions, was
none of the best. The consequence was that, although scarcely
one of the neighbors 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 oflFering 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, then, Shargar, ye lazy beggar ! Or are ye frozen
to the door-stane ? Is' awa' for a kettle o' bilin' water to
lowse ye."
" Na, na, Bob. J'm no stucken. I'm only some stiff wi' the
cauld; for wow, but I am cauld ! " said Shargar, rising with
difficulty. " Gie's ahaud o' yer han', Bob."
Robert gave him his hand, and Shargar was straightway
upon his feet.
" Come awa' noo, as fest and quaiet's as ye can."
" What are ye gaein' to du wi' me, Bob? "
" What's that to you, Shargar? "
" Naething. Only I wad like to ken."
" Hae patience, and ye will ken. Only mind ye do as 1
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
18 ROBERT FALCONER.
The latter turned away, and, passing Robert, went into the
inn.
" Wha's that? " asked Robert.
"Idinnaken," 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 did he say to ye? "
" He said was the deevil at my lug, that I did naethia'
but caw my ban's to bits upo' my sLoothers."
" 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 quite eneuch."
" Weel dune, Shargar ! What said he to that? "
" He leuch, and speirt gin I wad list, and gae me a shil-
lin'."
" Ye didna tak' it, Shargar? " asked Robert in some alarm.
" Ay, did I. Catch me no takin' a shillin' ! "
" But they'll baud ye till't."
" Na, na. I'm owre in-kneed for a sodger. But that maa
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 didna ken wha it was? "
" 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
same out with a penny loaf in one hand, and a twopenny loaf
in the other.
"Gie'sabit, Bob," said Shargar. "I'm as hungry as I
am cauld."
" Bide ye still," returned Robert. " There's a time for a'
things, and your time's no come to forgather wi' this loaf yet.
Does na it smell fine? It's new frae the bakehoose no teii
minutofl ago. I ken by the feel o' 't."
ROBERT FALCONER. 19
"Lat me feel," 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'lldo naethin' o' the kin'," returned Robert, darting
his hand at his collar. "Gie me the shillin'. Ye' 11 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 a 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 keep-
ing 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 frightened, Robert."
" Dinna be a fule. Grannie winna bite aF yer heid. She
had ane till her denner, the day, an' it was ill singed."
" What ane o'?"
" A sheep's heid, ye 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 straight-
20 ROBERT FALCOKBB.
way stood in the kitchen-door, a fierce picture in a deal-frame
By this time Robert had closed the outer door, and was follow-
ing at Shargar's he'ela.
" 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. Djnna 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' to the mistress. I s' hae nae sic doin's i' iny hoose.''
"It's nae your hoose, Betty. Dinna lee."
" Well, I s' hae nae sic things gang by my kitchie-door.
There, Robert! what'll ye mak o' that? There nae offence,
there, I houp, gin it suldna be a'thegither my ain hoose. Tak
Shargar oot o' that, or I s' awa', 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'
if ye speak 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 speira
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
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.
"Hand 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 mada
for the parlor,' little thinking to what she liad become an un-
willing accomplice, for she never imagined that moie than an
evening's^ visit was intended by Shargar, which in itself
BOBBRT FALCONER. 21
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 armor 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 dis-
cover 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 for-
tunately was not so bare as the one in the other ro6m, although
it had not been used for many years, for an old mattress cov-
ered the boards with which it was bottomed.
" Gang in there, Shargar. Ye'll be warmer there than upon
the door-step ony gait. Pit alF yer shune."
Sharger 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 dark-
ness, 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
potato 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 heaven ! " 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
Boon 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
22 ROBERT FALCONER.
of the house finding him out, for she could hardly be sup-
posed 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 eifect 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 his 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 tha
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 were in a straighi
ROBERT FALCOKBK. 23
line for The Boar's Head, stopping under the archway only
when his master drew bridle at the door of the iim.
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 si-iter. Miss Letty's hair was gath-
ered in a great knot at the top of her hea^d, 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 humor upon it, especially about
the mouth. If a spirit of satire could be supposed converted
into something Christian bj an infusion of the tenderest lov-
ing-kindness and humanity, remaining still recognizable not-
withstanding that all its bitterness was gone, such was the ex-
pression 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
Bilk, with a lace collar. Her hands were small and white.
The moment the traveller stopped at the door. Miss Napier
started.
"Letty," she said, " what'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 yc, and
maybe she wadna be ower ceevil. What can he be efter
noo7"
"What wad the grayhound be efter but hare?" returned
Miss Letty.
" Hoot ! nonsense ! He kens nae thing aboot her. liang to
the door, lassie."
Miss Letty obeyed.
" Wha's there?" she asked, somewhat sharply, as sha
opened it, " that neither knocks nor ca's ? " Preserve 's a' 1
jfl't you, my lord? "
" Hoo ken ye me. Miss Letty, without seein' my face ? "
84 ROBERT FALOOITER.
" 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 hia
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. Caumuil ! Yer lordship
never said ye wanted yer lordship's horse ta'en. I thocht yo
micht be gaein' on to The Bothie. Tak' Black Geordie here,
Caumil. Come into the parlor, my lord."
"How d'ye do, Miss Napier?" said Lord Rothie, as he en-
tered the room. " Hefe's this jade of a sister of youra
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 ! curse your brandy ! Bring me a gill of good Glen-
dronach."
"Rin, Letty. His lordship's cauld. I canna rise to offer
ye the arm-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 Napier. 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 ony thing that's
fit to be gi'en ye."
"True. Heaven's gifts are seldom much worth the ask-
ing."
" Haud yer tongue, my lord, and dinna bring doon a judg-
ment upo' my hoose, for it wad be missed oot o' Rothieden."
I' You're right there. Miss Napier. And here comes the
whiskey 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,
ROBSBT FALCONER. 2c
while he sipped the whiskey neat from a wineglass. 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 disap-
peared, 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
bis own way.
" Any customers by the mail to-night, Miss Napier? " he
asked, in a careless tone.
" Naebody particlar, 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 frien' 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 Napier, 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'U yer lordship hae to yer supper? "
" I would like a dish o' your sweetbreads and kidneys."
" Noo, think o' that ! " returned the landlady, laughing.
"You great fowk wad hae the verra coorse o' natur' turned
opside doon to shuit yersels. Wha ever heard o' calves at
this time o' the year? "
" Weel, anything you like. Who was it came by the mail,
did you say ?" '
J' I said naebody particlar, my lord."
i?'" Well, I'll just go and have a look at Black Geordie."
,.." Verra weel, my lord. Letty, rin an' luik efter him;
.r*
26 ROBERT FALCOI^EB.
aud as sune's he's roon' the neuk, tell Lizzie no to say a woi d
about 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-
parlor, 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 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 her 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
eit, 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 stop-
ping 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 aa
she appeared in the eyes of Dooble Sanny ; nor, I venture to
think, had he thought as the shoemaker did, would he yet hav
ROBERT FALCONER. 27
dared to address her in other than the \rords of such respect aa
he could still feel in the presence of that which was more noble
than himself.
Whether or not on his visit to the siaole he tound 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 towns-people to a club. To this, knowing that the
talk will throw a glimmer on several matters, I will now in-
troduce my reader, as a spectator, through the reversed tele-
scope 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 objection-
able 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 honor. 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 person-
ality 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 sufiBcient deposit in the
hands of Mr. Thomson, the banker, agent, that is, for the
county bank, to secure him against any necessity for taking
28 ROBERT FALCONER.
to cotton shirts himself, which were an abomination and offence
unpardonable in his eyes.
" Can ye tell me, Mr. Cocker," he Said, "what male'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 ony thing o' the kin' aboot ban' to beplay-
acks 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 masticat-
ing 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 tlie disgrace o' 't."
" 'Deed for the kissin'," said Mr. Thomson, a portly, com-
fortable-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 likely to kick oot the prince.
Do ye min' hoo he did whan the markis taxed him wi' ? "
" Haud a quaiet sough," interposed Mr. Cruickshank, tha
solicitor ; " there's a drap i' the hoose."
This was a phrase well understood by the company, indicat-
ing the presence of some one unknown, or unfit to be trusted
As he spoke he looked towards the further 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 jjf saying something, and pointed fur-
tively where the soliwPor had only looked.
A dim figure was descried at a table in the farthest cornel
aF tb'" room, and they proceeded to carry out the plan they
generally adopted to get rid of a stranger.
ROBERT FALCONER. 29
"Ye made use o' a curious auld Scot's 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 snuiF after the word, and then, passing the box to Mr. Cocker,
a sip from his glass before he went on : " the phrase gentle-
men, 'a drap i' the hoose,' no doobt refers to an undesirable
presence ; for ye're well awaur that it's a most unpleasin' dis-
covery, in winter especially, to find a drop o' water hang-
in' 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 held. What mak' ye o' the
phrase, no confined to the Scot's tongue, I believe, o' an eaves-
dropper ? The whilk, no doobt, represents a body that hings
aboot yer winnoek, like a drap hangin' ower abune it frae the
eaves, therefore called an eaves-dropper. 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 ears to hear what be 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 ma entered,
who was received with unusual welcome.
"Bless my sowl ! " said the president, rising; "if? 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 readi-
ness, which made him a favorite.
" 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
80 EOBERT FALCONER.
pretentiously hushed, but none the less audible. " There's 4
drapin yon en' o' the hoose, Mr. Lammie."
" Hoot ! never min' the man," said Lammie, looking round
jn the direction indicated. "Is' warran' he cares as little
aboot hiz aa we care aboot him. There's nae treason nooa
days. I carena wha hears what I say."
" For my pairt," said Mr. Peddie, " I canna help wonner
in' gin it cud be oor auld frien' Mr. Faukener."
" Speyk o' the de'il^^" said Mr. Lammie.
"Hoot! na," returned Peddie, interrupting. "Hewasna
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 dootin' An-
drew'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 favorite, Andrew ! "
"Whaurdee'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 coflSns, 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' 11 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 hia
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,"
Baid Mr. Cocker.
"Me!" returned MacGregor, with indignation. " Th
Lord forgie ye for hinting at sic a thing, Mr. Cocker.'
KOBBRT FALCONKR. 31
Me tak to cottin ! I wad aa sune spin the haii frae Sawtan'a
hurdles. 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 nae-
body 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 cotton 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, Aa' ither stuff.
Healthier ! What neist ? "
" Somebody tellt me," said the bookseller, inwardly con
Bcious 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 cottoa
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
Btill 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 manufac-
turer ; for they all knew what would be the penalty if they failed.
A good deal of talk followed, and a great deal of whiskey 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 ? "
32 ROBERT FALCONER.
" I never said he iraa 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 game. 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 rela-
tion o' Andrew's, ye ken a second cousin, or something.
He'll be hame or lang, I'm thinkin', wi' a fine pension."
" He wanna weir a cotton sark, I'll be boon'," said Mac-
Gregor.
" What's the auld leddy gaein' to du wi' that lang-legged
grandson o' hers, Andrew'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 Mac-
Gregor, whom nobody heeded, for fear of again arousing his
anger.
" Hoo 'ill she manage that, honest woman? She maunhao
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,
" Mon'y 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' thi^ year. I wad ken that,
gin ye pi ease, "j,
"How shoind 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 tbae Algerine pirates 'at
Lord Exmooth's bet the hips o' and that's my opinion."
"He's nae amo' your feet, MacGregor," said the banker
"Ye micht jist lat him lie "
ROBERT FALCONER. 33
" Gin 1 had him doon, faith gin I wadna lat him lie ! I'll
jist tell ye ae thing, gentlemen, that cam' to my kno'wledge 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' 11
hearken noo; but it's no lauchin', though there was sculdud-
dery 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, gentlemen," 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 ia
to the honor of some of you to listen to such a farrago of
lies."
" Lies ! my lord," said MacGregor, starting to his feet
Mr. Cocker looked dismayed, and Mr. Lammie sheepish, al)
of them dazed and dumfoundered, except the old weaver, who,
as his lordship turned to leave the room, added :
" Lang 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 tht
last drop any of you drink in this house ! " he cried.
" The taed may tell the frog what the rat did i' the taed'a
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 efther auld Simeon," said Mac-
Gregor. " I never thocht to be sae favored ! Et ! but I hae
84 ROBERT FALCONER.
langed, and noo I hae spoken ! " with which words be 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 Kothie returned to the landlady in her parlor.
" 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 For-
syth's, enjoyed the idea of it.
" Ye keep an ill-tongued hoose, Miss Napier," answered his
lordship.
Miss Napier guessed at the truth at once, that he had
overheard some free remarks on his well-known license of
behavior.
" Weel, my lord, I do my best. A body canna keep an inn
and speir the 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
Napier."
"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 him-
self. 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 xBfm
the red hangings. Miss Letty set down the candle, and, bid-
ding 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 bo in his case, it was only, from whatever ancient source
derived, the custom of the house in regard to this pjirticulaj
ROBERT FALCONEE. 35
room and a corresponding chamber on the opposite aide 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 whiskey and hot water. All but MacGregcr, how-
ever, 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
"Jominie, 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' kail-yard," suggested Peddie.
" They're ma ain ! a' ma ain ! He canna lay's finger on
onything o' mine but myservan' lass," cried the weaver, slap-
ping 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 Macgreger's had eneuch, mem, an' a drappy ower."
" Sen' Caumil doon to Mrs. MacGregor, to say wi' my
colnpliments 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 hiff
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 say in', Mr.
Cheerman and gentlemen "
' Mistress MacGregor'U be efter ye hersel', gin ye dinna
gang." said Meg.
86 ROBERT FALCONER.
" Let her come. Duv ye think I'm flejt at her? De'il a
Btep'll I gang till I please. Tell her that, Meg."
Meg left the room, with a broad grin on her good- humored
^ce.
"What's the fool lauchin' at?" exclaimed MacGregor,
starting to his feet.
The whole company rose likewise, using their endeavor 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 will o' mine ain yet. Am I to gang hame wi'
a lassie to haud me oot o' the gutters ? Gin ye daur to alloc
that I'm drunk, ye ken hoo ye'll fare, for de'il a fit 'U I gang
ooto' this till I hae anither tum'ler."
"I'm thinkin' there's mair o' 's jist want ane mail," said
Peddie.
A confirmatory murmur airose 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 reproach-
fully.
" Ye needna luik at me that gait, sirs. I'm no fou," said
he.
" 'Deed no. Naebody tak's ye to be," answered the chair-
man. "Meggie, there's naebody's hadower muckle yet, and
twa or three o' 's hasna had freely eneuch. Jist gang an'
fess a mutchkin mair. An' there '11 be a shillin' to yersel'j
lass."
Meg retired, but straightway returned.
" Miss Napier says there's no a drap mair drink to be had
i' this hoose the nicht."
" Here, Meggie," said the chairman, " there's yer shil-
lin' ; and ye jist gang to Miss Lettie, and gie her my compli-
ments, and say tbat 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 aedrap o' 't."
Meg withdrew once more, and returned.
"Miss Letty's compliments, sir, and Miss Napier 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
ROBERT FALCONER. 37
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 latter
declaring that he would not go home. But the rest walked
oui; and left him ; and, at last, appalled by the silence, he rose
wTlh 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 parlor at the little dark
mahogany table, in which the lamp, shaded towards his grand-
mother's side, shone brilliantly reflected. Her face being thus
hrdden 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 horse-hair, had a certain look of hardness, no
doubt. A shepherdess and lamb, worked in silks whose bril-
liance had now faded half-way to neutrality, hung in a black
frame, with brass rosettes at the corners, over the chimneyr
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.
38 ROBERT FALCONER.
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 of-
fence, rose over a well-formed mouth, revealing more moral
than temperamental sweetness ; while the chin was rather de-
ficient 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 endeavor 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, &ni
Baid:
"Grandmamma?^'
ROBERT FALCONER. 39
gaein' to tell me something," said Mrs. Falconer to
herself. "Will't be aboot the puir barfut cratur they ca'
Shargar, or will't be aboot the piece he pat iatil's pooch ? "
" Weel, laddie? " she said aloud, willing to encourage him.
" Is't true that my gran'father was the blin' piper o' Port-
cloddie?"
" 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 of Culloden he had to rin for't. He wasna wi' his ain
clan at the battle, for his father had broucht him to the Law-
lands whan he was a lad ; but he played the pipes till a reg'-
ment raised by the Laird o' Portcloddie. And for 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-grand-
father wasna lang or he merried anither wife. He was sic a
man as ony woman niicht hae been prood to merry. She was
the daughter o' an Episcopalian minister, and she keepit a
school in Portcloddie. I saw him first mysel' when I was
aboot twenty, that was jist the year afore I was merried.
He was a considerably auld man than, but as straucht as an ell-
wand, and jist pooerfu' beyond belief His wrist was as thick
as baith mine ; and years and years efter that, whan he tuik
his son, my husband, and his grandson, my Andrew "
" 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 ban', jist for the fun o't, he kneipit their heida
thegither, as gin they bed been twa stalks o' rib grass. But
maybe it was the lauchin' o' the twa lads, for they thoucht it
unco fun. They were maist killed wi' lauchin'. But the last
time he did it, the puir auld man coughed sair efterhin, and
40 ROBERT FALCONER.
had to gang and lie doon. He didna live lang efter that. But
it wasna that 'at killed him, ye ken."
" But hoc cam he to play the pipes? "
"He likit the pipes. And yer grandfather he tuik to the
fiidle."
"But what for did they ca' him the Win' piper o' Port-
cloddie?"
"Because he turned blin' lang afore his en' cam, and there
was naething ither he cud do. And he wad aye mak an hon-
est 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 let 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
epeikin' 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 be-
hoved to speik when 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 fellow 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 con-
Bdienoe, for he wadna hae been piper till's regiment at the bat-
tle o' Culloden gin he hadna pipit weel. Yon's hislcilthini^in
ROBERT PALCONKB. 41
up i' the press i' the garret. Te'U hae to grow, Robert, my
man, afore ye fill that."
" And whase was that blue coat wi' the bonny gowd buttons
upon'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
blu^ 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
Bit."
" I wad only exchange th'em 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^ae 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 upstairs 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
tte 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
color. 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 conjec-
ture. But Robert caught him by the shoulders, and shook
42 ROBERT FALCONKB.
him awake with no gentle hands, upon which he began to ruh
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 potato, gin ye want ony-
thing mair. And here's a bit o' reamy cakes tu ye. Ye
winna get that in ilka hoose i' the toon. It's my grannip'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 con-
science ever since.
" Hoo got ye a haud o' 't? " asked Shargar, evidently sup-
posing 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.
"Ami to rise?" asked Shargar, not understanding thj
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 ouldna lay yer ban's upo' a drap o' whuskey, cud ye,
Bob?"
Robert stared in horror. A boy like that asking for whiskey !
and in his grandmother's house, too !
" Shargar," he said, solemnly, "there's no a drap o' whuskey
i' this hoose. It's awfu' to bear 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 hor-
ror, his eyes looking from the glorm of the bed like those of a
BOBEBT FALCONER. 43
half-strangled dog. But it was a false alarm, as Robert pres-
ently returned to announce.
" Gin ever ye sae muckle as mention whuskey again, no to
Bay 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 cot. 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 hoi 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 cer-
tainly 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 off-
spring of a nobleman and a gypsy lay asleep in the garret,
covered with the cloak of an old Highland rebel.
At nine o'clock, Mrs. Falconer rang tHe bell for Bettie, and
they had worship. Robert read a chapter, and his grand-
mother prayed an extempore prayer, in which they that looked
at the wine when it is red in the cup, and they that wor-
44 ROBERT FALCONER.
shipped the woman clothed in scarlet and seated upon the
seven hills, came in for a strange mixture, in which the veii-
geande 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 con-
science, that they may know verily that there is a God thai
ruleth in the earth. Didna lat them gang to hell, 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 sus-
pect it who entered the parlor 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 the garden at the back of the house, the door of
which opened from the parlor close to the head of his grand-
mother'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 can-
dle, for light enough came through from the parlor, his grand-
mother 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 lib-
erating Shargar from his prison, except what arose from the
boy's own unwillingness to forsEtke 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 him-
self, ho 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,
BOBERT FALCONER. " 45
until Bettie was called in to give her careful assistance to
the final disposition of the bed, when Shargar's exit could be
delayed no longer. Then he mounted to the foot of the sec-
ond 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 house-breaking, 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 THJpi RBSCCE !
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 amongs*
46 ROBBRT FALCONER.
his school-fellows. Nor did the fact of his being ragged anq
dirt J affect his social reception to his discomfort. But the
accumnlated facts of the oddity of his personal appearance, his
supposed imbecility, and the bad character borne by hia
mother, placed him in a very unenviable relation to the tyran-
nical 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 hand-
someness 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 diffi-
culty 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 par-
ticle of the aggressive, and all its defensive of as purely nega-
tive 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 swallow-
ing 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 oat-meal 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
ROBERT WALCONER. 47
your first duty is to take care of yourself. She was generally
regarded as a gypsy, but I doubt if she had any gypsyolood 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 tcNihe recognition of the
growing relation between Robert and Shargar was the follow-
ing. Upon a certain Saturday, some sidereal power inimical
to boys must have been in the ascendant, a Saturday of bril-
liant 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 Cat-
echism 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 ex-
cited 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 simultane-
ously upon Shargar.
Robert was sitting plunged in one of his day-dreams, for he,
too, had learned his catechism, when he was roused from hia
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 Catechism, 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 like-
wise his hands, at full stretch ; then, having attached about a
48 ROBERT FALCONER.
dozen strings to as many elf-locks of his pale-red. hair, which
was neTer cut or trimmed, had tied them to various pegs in the
wall behind him, so that the poor fellow could not stir. They
ware 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 them at Shargar's face.
For some time Shargar did not utter a word ; and Robert,
although somewhat indignant at the treatment he was receiv-
ing, felt as yet no impulse to interfere, for success was doubt-
ful. 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, mak-
ing channels through the ink which now nearly covered them,
he could bear it no longer. He took out his knife, and, undei
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
\shich 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 inter-
fering 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 djd not move, and for one moment could not speak,
BOBKRT FALCONER. 49
but the next he gave a shriek that made Robert think he waa
far worse scalded than turned out to be the case. He darted
to him in rage, took the tuseen 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
waa 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 miiigled 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 Fal-
coner which has chiefly attracted me to the office of his biog-
rapher. There may have been in it the exercise of some
patronage ; probably it was not pure from the pride of benefi-
cence ; 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, be-
gan to crystallize into character.
But the effect of the new relation was far more rema'rkable
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 favor-
ite 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 flea in his ear." For the character of the mother
was always associated with the boy, and avenged upon him,
4
50 ROBEET FALCONER.
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 imprison-
ments, he returned with fresh zest, and, indeed, with some
ephemeral ardor, 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 neighborhood, 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 sug-
gest that such lists of names, even although forming a portion
of Holy Writ, could scarcely be reckoned of equally divine au-
thority with St. Paul's Epistle to the Romans.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE A.NGEL UNAWARES.
Although Betty seemed to hold little communication with
the outer world, she yet contrived somehow or other to bring
ROBEBT FALCONER. 51
home what gossip was going to the ears of her mistress, who
had very few visitors ; for, while her neighbors held Mrs. Fal-
coner in great and evident respect, she was not the sort of per-
son to sit down and have a neios 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 tha butcher's
for it w^s 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-story 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 English-
woman in the place, until the arrival, at the Boar's Head, of
the lady so much admired by Dooble Sanny.
Robert was upstairs 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 laid down in his clothes, waiting for such time
as might afibrd 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
52 ROBERT TAIiCONBR.
beside him struck eleven, he could bear it no longer, and
finally rose to do his endeavor.
Opening the door of the closet slowly and softly, he. crept
upon his hands and knees into the middle of the parlor, feel-
ing very much like a thief, as, indeed, in a measure he was,
though from a blameless motive. But just as he had accom-
plished 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, Lord ! thoo
knowest. My ain Andrew ! To think o' my bairnie that I
cairriet, and leuch i' my face to think o' 'im bein' a repro-
bate ! 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 'a
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 forever an' ever, smothering the stars ! And my Andrew
doon i' the hert o' 't cryin' ! And me no able to win till him !
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. Lord ! I'm verra ill-fashioned. I beg yer pardon.
I'm near oot o' my min'. Forgi'e me, Lord ! for I hardly
ken what I'm sayin'. He was my ain babe, my ain Andrew,
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' 'im. An' it's a' drink drink an' ill company ! He
wad hae dune weel eneuch gin they wad only hae latten him
KOBERT FALCONBB. 53
be. What for maun men be aye drink-drinkin' at something
or ither ? /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. God ! ance mair I pray
thee to turn him frae the error o' 's ways afore he goes hence
an' isna more. And oh, dinna lat Robert gang efter him, as
he's like eneuch to do. Gie me grace to baud him ticht, that
he may be to the praise o' thy glory forever 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,
aigi 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 quadru-
ped, 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, althought 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
54 ROBERT FALCONER.
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 Bettie 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
*tood 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 night-gown, 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 assur-
ance 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 any-
body 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 llie
angel had stood went up and up, and found Shargar wide
awake with expectant hunger. He, too, had caught a glim-
mer 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
ROBERT FALCONEE. 55
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 in-
stance. And if the angels came to see grannie, vrhf 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 thp Boar'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 dis-
covered a few steps of a stair leading down to a door. Curiosity
naturally led ber 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 moveleps 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-stairs, 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 pasised into other hands, it had never entered the
minds of the simple people who occupied the contiguous dwell-
ings to build ap the door-waj between.
OO ROBERT FALCON KR.
CHAPTER IX.
A DISCOVERT.
The friendsLip of Robert had gained Shargar the favorable
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 attract-
ing 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 eyea
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 sug-
gested 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 tako
ROBEET FALCONER 67
tLtf provisions to school with him, and eat them there, a pro-
ceciding of which she certainly did not approve, but for the re-
proof 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, possi-
bly 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 behavior of Kohert, 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 do-
main. 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 :
, Tlie 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 show-
ing the naked couples from roof-tree to floor. Besides, it
contained no end of dark corners, with which his childish im-
agination 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 ho
58 ROBERT FALCONER,
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 im-
pulse 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 Shar-
gar ; 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 stuff and nonsense, Shargar. Do ye think I dinna
ken a fiddle whan I see ane? "
" Stuff and nonsense yersel' !" cried Shargar, in indigna-
tion, from the bed. " Gie's a baud 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 tollt ye sae ! " he exclaimed, triumphantly. "Maybe
ye'll trust me next time."
"An' I tellt jroM," retorted Robert, with an equivocation
altogether unworthy of his growing honesty, " I was sure 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'."
" Not to know a fiddle-C3se ! " reflected Shargar, with aa
much of contempt as it was posfable for him to show.
" 1 tell ye what, Shargar," returned Robert, indignantly,
ROBERT FALCONER. 59
m
" ye may know the box o' a fiddle better nor I do, but de'il hae
me gin I dinna know the fiddle itsel' raither better nor ye do in
B 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 Sbargar, incapable of
jealousy. "We can gang to a' the markets thegither and
gaither half-pence."
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 shoe-
maker, 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 shoemaker, who was no con-
temptible performer, than he longed to establish such a rela-
tion 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 re-
taining 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,
liaving 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
Buch sounds out of the instrument the moment he got it safely
cuddled under his cheek. So dirty were they, that it was said
60
ROBBRT FALCONER.
Dooble Sanny never required to carry any rosin with him M
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 shoemaker
grew ecstatic. He stopped at the very first note, notwithstand-
ing, 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 cratet 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
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 shoemaker started off at full speed in a strath-
spey, which was soon lost in the wail of a Highland psalm-
tune, giving place 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 shoemaker.
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 lattio' mv
ain wife lie aside me."
EUBEET FALCONER. 61
*' Ay," said Robert, seized with some anxiety about the
volin as he remembered the fate of the wife, "but ye ken
Elspet comes oflF a' the waur sometimes."
Softened by the proximity of the wonderful violin, and itung
afresh by the boy's words as his conscience had often stung
Lim 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 mo, Robert, and lat heariu' be believin'.
I never was sae drunk but I cud tune my fiddle. Mair by
token, ance they found me lyin' o' my back i' the Corrie, an'
the waiter, 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' /ier."
"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 trust to ye,
Sanders. I canna bide longer the nicht ; but maybe ye'U tell
me hoo to baud her the neist time 'at I come, will ye ? "
"Thatlwull, Robert; come when ye like. An' gin ye
come o' ane 'at cud play this fiddle as this fiddle deserves to
be play't, ye'll do me credit."
" Ye min' what that sumph Lumley said to me the ithei
nicht, Sanders, aboot my grandfather?"
" Ay, weel eneuch. A dish o' drucken havers ! "
" It was true eneuch aboot my great-grandfather, though."
"No! Was'trailly?"
"Ay. He was the best piper in 'a 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
thoucht it ? Faith ! we maun hae you fiddle as weel as yer
lucky-daidy pipit But here's the King o' Bashan comm'
efter his butes, an' them no half dune yet ! " exclaimed Doo-
ble Sanny, settling in haste to his awl. He'll be roarin' maij
like a bull o' the country than the king o' 't."
""i ROBERT FALCONBR,
As Robert departed, Peter Ogg came in, and as he pasao^J
the window, he heard the shoemaker averring :
" I haena risen frae my stule sin' ane o'clock ; but there's
a sicbt to be dune to them, Mr. Ogg."
Indeed, Alexander ab Alexandra, 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.
iXOTHER DISCOVERT 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, see-
ing 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 jiat distinekly say 'at I heard the
door," she answered.
" Whaur's Robert? " was her next question.
" He's generally up the stair aboot this boor, mem, that
is, when he's no i' the parlor 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 held to
gang considerin' aboot it. He'll hae some ploy o' 's ain, dm
doobt. Laddies will be laddies, je ken, mem "
ROBERT FALCONER. 63
" I doobt, Betty, ye'U be aidin' au' abettin'. An' it disna
become yer years, Betty."
"My years are no to fin' faut m', mem. They're weel
eneuch."
"That's naetbing 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 frights me frae speirin' ae ither ques-
tion at ye. An' that's hoc ye win cot o' 't. But noo 'at it's
aboot my ain grandson I'm no gaein' to lose him to save a
woman o' your years, wha oucht to know better ; an' sae I'll
speir at ye, though ye suld be driven to lee like Sawtan him-
s'eW What's he aboot whan he gangs up the stair? Noo ! "
" Weel, as sure's deith, I dinna ken. Ye drive me to
Bweirin', mem, an' no to leein'."
" I carena. Hae ye no idea aboot it, than, Betty ? "
"Weel, mem, I think sometimes he canna be well, and
maun hae a 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 things ! But that's no the pint.
I aye hae to baud ye to the pinr, 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."
64 ROBERT FALCONBB.
" Weel, I hae had eneuch o' yer answers, Betty. Gang and
teli Robert to come here dirookly. "
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 clar 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," retorved Betty, losing her tempei a little.
" I can be as deif s ither towk mysel' whiles."
When Betty grew angi-y, 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 toue of one who had just arrived
at an important resolution :
" Betty, we'll jist awa' up th* utair an' luik."
" Weel, mem, I hae nae objections."
" Nae 'objections ! What for suM you or ony ither body
hae ony objections to me gaein' whaur i like i' my ain hoose ?
Umph ! " exclaimed Mrs. Falconer, tu/ning 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 wan tit 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, 1
doobt, Betty," concluded Mrs. Falconer, in a mollified tone, aa
she turned and led the way from the room.
They got a candle in the kitchen and proceeded upstairs,
Mrs. Falconer still leading, and Betty following. They did
not even look into the ga'lc-room, not doubting that the dignity
of the best bedroom 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
ROBERT FALCONER. 65
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 con-
stantly, but, beyond the usual musty smell of neglected apart-
ments, 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 b' rabbits. Jist luik i' the nuik there ahin'
the door."
"There's naething here," responded Betty.
" Boon 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 galvanized corpse staring at her from the darkness. Shargar
was in a sitting posture, paralyzed with terror, waiting, like Hi
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 aa.ywhuskey, 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 para-
lyzed. " 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.
66 ROBERT FALCONER.
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
fwm 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 the bed.
Then first recovering his powers of motion, he sprang 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 hia
terror, " I wat ye dinna carry yer coats 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 st9,ir, supporting herself against the wall, her round-toed
shoes breaking solemnly as she went, took refuge in. the ga'le-
room, and burst into a violent fit of weeping. For such de-
pravity she was not prepared. What a terrible curse hung
over her family ! Surely they were all reprobate from the
birth, 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 mem-
ROBERT FALCONER. 67
ory had broken down, into the exclamation to her next naigh-.
bor, Tam Rhin, with whom she was trying to gossip :
"Eh, Tammas ! that'll be ane o' the slauchtert at Cullo-
den."
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 misera-
ble. In that wretched hovel, his bare feet clasping the clay
floor in constant search of a waving equilibrium, with pitch
darkness around him, and incapable of the simplest philosophi-
cal 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, re-
ceived no reply, thought he was asleep, called louder (for
he 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 search-
68 KOBEBT FALCONER.
Ing hands found no Shargar. Becoming alarmed, he ran down-
stairs to beg a light from Bettie.
When he reached the kitchen, he found Betty's nose as
much in the air as its construction would permit. For a hook-
nosed body, 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, then 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 in-
jured 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 accom-
panied him through life, he went straight to his grandmother's
parlor.
" Well grandmamma," he said, trying to speak as cheer-
fully as he could.
Grannie's prayers had softened her a little, lse she would
have been as silent as Bettie ; 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 with a finality of tone that indicated she
had done her utmost, and had nothing to add.
" Here's a 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 grand-
mother at once. The efibrt 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 prtfdi'
ROBERT FALCONER. 69
gal, Robert, like yer father afore ye. I hae jist been sittin'
here thinkin' wi' mysei' 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. Tm
no bund to keep ye."
" Weel, weel, I s' awa' to Shargar. Him and me 'ill baud
on thegithor 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, Is' 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
Bettie 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 :
" Shargarwiay beaqueanefter a', foronything '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 hia
grannie than any amount of protestation could have done, how-
ever she pretended to take offence at his ill-timed merriment.
Seeing his grandmother staggered, Robert gathered courage
to assume the offensive.
"But, granny! hooever Betty, no to, say you, cud hae
driven oot a puir half-stervit cratur like Shargar, even suppos-
in' he oucht to hae been in coaties, and no in trousers, and the
mither o' him run awa' an' left him, it's mair nor I can unner-
Btan'. I misdoobt me sair but he's gane and droont himsel'."
Robert knew well enough that Shargar would not drown him-
self without at least bidding him good-by ; but he knew, too,
that his grandmother could be wrought upon. Her conscience
was more tender than her feelings ; and this peculiarity occa-
70 ROBERT FALCONER,
sioned part of the mutual non-unclerstaiiding rather tha,n mis*
understanding between her grandson and herself. The first
relation she bore to most that came near her was one of sever-
ity 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
nnfrequently 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 com-
mand, even of rebuke, as if she were compelling the perform-
ance 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 wonder-
fully 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 nov'
elles, as she called them, were such in her estimation, as to be
beyond my powers of characterization. Her commonest in-
KOBERT FALCONER. 71
junction was, " Noo be douce^" ^that is^ sober, uttered to
the soberest boy she could ever have known. But Kobert 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 that they could not be done if his grandmother
knew of his plans. Herein he did her less than justice. But
BO 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 humor 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 disposi-
tion 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 occa-
sional guffaws of laughter.
At the words " droont himsel'," Mrs. Falconer started.
"Bin, 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 fat. She wad be a sair hinnerance to me.
Gin Shargar be to be gotten that is, gin he be in life Is'
get him wantin' Betty. Antl gin ye dinna ken him for the
cratur ye fand i' the garret, he maun be sair changed sin' I
left him there."
72 ROBERT FALCONER.
" Weel, weel, Robert, gang yer wa's. But gin ye be de-
ceivin' me, may the Lord forgie ye, Robert, for sair ye'll
need it."
" Nae fear o' that, grannie," returned Robert, from the
etreet-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
Btept she butt the Loose" 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 in-
tend her mistress to hear. And although she heard well
enough, her mistress adopted the subterfuge. " But I'll swear
the crater /saw was in 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 insinuate to me that a son o' mine wad tell ony-
thingbutthe trowth?"
" Na, na, mem. But gin that wasna a quean, ye canna deny
but she luikit unco ane, and no a bashful ane eyther."
" Giu he was a loon, he wadna luik like a bashful lass, ony
way, Betty. And there ye're wrang."
" Weel, weel, mem, hae't yer ain way," muttered Betty.
"I wuU hae't my ain way," retorted her mistress, "because
It's the richt way, Betty. An' noo ye maun jist gang up tlia
Btair, an' get the place clean t oot an' put in order."
" I wull do that, mem."
"Ay wull ye. An' luik weel aboot, Betty, you that can
ROBERT FALCONER. 73
see sae weel, in case there suld be ony cattle aboot j for he'a
Dane o' the cleanest, yon dame ! "
" I wuU do that, mem."
" An' gang direckly, afore he comes back."
" Wha comes back? "
" Kobert, of coorse."
"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, sniflBng and starting
at once.
" / 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. " 1
thocht ye wad come efter me."
" Of coorse," answered Robert, coolly. " Come awa'
hame."
" Whaurtill?" asked Shargar, in dismay.
" Ilame to yer ain bed at my grannie's."
" Na, na," said Shargar, hurriedly, retreating within the
door of the hovel. " Na, na. Bob, lad, 1 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, /can tell ye."
74 ROBERT FALCONER.
It required a good deal of persuasion, but at last Eobert
prevailed upon Shargar to return. For was not Robert hia
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 parlor, 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 these trowsers,
not believing trowsers essential to blessedness either, but know-
ing 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 aver-
ment.
" Here he is, grannie ; and gin ye bena satisfeed 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. Fal-
coner examined Shargar from head to foot with the eye of
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 a while with various directiona
ROBERT FALCONER. 75
in regard or cleansing, for the carrying out of whicli Robert
was only too glad to give his word. Slie 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 waa
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 shoemaker, like an evil conscience,
till they had finished them. Thus grievous was Shargar's in-
troduction 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-armor,
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 relig-
ious 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 well as Saturdays, be-
sides 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
76 ROBERT FALCONER.
a grumble, for the sake of his friend alone, whose dog he re.
mained as much as ever. But his past life of cold and neg
lect, 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 pagan-
ism, 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 favor upon her
prodigal son Andrew. Nor from her own acknowledged relig-
ious 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 weni
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 tlie
character of a wag, of which he was totally unaware himself.
Indeed, eilthough he had more than the ordinary share cf hu
ROBERT FAICONER, 77
mor, I suspect it was nc^so much his fun as his earnest that
got bim the character : fo^e woald 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'U
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 Tieavy curtain of his gross nature, and let the sky
shine through. He ought to have been set fiddling every Sun-
day 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 gen-
tle 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 will-
ingly anger the powers above ; but it was sometimes a sore temp-
tation, especially after he got possession of old Mr. Falconer's
wonderful instrument.
" Hoots, man ! " he would say to Robert ; " dinna han'lo her
as gin she war an egg-box. Tak' baud o' her as gin she war a
leevin' crater. Ye maun jist straik her canny, an' while 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 cjinna bide to be centred an' pu'd this gait and that
gait. Come to me, my bonny leddy. Ye'U tell me yer story,
winna ye, my pet? "
T8 ROBERT PALCONER.
And with every gesture aa if he ^re humoring a shy and
invalid girl, he would, as he said, wire the music out of her in
Bobs 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 spir-
itual ; and it was only upon occasion that his heavenly com-
panion, 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. Ealconer 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 shoemaker was a good
and patient teacher, and although it took Robert rSttlier 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 ab-
sence exciting his grandmother's suspicion and inquiry was fai'
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 re-
vive 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 tlie 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 as-
sume 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 dg, for many reasons, to go oftener to
the shoemaker's especially now that the days were gettina
BOBERT FALCONER. 79
longer. Nor was that what he wanted. He wanted oppor-
tunity 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 odors 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 hear-
ing 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 stand-still, and
che dust that filled it to have fallen from the plumes of passing
eenturies. 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 sjme of the
sockets the oil had as yet dried only into a paste ; although to
Eobert 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, phi-
losopher although in some measure he was already, he appre-
ciated 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 se-
curely fastened, and with a strange mingling of fear and curi-
osity 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
80 KOBERT FALCONER.
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 de-
sired, 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 ht
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, than. 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 baud her i'
the best o' shune a' the lave o' her days."
" That wadna be mucklo, Sanders, for she hasna had a new
pair sin' ever I mind."
KOBBRT FALCONER. 81
" But I wad baud Betty in shune as weel."
" Bettj pays for her ain shune, I reckon."
" Weel, I -wad baud you in shune, and yer bairns, and yer
bairns' bairns," cried the shoijmaker, with enthusiasm.
"Hoot, toot, man! Lang or that ye' 11 be fiddlin' i' the new
Jerooslem."
"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 clamps, 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 Kobert ; " but ye suld mak' a pint
o' seein' for yersel'."
" (rin I thocht there wad be fiddles there, faith I wad hae a
try. It wadna be muckle o' a Jerooslem 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
Buld es Noah's 'at he played i' the ark whan the de'il cam' in
by to hearken. I wad fain he 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 when ance I'm throu wi' this job. That'll be next
week, 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 began 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 hia
threads.
" Ye're na 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."
82 ROBEEI FALCONER.
" Gang to Hecklebirnie wi' her, and that's three milea
ayont hell."
"Na; -we maun win farther nor that. There canna be
muckle fiddlin' there."
" Weel, tak' her to the new Jerooslem. I s' gang doon to
Lucky Leary's, and fill mysel' roarin' fou, an' it'll be a' your
l)lame."
" I doobt ye'll get the 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 greyhound, 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 in 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 cripple, I doobt,
like yer wife," he answered, with indignation.
" Dinna be aye fiingin' a man's fau'ts in 's face. It jist
mak's 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 wJth 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 suno get a new
thairm till her," he added, in a tone of sorrowful commisera-
tion and condolence, as ho took the violin from the case, ten-
derly, 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
ROBERT FALCONER. 83
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 lie had done
his bonny leddy, till the doors and window's 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 Kobert 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 sohool-boys of
Rotheiden. 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, be
managed to give Shargar the slip, left him to the inroads of a
desolate despondency, and stole away to the old factory-gar-
den. The key of that he had managed to purloin from thd
kitchen where it hung; nor was there much danger of ita
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 withip
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
84 ROBERT FALCONER.
the blasts of winter, went trailing away in the moan of the
fitful wind, and swung back as it sunk to a sigh. The cur-
rant 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, color, form, odor, 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 tete-a-tete with
his violin*. Perhaps he returned from it somewhat disap-
pointed. 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 r"
ROBERT FALCONER. 85
turned 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 favorite violin strains not
yet forgotten by him in his grave, and remembered we}l by
those who had been in his service, not a few of whom lived in
the neighborhood 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 a 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 echo-
ing imagination of the boy, into something preternatural ly
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 compart-
ments. 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 iq
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
86 ROBERT FALCONER.
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 atone of wmmisera-
tion, " it maun be sair to bide. I dinna wonner 'at ye cannot
lie still. But what gars ye gang daunerin aboot A"'s place ?
It's no yours ony langer. Ye ken whan fowk's dcid, they
loose the grip. Ye suld gang hame to yer wife. She micht
say a word to quaet 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 dinnj*
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 arc up, I
wish ye wad speyk to John Thamson no to tak' afi" the day
'at I was awa' last wak, 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, ^' Aj, ay, I ken
it's sax o'clock," went out as she had come in. Robert
ROBKET FALCONER, 87
followed, and saw her safe out of the garden, but did noi re-
turn 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. Ealconer, of course, received
the rumor 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 grew 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 parlor 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 Betfy to the kitchen, over which Robert's room
lay, heard the sounds, put off her creaking shoes, stole
upstairs on her soft white lamb's-wool stockings, and caught the
pair. The violin was seized, put in its case, and carried oif ;
and Mrs. Falconer rejoiced to think she had broken a trap
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 con-
sider tea times more dangerous than that which she had
closed.
When Alexander heard of the affair, he was at first over
whelmed with the misfortune ; but gathering a little heart at
88 ROBERT FALCONER.
last, he set to "working" as he said himself, "like a varra
deevil ; " and as he was the best shoemaker in the town, and
for the time abstained utterly from whiskey, and all sorts of
drink but well-water, he soon managed to save the money nee
essary, 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 in-
fluence 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
ROBERT FALCONER. 89
against its own vitality, straightway send out its searching
roots in another. Of all forces, that of growth is the one irre-
sistihle, 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 remembei
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. AH the women he came in con-
tact with were his grandmother and Betty. He had no recol-
IfiOtion of having ever been kissed. From the darkness and
negation of such an embryo-existence, his nature had been un-
consciously 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 fidd'.e had been the type. It had been the
a/rk 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,
90 ROBERT FALCONER.
and entered into the shadow of the under-world. Like th
white-horsed twins of Lake Kegillus ; 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 be-
tween Tartarus and Olympus.
For now arose within him, not without ultimate good, the
evil phantasms of a theology which would explain all God'a
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." Prac-
tically, 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 be-
lieve, 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 con-
cerned. 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 himseK
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
ROBERT FALCONER. 91
God's help, a heresy all but as dreary and barren as the
former. Not one dreamed of saying at least such a glad
word of prophecy never reached Kothieden that, while no-
body can do without the help of the Father aiiy 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 labor ; that for that the Lord came ; for
that the world was made ; for that we were born into it ; for
that Grod 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 oe
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 eflforts 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 hia
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 efibrts utterly defeated their object by destroy-
ing for the time the desire to prosecute them with the power to
will them. But through the horrible vapors of these vain
endeavors, 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 Egyp-
tian, gloom off his spirits. One of these, strange to say, was
Defoe's "Religious Courtship," and one., Young's '" Night
Taoughts." But there was another which deserves particular
lSitice, inasmuch as it did far more than merely interest or
92 KOBEKT FALCONER.
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, ho
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 be 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 hia
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 folk wad du till ance they're
tried," returned Shargar, cautiously.
Robert did not care to resume the question with one who
BO 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 r-
ROBERT lALCOKER. 93
rolve in due orbit around the mind of the Rev. Hutfli Mac-
Cleary, as projected in a sermon which he had botched up out
of a commentary, failed at last, and flew off into whaf the said
gentleman would have pronounced " very dangerous specula-
tion, 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 sen-
tence, at least, was in his sermon that day, and tlie preacher
no doubt supposed St. Matthew, not St. Matthew Henry, ac-
countable for its origination. In the Limbo into which
Robert's spirit then 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 quiet," 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 quiet, 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 rela-
tion 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, how-
ever, before he looked up from his Bible and began the follow-
ing 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 seek?"
"What for that, laddie? He wanted to gar them come
back again, ye ken."
' But he needna hae ken aboot it in sic a play-actor like
94 ROBERT FALCONER.
gait. He needna hae latten them awa' without telling them
that he was their brither."
" They had behaved verra ill till him."
" lie used to tell tales upo' them, though."
"Laddie, tak' ye care what ye say aboot Joseph, for he was
a type 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
afflicted afore he waun up to be the king's richt hand; an'
syne he keepit a hantle o' ill aff o' 's brithren."
" Sae, gran'mither, ither fowk nor Christ micht suffer foi
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 spot-
less cud du that. The Lord wadna be satisfeet wi' less nor
that. It maun be the innocent to suffer for the guilty."
" I understan' 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 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 ony thing to vex ye, grannie. I s'
gang on wi' the chapter."
" Ow, say awa'. Ye canna 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 bad heard on that memorable night, really thought that hia
ROBERT FALCONER. 95
project would bring comfort to a mind burdened with such
care, and went on witli the exposition of his plan.
" A' them 'at sits doon to the supper o' the Lamb '11 sit there,
because Christ suflFert the punishment due to their sins, -
winna they, grannie ? "
" Doobtless, laddie."
"But it '11 be 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 know 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 waud 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, if it was dune wi' moedesty, and for a guid
rizzon ? But railly, laddie, I doobt ye're haverin' a'thegither.
Ye hard naethjng like that, I'm sure, the day, frae Mr. Mac-
cleary."
" 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."
96 ROBERT FALCONER.
" I houp ye will. Strive and pray. Resist the deevil.
Walk i' 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, if I win in there, the verra first nicht I sit down
wi' the lave o' them, I'm gaein' to rise up an' say that is if
the Manistee 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', Lord! if 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 jisj; fuggin' an' rivin' at my hert to think o' them 'at 's
doon ther?. 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 heir 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 and 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 bier their griefs, and carry their sorrows doon in hell
there ; if 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' throu' 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 feel-
ings 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
Robert falconer. 97
gentle to him that it woke quite a new sensation in him. Eut
after tea was over, she said :
" Noo, Robert, let's hae nae mair o' this. Ye ken as weel'a
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
ffi' fear an' trimlin'. We hae naething to do wi' what's hid-
den. 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
Lear 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 wy 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.
If 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' herbonnie Ilielan'
speech. I never likit to hear nane o' them speyk the L'ish
(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
oa' her aye, efter the new fashion, to hear her speyk English,
that was sweet to the ear ; for the braid Scotch she kent as
Kttle o' as I do o' the Gaelic. It was hert's care aboot him
that shortent her days. And a' that '11 be laid upo' him.
He'll hae 't a' to heir 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 '11 hae to beir naebody kens hoo muckla
98 ROBERT FALCONKB.
o' the wyte o' 't, for he's dune naething to bring ye ap i' the
way ye suld gang, an' baud ye oot o' the ill gait. For the
sake o' yer puir father, hand 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
bdlween them ! that was the grief ! Not the gulf of death,
nor the gulf that divides hell from lieaven, but the gulf of
abjuration by the good, because of his evil ways. His grand-
mother, 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 con-
struct his own utterances, now and then giving him a sugges-
tion in the form of a petition when he seemed likely to break
down, or putting a phrase into what she considered more puitar-
ble language. But all such assistance she had given up long
ago.
On the present occasion, after she had ended her petitions
BOBBRT FALCONER. 99
with those for Jews and Pagans, and especially l^r the " Pop*
o' Rom'," in whom with a rare liberality she took the kindest
interest, 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 :
" 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'Jin
till 's damnation. We maun liae him saved, grannie ! "
" Laddie ! laddie ! baud yer tongue ! " said Mrs. Falconer,
in a tone of distressed awe. " Lord, forgie 'im. He's
young, and disna know better yet. lie 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, Lord, if 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. Ame."
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 wa
lOO KOBERT FALCONER.
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 bj 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 suflBciently impressed with this :
that, while obedience is the law of the kingdom, it is of con-
siderable 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,1est she should be guilty of opposition to him,
that which it was anything but giving him honor 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,
ROBERT FALCONER. 10)
the will of God can never be other than good ; but I doul t 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 un-
kindly, 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 questions, 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 com-
manded. 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
eat beside her staring into the fire, till they heard the outer
door open, and Shargar and Betty come in from church.
CHAPTER Xni.
EarlT" 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 be should be more certain of its truth. Older than An-
drew, 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 baena seen ye fer a lang time, Mr. Lammie. Gae butt
102 ROBERT FALCONER.
the hoose, lads. Or I'm thinkin' it maun be schule-time. Sit
ye doon, Mr. Lammie, and lat's hear yer news."
" I came 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 Napiers. 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. " Na aboot Andrew? "
" 'Deed is't, mem. An' ill news, I'm sorry to say."
"Is he ta'en?"
"Ay, is he by a jyler that winna loose the grip."
" He's no deid, John Lammie? Dinna say 't."
" I maun say 't, Mrs. Faukner. I had it frae Dr. Ander-
son, 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
Andrew ! " 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
Bat 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."
" Bin efter him, an' tell him to come hame."
ROBERT FALCC NER, 103
When Eobert appeared, wondering what his grandmother
could want with him, she said :
" Close the door, Robert. I canna lat ye gang to the
Bchule the day. We maun lea' him oot noo."
" Lea' wha oot, grannie ? "
" Him, him Andrew. Yer father, laddie. I think mj
iiert '11 brak'."
" Lea' him oot o' what, grannie? I dinna understan' ye."
" Lea' him oot o' oor prayers, laddie, and I canna bide it."
'What for that?"
"He'sdeid."
" 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
ine. As lang 's I dinna believe 'at he's deid, I can keep him 'i
my prayers. I'm nogaein' to lea' him oot, I tell ye, grannie."
" Weel, laddie, I canna argue wi' ye. I hae nae hert till 't.
I doobt I maun greit. Come awa'."
She took him by the hand and rose, then let him go again,
saying :
" Shut the door, laddie."
Robert bolted the door, and his grandmother, again taking
bis 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 if 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 if ye
turn oot weel, I'll maybe baud up my held a bit yet. But
Andrew ! my son ! my ^on ! Would to God I had died for
thee ! "
104 ROBERT FALC0:TER.
And the word3 of her brother in grief, the King of Israel,
epened the floodgates of her heart, and she Wipt. 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 favorite 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 im-
agined himself his indignant defender, the next he would bo
climbing on his knee, as if he were still a little child, and lay-
ing 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, forever and ever !
Only somehow that thought was not quite thinkable. It was
more the vanishing of hope fi-om 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
BOBBRT FALCONER. 105
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 work-box. His heart beat like that of the prince
in the fairy-tale, when lie comes to the door of the Sleeping
Beauty. This at least must have been hers. It was a com-
mon 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 thim-
ble. 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 aw-
fully sad that his mother's portrait should be in his own moth-
er'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,
discolored 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, "OLord! my heart is very sore.'' The treasure
upon Eobert'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 aa
grannie's, the fear that she would lose her husband forever.
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,
106 ROBERT FALCONER.
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 Testa^
ment, a large-print octavo, lay on the table beside her un-
opened ; 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 com-
forted? 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 to me, laddie," she said.
Robert opened and read, till he came to the words, "1
pray not for the world."
" He was o' the world," said the old woman ; " and if 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 be-
lieving 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 tender-
ness 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 cheerful-
ness. 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
ROBERT FALCONER. 107
tneir opiniona 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 !
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, in-
stead of the glimmer from the phosphorescent brains of theolo-
gians, thou mightest 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 meaning-
less 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.
108 ROBERT FALCONER.
CHAPTER XIV.
MART 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 re-
deemed violin, which he called his old wife, and made a little
progress even, as we sometimes do when we least think it.
lie took more and more to brooding in the garret ; and aa
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 sub-
stance, 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 prob-
lems, 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
BO surrounded with the yolk 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
EOBERt FALCONER. 109
fathe.' 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 character-
istic of the individual. That he puzzled himself about the
perpetual motion may pass for little likewise ; but one thing
that 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 reason-
able, 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 con-
stant referee. Add to this that, notwithstanding his sympa-
thy 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 resent-
ment, a most improbable statement, I admit, but neverthe-
less 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 atten-
tion 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 dis-
110 ROBERT FALOONBR.
covered 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 Eothieden. More than once, when Rob-
ert 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
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.
" Hand yer tongue ! " he would say, in a hoarse whisper,
when Robert sought to attract his attention; "baud yer
tongue, man, and hearken. If yon bbnnie leddie 'at yer
grannie keeps lockit up i' the aumry war to tak' to the piano,
that's jist boo she wad play. Lord, man ! pit yer sowl i' yer
ears, an' hearken."
The shoemaker 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, aa
full of repose as Handells 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 shoemaker, doubting at first whether
ROBERT FALCONER, 111
he had not been drinking. But the intoxication of music pro-
duces such a different expression from that of drink, that
Eobert 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 war Idly vani-
ties 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 BEICSON.
One gusty evenings 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 be 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
withal, but in vain. He knew nothing about east winds;
but not the less did this weary 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 b]ow3
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 foot
. 112 ROBBRT FALCONER.
faring students from Aberdeen, on their way home at the clobfl
of the session, probably to the farm-labors 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 Modes and Persians.
I say almost, foi: to one class of the footfaring community the
ofBcial 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 cotters.
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
Bome preferred to walk. However this may have been, the
various groups which at the beginning and close of the sessioE
ROBERT FALCONER. 113
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 parlor 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 spokes-
man, 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 hiae had for yer lang traivel ! ''
she went on, leading the way to her sister's parlor, and
followed by all the students, of whom the one that came hind-
most 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 whiskey-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 that they would wait until they
had had their supper; the roads had been quite dry, etc., etc.
One said he would, and another said his feet were blistered.
" Hoot awa' ! " * 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 Peg-
gy '11 see to yer feet. Noo, sir, will ye gang to yer room an'
mak' yersel' comfortable? jist as if ye war at harne, for sae
ye are.''
She addressed the stranger thus. He replied in a low, in-
different tone :
* An exclamation of pitiful sympathy, inexplicable to the understand-
ing. Thus the author covers his philological ignorance of the crost*
breeding of the phrase.
8
114 ROBERT FALCONER.
" 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 know 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, aa
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 yearn-
ing 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 sfejod a little wooden tub full of hot water, say-
ing, " 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."
"Gcd bless me! " said Miss Letty, and God did blesa
her, I am sure, "we maun see to the feet first. What wad
ye du wi' a shillin' if ye had it ? Wad ye clap ane upo' ilka
blister?"
Ericson burst out laughing, and sat down. But still ha
hesitated.
KOBERT FALCONER. 115
" 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 pait to put on the morn', an' I'll
darn them 'at ye hae on, if they be worth darnin', afore ye
gang an' what are ye sae 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 humor 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 kites o' pro-
fessors to pay, that live upo' the verra blude and banes o'
sairvroucht students ! Hoo cud ye hae a shillin' ower ?
Troth, it's nae wonner ye haena ane left. An' a' the mer-
chan's there jist leevin' upo' ye ! Lord, hae a care o' 's ! sic
boEnie 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' 11 jist make up yer min' to bide a twa three days,"
ahe said ; " for thae feet cudna bide to be carried, no to say to
Barry a weicht like you. There's uaebody to luik for ye, ye
know. An ye're not to come doon the nicht. I'll sen' up
yer supper. And Robert there '11 bide and keep ye com-
pany."
She vanished ; and a moment after, Peggy appeared with a
116 ROBERT rALCONER.
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 recog-
nition 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 ony thing 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 downstairs, and returned
with it, a night-shirt 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
Lim.
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 grand-
mother, who received him with stately kindness. Then they
went out again, and passed the windows of Captain Forsyth't
ROBERT FALCONER. 117
bouse. Mary St. John was playing. They stood for a mo.
ment, 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 #ld 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. ihe
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 lie 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 know."
" Oh, yes. They say so. And then they tell you some-
thing about him that isn't good, and go on calling him good
118 KOBKRT FALCONER.
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 huts, 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 Lettji's eyea
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 if that cost a body ony
thing ! "
ROBERT FALCONER. 119
CHAPTER XVI.
MR. LAMMIE'S farm.
One of the first warm mornings in the beginning of
Bummer, the boy -woke early, and lay awake, as was his cus-
tom, 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 overseen, 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 store-closet, and wandering free amidst the
wind and among the flowers, crossed his mind before he had re-
covered sufiiciently from his surprise to prevent Fancy from
cutting any more of those too ridiculous capers in which slie
indulged at will in sleep, and as often besides as she could
get away from the spectacles of old Grannie Judgment.
But the music of her revelation was not that of the violin ;
and Eobert 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 hei
120 ROBERT FALCONER.
long finely modelled fingers travelled about it as if they were
creating a flower upon it, probably they were aesisting 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 d;irk, Robert
would steal out of the house, leaving his book open by his gran-
nie'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 parlor,
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 noAV. 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 par-
lor, 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 inter-
fere, because she expected Robert to defend himself triumph-
antly 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 wa? ?^ yet
ROBERT FALCONER. 121
compared to that father's mother's, " as moonlight unto sun-
light, 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 persua-
sion, 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 after them," suggested Miss Lammie.
" Betty !" returned Mrs. Falconer, with scorn, "Betty's
naething but a bairn heirsel', muckler and worse favored.''
" 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 made ye burden yersel'
wi' that Shargar, as I understan' they ca' him," said Mr. Lam-
mie.
" 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.
"Idinna understan' that, Mistress Fg,ulkner," said Misa
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 know,
Miss Lammie."
" Atweel, if ye like to lippen to that bank, nae doobt ae way
or anither it'll gang to yer accoont," said Miss Lammie.
122 HOBEBT FAIiCONBB.
" It waud ill become us, ony way," said her father, " nae
to gie him shelter for your sake, Mrs. Faukner, no to mention
ither names, sin' it's yer wuU 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 quiet eneuch. An' Robert says he does nae that
ill at the schuil."
" Weel, jist feas him wi' ye. We'll hae some place or
ither to put him intil, if 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 dinner wi'
Betty here ; and syne come hame to their 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, if 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 im-
movableness 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 behavior
which she gave the boys in prospect of this visit. The proba-
bility being that they would behave just as well as at home,
these instructions were considerably unnecessary, for Mrs. Fal-
coner was a strict enforcer of all social rules. Scarcely less un-
necessary 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 (rii\
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 quiet. 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, aa
ROBERT FALCONER. 123
Bune's yer oot again, ' She's her ain mistress by way o',' or
Bic like. An' min' ye hae worship wi' yersel', when I'm nae
here to hae 't wi' ye. Ye can come +o the parlor if 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 eppitcet."
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 be 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 in-
tended visit, one wild hope and desire and intent had arisen
within him.
When Betty came to the parlor-door to lay the cloth for
their dinner, she found it locked.
" Open the door ! " she cried, but cried in vain. From im-
patience 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
124 EOBEKT FALCONER.
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 were 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 Shar-
gar 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 0nother in-
wardly 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 endeavor, 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
quiet 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 favor. 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 ho
dared to act from himself.
" Betty '11 hear ye," he said.
" What care I for Betty ? She daurna tell. I know hoo to
manage her."
" But wadna 't be better 'at she didna know ? "
" She's sure to fin' oot whan she mak's the bed. She turns't
ower and ower jist like a muckle dog worryin' a 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 laddy"
from her coffin ; and while he was absorbed in the contempla-
tion of her risen beauty, Shargar laid his hands on Boston's
" Fourfold State," the torment of his life on the Sunday
BOBKBT FALCONER. 125
evenings which it was his turn to spend with Mrs. Falojner,
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 ar-
ranged 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 mur-
mured 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 lady
like it ? What a risk she would run ! If he put her under the
bed, the mice would get at her strings, nay, perhaps, gnaw
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 con-
cluded, 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 bora
her to some better sanctuary. In the mean time she was safe,
and the boy was the blessedest boy in creation.
These things done, they were just in the humor 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
126 ROBERT FALCONER.
with the dinner though, and revealed her indignation only in
her manner of putting the things on the table. As the bojs
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 vari-
ous 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, ur 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 odor 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 odor of the white clover, beloved of his grand-
mother, to Robert's nostrils, and he would turn aside to pull
her a handful. Then they climbed 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,
ROBERT FALCONER. 127
and making it look even more desolate from the ympalhy 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 mys-
tery. From the open kitchen-door came the smell of some-
thing 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
quiet," 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 Body-
fauld, 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 aa
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 boohs 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 wha; 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
128 ROBERT FALCONER.
must stop, for I am getting up to the neok in a bog of discrimi-
nation. As if I did not know the nobility of some towns-peo-
ple, 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 English-
man, Negro or Circassian, town boy or country boy, but the
kingdom of heaven which is within him, and must come thenoa
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 Edin-
burgh, 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 ap-
peared 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 caelum.
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 mij^'ht
bave given him a lesson at that time, but he did not dare to
ROBERT FALCONER. 129
carry his instrument through the streets of Eothieden, for the
proceeding would be certain to come to his grandmother's ears.
Several days passed indeed before he made lip 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
cf successive mid-day solos in the old factory, he was not
prepared to carry the instrument through the streets, or bo
Been 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 proper-
ty ; if this door were not locked, and Robert could pass with-
out 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 ia 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 prop-
erty. 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 wus 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 nar-
9
"ISO ROBERT FALCONER,
rowly escaped encountering Betty in the transe. lie 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 hia
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 thocht 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, if I tell you ? "
Miss St. John, amused, and interested besides in the con-
trast between the boy's oddly noble face and good bearing on
the one hand, and on the other the drawl of his bluntly articu-
lated speech and the coarseness of his tone, both seeming to her
in the extreme of provincialism, promised; and Robert, en-
tranced by all the qualities of her voice and speech, and noth-
ing 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 bed 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
garden. An' this hoose and yaird was ance my father's, and
sae he had that door throu', they tell mo. An' I tlioclit if it
Buld be open, it wad be a fine thing for me, to haad 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 yor pardon.
ROBERT FAIiCONBB. 131
mem, an' I'll jist gang back, and roon' by the ro d. This ia
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 baud 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 not-
withstanding. 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 din -
ner : 1 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,
what may be called mental sensation is the highest known con-
dition. 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 tlie sat-
isfaction, 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 fira
in which to ascend heavenward. Hence masic 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
&om those she took to be such, that of late she had become
13Si ROBERT FALCONER.
less sanguine. Still there was something ahout 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 Robeft would have called it, when
she passed into the waste, silent place ; for besides the waste-
ness 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 hear-
ing 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, there-
fore, 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 bis eyes, and seeing a face to dream about
ROBERT FALCONER. 133
bending in kind consternation oyer 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 di5culty, and stared wildly about him, saying, with im-
perfect articulation, "Father! father!" Then he looked at
Miss St. John with a kind of dazed inquiry in his eyes, tried
Beveral 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
stairs 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, deter-
minedly 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.
184 BOBERT FALCONER.
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 hia
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 band. " But
I maun gang, there's nae helf^ for 't," he added. "If I
cud only win to my ain room ohn Betty seen me ! Eh ! mem,
I hae 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' ! If ye speik like that ye'll
gar me greit. Naebody ever spak' to me like that afore.
Maybe ye knew 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 differ-
ently. 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
Bomething 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 tha
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."
ROBERT TALCONEB. 135
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 re-
garding her pleasure in the matter of a needful medicine. But
in this fact 1 begin to see the very Falconer of my manhood's
worship.
" Eh, mem ! If ye wad play something upo' her,'" he re-
sumed, 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 win-
dow, " it wad du me mair guid than a hail bottle o' brandy, or
whuskey either."
" IIow do you know that? " asked Miss St. John, proceed-
ing 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 if 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 sug-
gestion 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 waebody ? "
"I don't want to know," she answered, confirmed in her
136 KOBERT FALCONER.
suspicion, and at the same time ashamed of the alteration of
feeling which the discovery had occasioned.
An unojmfortable silence followed, broken by Robert.
"If 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 honny 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
plana, I'll come and play at yer window ilka nicht, as lang 'a
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 t/
Robert like the touch of her hands, and her breath on his
forehead, she looked, round, and was satisfied, from the rnpt
ItOBERT FALCONER. 137
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 conscious-
ness of having seen something strange the night before, and
only when he found that he was not in his own room at hia
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 ta.'tans, 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 Higlilander's arm.
When Robert looked in the direction whence this had
appeared, the head of his grannie's bed had vanished, and a
138 KOBERT FALCONER,
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 otuer up to the strand. How long he gazed, he
did not know, but when he withdrew his eyes from the ex-
tended 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 thevisioned 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 Rothie-
den, grew more than tame. The return was almost as happy
an event to him as the first going. Mow he could resume his
lessons with the shoemaker.
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, tlie fresh air, and
the scents and sounds of the country, only came in as supple-
mentary. But I do not believe the boy even then had so
much happiness as when he was beaten and starved by hia
own mother. And Robert, growing more and more absorbed
in his own thoughts and pursuits, paid him less and less at-
tention, 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.
ROBERT I'ALCONEB. 139
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 hia
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 thunderiag on the floor, and, like a spider from his cavern,
Dooble Sandy appeared in the door, with the SencZ-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
sail hae her ohn demur, or I sanna lat ye lay reset upo' her."
"I sweir 't, Robert; I sweir 't upo' her" said the shoe-
maker 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 griev-
ously 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 afternoon of holidays.
140 ROBERT FALCONBK.
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 con-
jecture 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-flower 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 dis-
appearance, 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, com-
monly called the bleach-field, 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 house-
wives still spun at home, and the webs they got woven of it in
private looms. To Robert and Shargar it was a wondroua
ROBERT FALCONER. 141
pleasure when the pile of linen which the week had accnmu-
lated at the oflSce under the ga'le-roon; was on Saturday
heaped high upon the base of a broad-wheeled cart, to get up
on it and be carried to the said bleach-field, which lay along
the bank of the river. Soft-laid and high-borne, gazing into
the blue sky, thoy traversed the streets in a holiday triumph ;
and although, once arrived, the manager did not fail to get
some labor out of them, yet the store of amusement was end-
less. The great wheel, which drove the whole machinery ; the
plash-mill, or, more properly, wauk-niill, 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 beetles thun-
dering 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 rest-
ing placid in another ; here gurgling along a spout ; there
flowing in a narrow canal through the green expanse of th*
well-mown bleach-field, 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 end-
less 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.
N, On the grassy bank of the gently flowing river, at the othei
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
Boft, mossy ground with wooden pegs whose tops were twisted
into their edges. Strangely would they billow in the wind
142 ROBERT FALCONER.
sometimes, like sea-waves, frozen and enchanted flat, seekmg
to rise and wallow in the wind with conscious depth and
whelining 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 bleach-field that
I can write about it as if I had known it myself
One Saturday afternoon in the end of July, when the west-
ering 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 beetles 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," mistak-
ing 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 coun-
try will increase its capacity and diminish its faculty. We
shall have more compilers and reducers, and fewer thinkers ;
more modifiers and jompleters, 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 mo-
tionless 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 odors 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
ROBERT FALCOKBR. 143
thing as that which he sought, that it was all a fancy of hia
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 grow-
ing 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
Ealconer'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 Eobert think that such was his need, that his
soul was searching after One whose form was constantly pre-
sented to him, but as constantly obscured and made unlovely
by the words without knowledge spoken in the religious assem-
blies of the land ; that he was longing witliout 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 be-
fore and not behind him.
And Shargar, had he any soul for such things ? Doubt-
less ; but how could he be other than lives behind Robert ?
.For the latter bad ancestors, that is, he came of people with
144 EGBERT JALCONER.
a mental and spiritual history ; while the former had been
born the birth of an animal ; of a noble sire, whose familj 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 aflection for her
oflFspring 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 fash-
ion 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 Bobert.
CHAPTER XIX.
ROBERT STEALS HIS OWN.
The period of the Jiairst-play, that is, of the harvest holi-
day 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-be-
lief of expediting a blessed approach by marking its rate,
Robert knew nothing ; even the notching of sticks was un-
known 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
BO good as most amusements, into which lie entered with the
whole energy of his nature : it was kite-ilying. 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 ia 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,
ROBEKT FALCONER. 145
and the pictures were gorgeous with color 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 aerial 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 wrighfs 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 grand-
child. But I have not yet reached the kite-flying, for I have
said nothing of the kite's tail, for the sake of which princi-
pally I began to describe the process of its growth.
As soon as the body of tho 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 proces-
ses. Every morning, the moment he issued from his cham-
ber, 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 siiff. , 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 a skeleton of a'six-foot
specimen, and had carried the body to a satisfactory comple-
tion.
The tail was still growing, having as yet only sixteen joints,
10
146 ROBERT FALCONER.
when Mr. Lammie called with an invitation for the boys to spend
their holidays with him. It was fortunate for Eobert that ha
was in the room when Mr. Lammie presented his petition,
otherwise he would never have heard of it till the day of de-
parture 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 Kothieden sliould be honored 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 circum-
stances were changed. In the first place, the fiddle was sub-
stituted 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. Shar-
gar 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
aolding communion Avith 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 Mon-
ay were they set at liberty. Wearily the hours of mental
labor and bodily torpidity which tiie 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 excite-
ment, lest grannie, fearing the immoral influence of gladness,
should give orders to delay their departure for an awfully in-
ROBERT FALCOKBR. 147
definite period, which might be an hour, a day, or even a
week. I-Iorrible conception ! Their behavior was so decorous
that not even a hinted threat escaped the lips of Mrs. Fal-
coner.
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 Be^ty.
Having given due warning before, he found the brown-paper
parcel ready for him, and carried it off in fearful triumpl).
He joined Shargar in safety, and they set out on their jour-
ney 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 rev-
elling in the glories of the place, the first instalment of which
was in the shape of curds and cream, with oat-cake 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 har-
vest. The season of stubble not yet arrived, they were lim-
ited to the pasturage and moorland, which, however, large as
their kite was, were spacious enough. Slowly the great-
headed creature arose from thei 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.
"Ithasna half tail eneuch," cried Robert. "It's queer
'at things winna gang up ohn hauden them down. Pu' a
guid ban' fu' o' clover, Shargar. She's had her fa', an' noo
she'll gang up a' richt. She's nane tlie 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 hia efforts, and then lifted from his feet. Aftei
118 ROBERT FALCONER.
carrying him a few yards, the dragon broke ita 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 shil-
ling 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 tlie
household generally, Robert went up to his room to release
his violin from its prison of brown paper. What was his dis-
may to find not his bonny leddy, but her poor cousin, the
shoemaker's auld wife ! It was too bad. Dooble Sanny
indeed !
He first stared, then went into a rage, and then camo out
of it to go into a resolution. He replaced the unwelcome
fiddle in the parcel, and came downstairs gloomy and still
wrathful, but silent. The evening passed over, and the in-
habitants of the farm-house 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.
AH 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 bei
ROBERT FALCONER. 143
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 ex-
pect to have her hours of undress and meditation intruded
upon by a fenturesome 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. These 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 to-
wards 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 outj
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 shoemaker's workshop opened
150 ROBERT PALOONER.
from the passage, close to the outer door, therefore its door waa
locked ; but the key hung on a nail just inside the shoemaker'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 house-breaker,
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 snor-
ing 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 bis 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. f lastily, that he might forestall sleep in the brain of the
shoemaker, he undid his parcel, and, after carefully enveloping
his own violin in the paper, took the old wife of the shoemaker,
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 leddy.
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 shoemaker. He sprang from
his bed with a haste that shook the crazy tenement to its foun
dation.
The moment Robert heard that, he put the violin in its place.
ROBERT FALCONER. 151
and took- his station- by the door-cheek. The shoemaker 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 Lad opened at length, he went straight to the litst of
hia treasuie, and Robert, slipping out noiselessly, was in the
next street Ijefore Dooble Sanny, having found the fiddle un-
injured, and not discovering the substitution, had finished con-
cluding that the whiskey 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 broad side 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 barefooted, 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
152 ROBERT FAlCCNfcB.
Lammies were none of the unco guid to be censorious upon
Buch exploits. The whole business advanced the boys in favoi
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
liave 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. Lam-
mie 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
thocht the strings had been drawn frae his ain inside, he kent
them sae weel, and han'led them sae fine. He jist 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, well eneuch for Mm. He could do onything he likit
to try better nor middlni'. 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 mull, an' I wat it ground
ROBERT FALCONER. 153
ooiiTiy meal. That sma' crater noo 'ill be worth a hunner poun',
1 3' 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 honors. " Can ye play the ' Flooers 0' the Forest,'
noo ? " 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 blunder-
ing 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 0' 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 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, an' no a lad amo' them a'.
It's just the murnin' 0' women, doin' men's wark as weel 'a
their ain, for the men that suld hae been there to du 't ; and
I s' warran' ye, no a word to the exceptional, over-all lad that
didna gang wi' the 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.
" Hand ye to that, my lad," returned Mr. Lammie. "Lat
the lasses greit for ye gin they like ; but baud 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, slyly
" But I doobt," he added, " he'll never play the ' Flooers' 0' the
Forest ' as it suld be playt, till he's had a taste 0' the kissin'.
" Weel, it's a queer instructor 0' yowth, 'at says an' onsaya
i' the same breith."
" Never ye min'. I haena contradickit mysel' yet ; for I hae
154 ROBERT FALCONER.
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
opinion 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 play t 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 play-
ing ; 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 cry-
ing. 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 /or 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 hob-
bled 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 hia incapacity was not a judgment upon
him for taking it away from the shoemaker, 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
ROBERT FALCONER. 155
been very depressing ; and but for the kindness of his friends,
especially of JMiss 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 Eammie's looks, and haunted
her steps from store-room 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
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 labored, 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 cotter, whose family had been
settled upon the farm of Bodyfauld from time immemorial.
They were, indeed, like other cotters, a kind of feudal dcr
pendents, occupying an acre or two of the land, in return
for which they performed certain stipulated labor, called
cotter-warJe. 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 pro-
portion 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 coUey. The utensils of their life were mean
enough : the life itself was often elixir vitce, 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 dor
156 ROBERT FALCONER.
velop each other, till the planet-world shall go singing through .
space one harmony to the God of the whole earth. The ex-
cellence must vanish from one portion, that it may be diffused
through the whole. The seed ripens on one favored 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 wuU ? " she asked ; then, changing her tone,
"Eh! ye're no weel," she said. "Come in to the firo
Tak' a baud 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 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-
colored face and hazel eyes. Later in the harvest her cheeks
would be ruddy; now they were peach-colored. A white
neck rose above a pink print jacket, called a wrapper; and
EOBERT FALCONER. 157
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, 1
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 '11 satisfy her, and I s' be
at it the morn. She's been unco ailing a' the summer ; and
Bae 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
string into the bed wi' me, and whan the bairnie grat, I
waukit, an' rockit till 't fell asleep again. But whiles naeth-
ing 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 know 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 whitewashed walls even more desrolate than
if they had been smoke-begrimed.
Looking about him^ be 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
158 ROBEKT FALCONEK.
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, sus-
pended 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
cotter, 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-colored 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 bulk," 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 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 yo
wad like to luik at that anes."
Robert thanked her, but was too busy to feel the least curi-
osity 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-
ROBERT FALCONER. 159
loving pines, with a barefoot girl and a baby for his compan-
ion.
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, liappily, 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 cheese, with a 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 vras 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 re-
mark sound like the proclamation of a discovery.
" Are ye there, Robert? " said he, as he entered. Robert
rose, absorbed and silent.
"Ile.'s been here a' day, readin' like a colliginer," said
Jessie.
" What are ye r^din' sae diligent, man? " asked John.
"A buik o' stories, here," answered Robert, carelessly,
shy of beig 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, and laid
160 ROBERT FALCONKK.
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 mast 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 char-
acters, 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
bad but lately landed in Shakespeare'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 Shakespeare.
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 bi-ought out for worship. The iron lamp, with
its wick of rush-pith, which hung against the *ide of the
chimney, was lighted, and John sai 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
ROBERT FALCONER. 161
cotter contained evidence of a degree of religious development
rare, I doubt, amongst bishops.
When Eobert left the cottage, he found the sky partly
clouded and the air cold. The nearest way home Aims across
the barley-stubble of the day's reaping, which lay under a
little hill, covered with various species of the pine. His own
Boul, after the restful day he had spent, and under the reac-
tion from the new excitement of the stories he had been read-
ing, was like a quiet, moonless night. The thought of his
mother came back upon him, and her written words, "
Lord, my heart is very sore;" and the thought of his father
followed that, and he limped slowly home, laden with mourn-
fulness. 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 .^.gain, in their night solitudes, the air sung by the
cotter'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 For-
est" was of the gathered harvest.
He tried the air once over in the dark, and then carried hia
violin down to the room where Mr. and Miss Lammie sat.
"I think I can play 't noo, Mr. Lammie," he said, ab-
ruptly.
" 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 dure
u
162 ROBERT FALCONER.
say it was a humble enough performance, but he gave some-
thing at least of the expression Mr. Lammie desired. For,
the moment the tune was over, he exclaimed :
"Weel dune, Eobert man! ye' 11 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
plana 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 plana. Eh !
but she was a bonnie wuman as ever I saw, an' that quaiot !
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 hia
mother.
" What was my mother like, Mr. Lammie? " he asked.
" Eh, my man ! ye suld hae seen her upon a bonny bay
mere that yer father gae her. Faith ! she sat as straught as
a rash, wi' jist a hing i' the held o' her, like the held o' a
halm o' wild aits."
" My father wasna thai 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 mors
than ever diligent with his violin.
BOBEBI 17ALC0IIEB. 163
CHAPTER XXI.
THE DRAGON.
Next day, his foot was so much better, that he sent Shar-
gar to Rothieden to buy the string, taking with him Robert's
school-bag, in which to carry ofiF his Sunday shoes ; for as to
those left at Dooble Sanny's, they judged it unsafe to go in
quest of them : the shoemaker could hardly be in a humor fit
to be intruded upon.
Having procured the string, Shargar went to Mrs. Fal-
coner'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. Fal-
coner calling, "Wha's that?" There she was at the parlor
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 ^e want? Ye camna
to see me, I'm thinkin' ! What hae ye i' that bag? "
" I cam to 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? "
"Ashillin'."
, " 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 Ker 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 exacting free quar-
ters as ye du, ohn beggit for siller. Are they a' weel ? "'
164 ROBERT FALCONER.
"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 grand-
father'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 savory smell of dinner was coming
across the yard.
" Tell them it's stown siller, and they'll be in bet 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 Rob-^rt, and
m a matter of rectitude there must be no temporizing. There-
in he could be as tyrannical as the old lady herself.
" De'il a bite or a sup s' gang ower your thrapple tll 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.
"Shejsa some 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 '11 be grown
twa, or maybe mair, 'gen that time."
ROBERT FAICONEB. , Wh
So saying, the farmer put the shilling into his pocket, and
huttoned it up.
The dragon flew splendidly now, and its strength was
mighty. It was Robert's custom to drive a stake into 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 inac-
cessible. 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 there-
with 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, sit-
ting 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,
md fierce in his battling with the winds of heaven. Then he
-iancied that the monster swooped, and swept in arcs, and
swayed curving to and fro, in rhythmic response to the musio
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 !^
166 ROBERT FAtCONER.
CHAPTER XXII.
DE. 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 deli-
cate, 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' 11 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 Andrew'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, send-
ing 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 aifairs,-
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
ROBERT FALCONER. 167
which Robert implicitly offered him ; before miny 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 bad
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, whoso
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
Bore thing to come home after being thirty years away."
He looked up at the sky, then all round 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 fol-
lowed him like a dog. To have such a gentleman for a rela-
tion was grand indeed. What could ha 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
neiffir liave been the honor 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
upiece and a kind good-by, 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 hia
grandmother even allude to the visit. He went by the mail-
168 ROBERT TALCONIEB,
coach from Rothieden to Aberdeen, and whether he should ever
see him again Robert did not know.
He flew his kiw no more for a while, but betook himself to
the work of the harvest-field, in which ho was now able for a
share. But his violin was no longer neglected.
Day after day passed in the delights of labor, broken for
Robert by the "Arabian Nights " and the violin, and for Shar-
gar by attendance upon Miss Lammie, till the fields lay baie
of their harvest, and the night-wind of autumn moaned every-
where over the vanished glory of the country, and it was time
to go back to school.
CHAPTER XXIII.
AN AUTO DA FB.
The morning at length arrived when Robert and Shargar
must return to Rothieden. A keen autumnal wind was blow-
ing 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 tc
sufier more than Robert, and had turned the corner of the sta-
bles, they heard the good farmer shouting after them,
" There'll be anither hairst neist year, boys," which won-
derfully 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 id done. Shargar took the stick at the end
of the string, and Robert resumed his violin. But the crea-
ROBERT FALCONER. 16 S
ture 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 ii.
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 vio-
lin was the greater diflSculty. Robert would not hear of the
factory, for reasons best known to himself, and there were se-
rious 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 manoeuvres with the kite would favor the con-
cealment 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 For-
syth's. Robert opened the street-door, and, having turned his
bead 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 neighbor's garden,
found the stone, and joined Shargar. The ends were soon
united, and the kite let go. It sunk for a moment, then, ar-
rested 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
80 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.
170 ROBERT FALCONER.
All that night, all the next day, all the next night, tht
dragon flew.
Not one smile hroke over the face of the old lady as sha
received them. Was it because she did not know, what acts of
disobedience, what breaches of the moral law, the two childiei)
of possible perdition might have committed while they were be-
yond her care, and she must not run the risk of smiling upon in-
iquity ? 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 forever ? 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 oifered pardon ? And, for any-
thing she knew, waa not Robert going after him to the place
of misery ? How could she smile ?
" Noo be quiet," 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 quiet," 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 18
deoeitfu' 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
KOBERT ITALGONES. 171
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 ki:e andlhe
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 anx-
iety seized them. Grannie must find out that Robert's shoes
were missing, and what account was to be given of the misfor-
tune, 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 de-
livering 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 Doo-
ble 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 convey-
ing himself unseen, and, with his book-bag, slunk barefooted
into the shoemaker's entry.
The shop-door was a little way open, and the red eyes of
Sh.argar 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 th* dooi and darted after them.
172 ROBERT FALCONER,
Shari^aT 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 doors and windows. Shargar made instinctively for hia
mother's old lair ; but, bethinking himself when he reached the
door, he turned, and, knowing nowhere else to go, fled in ter-
ror 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 grand-
mother'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 shoemaker was panting out, "1
haena had a pair o' shune o' Robert's 1' my ban'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 came they in my shop, 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 baud yer tongue," returned Robert, with yet
more significance.
"I was aye an idiot," said Shargar, in apologetic reflection,
looking awfully wliite, 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
shoemaker, 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 afiair
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 trihble, Mistress Faulkner; but it was a 'that
ROBERT FALCONER. 173
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 al-
most for the first time. " What's the maitter wi' them ? "
Examining the shoes, she saw they were in a perfectly
Bound 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 shoe-
maker :
" 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. Gran-
nie 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
schoolmaster'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 stafi", and, refusing Betty's
proflfered 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.
"Well, mem, gang to the boddom o' 't," returned Dooble
Sanny, dropping on his stool, and taking his stone upon hia
lap and stroking it, as if it had been some quadrupedal pet.
Full of rough but real politeness to women when in good hu-
mor, he lost all his manners along with his temper upon the
slightest provocation, and her tone irritated him.
"Hoo came Robert's shune to be i' your shop? "
" Somebody bude till hae brocht them, mem. In a' my ox-
pairience, and that's no sma', I never kent pair o' shune gang
ohn a pair o' feet i' the wame o' them."
174 ROBERT FALCONEa.
"Hoots! what kin' o' gait 's that to speyk till a bodyl
Whase feet was inside the shune?"
" De'il a bit e' ine 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 yo
help a body to win at the boddom o' a thing ohn angert an'
Bworn ? "
" Weel, I kenna wha brocht the shune, as I telltye 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 Faulkner ; 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 bet i' the noo ; an' I dinna
want to be ower sair upon him, for he's a fine chield, an' '11
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 shoe-
maker 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 coflSn, She was
gone ; and in her stead horror of horrors ! lay in the unhal-
lowed 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 fore-
boded ill They felt that there was thunder in the clouds, a
KOBEKT FaLOONEH. 175
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 parlor, a
strange odor greeted his sense. A moment more, and he^tood
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 sacri-
fice. 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 fodnd men with axe and hammer destroying the
old wood-work, 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 hor-
rible ! 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 tlie 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.
" mem ! " gasped Robert, and ourst into a 'ery storm
of weeping.
176 BOBERT FALCONER.
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
jnterrupted by sobs, he managed to let her know the fate of hia
"bonny leddy." But when he came to the words, "She's
burnin' in there upo' grannie'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 intru-
sion of certain chokes and sobs upon his otheiVise 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 a tyran-
nical 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-by, and walked composedly intd his grand-
mother's parlor, 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? " ha
asked.
"What's wha duin', laddie?" returned his grandmother
curtly.
" They're takin' 't doon."
"Takin' what doon?" she returned, with raised voice.
ROBERT FALCONER. 177
'' Takin' doon the hoose."
The old -woman rose.
" Robert, ye may hae spite in yer hert for what I hae dun?
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 vrrang, by garrin' me
troo 'at yer grandfather's property was to gang the gait o' 's
auld, useless, ill-mainnerfscraich 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 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
flae is the facfry," 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 devqured 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
remorseless dart after the string as it swept out of the skylight ;
but it was gone beyond remedy. 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 ap
12
lT8 ROBERT FALCONER.
proached a deeper and holier childhood, of which tnat had heen ,
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 parlor awaiting her
return. She entered heated and distoayed, went into Eobert'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 colorless 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 havfe
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 quiet," 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, work-
ing wickedness, light up the face of the mother, and open her
hand in kindness ! Is it suflFering, or is it wickedness, that ts
the awful thing? " Ah ! but they are both combined in the
other world." And in this world too, I answer; only, accord-
ing to Mrs. Falconer's creed, in the other world Grod, for the
Bake of the suffering, renders the wickedness eternal !
The old factory was in part pulled down, and out of its re-
mains a granary constructed. Nor did the old lady interpose
a word to arrest the alienation of her property.
BOBKBI EAI.CONEB. 179
CHAPTER XXIV.
BOOT FOR BALE.
Mary St. John was the orphan daughter of an English
clergyman, who had left her money enough to make bor 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 house-keeping. Even
before her father's death, Misa 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 senti-
ment. 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 winga of her music in gentle thanksgiving. Tears
had changed her bright-hued hopes into a dove-colored submis-
sion, 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 ofier; 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 land-
marks dividing what was God's from what was only man's.
She had now retired within thfe pale of religion, and left the
rest of her being, as she thouglit, " 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. ut it was not
180 ROBERT FALCONER.
at all so easy then as it is now for a woman to find the oppor-
tunity of being helpful in the world of suffering.
Mrs. Forsyth was one of those women who get their own
way by the very vis inertice 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 quar-
relled with nobody but her rough, honest old bear of a hus-
band, 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 relig-
ion, 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 favor of Robert,
yet neither stooping angel nor foot-following dog ever lovea
the lad with the love of that old grandmother, who would for
him have given herself to the fire to which she had doomed hia
greatest delight.
For some days Robert worked hard at his lessons, for he nad
nothing else to do. Life was very gloomy now. If he could
only go to sea, or away to keep sheep on the stormy moun-
tains ! If there were only some war going on, that he might
'list I Any fighting with the elements, or with the oppressora
of the nations, would make life worth having, a man wwth
being. But God did not heed. He learned over the world, a
ROBERT FALCONER. 181
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 cro'ich before him, and uphold
bis 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 with-
in 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 rep-
resent 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 the vision of the Father.
One afternoon Robert was passing the shoemaker'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 maittei
wi' ye ? Faith ! yon was an ill plisky ye played me to brak'
into my shop an' steal the bonny leddy."
"Sandy," said Robert, solemnly, "ye dinna ken what ye
hae dune by that trick ye played me. Dinna ever mention her
again i' Tny hearin'."
"The auld witch hasna gotten a grup o' her again?"
cried the shoemaker, starting half up in alarm. " She cam'
here to me abootthe shune, but I reckon I sortet her ! "
" I winna speir what ye said," returned Robert. " It's
no maitter noo."
And the tears rose to his eyes. His bonny leddy !
" The Lord guide 's ! " exclaimed the shoemaker. "What
is the maitter wi' the bonny leddy? "
" There's nae bonnic leddy ony mair. I saw her burnt 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 shoemaker uttered a terrible oath, and swore :
182 ROBERT ^iXCONEB,.
" I'll murder the auld " The epithet he ended with ia
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 ower-
ta'en me. Gang oot o' my shop ! I wasna worthy o' her.
Gang oot, I isay, 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
Been him go up the street.
" That I wuU," 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 adeepsuspiration. 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
Doo for the bonnie leddy."
Not discouraged by her inspection "of his hands, black as
ihey were, Miss St. John continued :
" But what would your grandmother say ? " she asked.
"She maun ken naething abootit, mem. I can-not tell her
A'tbing. She wad greit an'- pray awfu', an' lock me up, I
daur say. Ye see, she thinks a' kin' o' music 'cep' psalm-sing-
in' comes o' the deevil himsel'. An' I canna believe that
ROBERT FALCONER. 183
For aye whan I see onything by ordinar bonnie, sic like as the
mune was last nicht, it aye gars me greit for my burnt fiddle."
" Well, you must come to me every day for half an hour at
least, and I will give you a lesson on ray 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 built 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 downstairs 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 trust to me. But I'm jist feared to
lat ye hear me lay a finger upo' the plana, for it's little I cud
do wi' my fiddle, an', for the piana ! I'm feart I'll jist disgust
ye."
" If you really want to learn, there will be no fear of that,"
returned Miss St. John. "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 '11 drive me mad ; for
there's naething to read but guid bulks, an' naething to sing
but psalms ; aai' there's nae fun aboot the hoose but Betty ; an'
puir Shargar's near-han' 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' w^.d like me to gar them grow;
but I dinna care aboot it ; they tak' sic a time afore they come
to onything."
I Si: EOBKRT FALCONER.
Then Miss St. John inquired aboat Shargar, and began t
feel rather diiFerently towards the old lady when she had
heard tlie 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 ha
got by going -would be a serious question to discuas.
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 fin-
ger 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 parlor, 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 parlor. 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 lisien-.
ing, hastened down, and with a sudden influx of determination
opened the doer, saw that the trap was raised, closed the dooJ
ROBERT TALCONER. 185
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 im-
modesty. 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 ony thing as bonny 's hersel' ! "
Then his thoughts took another turn.
" I wonner if the room was onything like this whan my
mamma sleepit in't ? 1 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 Mammal
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
186 ROBERT FALCONER.
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
peech, but full of delicate thought, gathered under the mod-
elling 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 un-
couthness ; if she had been less of a lady, would have mis-
taken his commonness for vulgarity. But she was just, like
the type of womankind, a virgin-mother. She saw the no-
bility 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 we6, 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, lean. What is it?"
" I'm near-han' sure that whan I lea' the parlor, grannie 'ill
think I'm awa' to my prayers; and sae she'll think better o'
me nor I deserve. An' 1 canna bide that."
" What should make you suppose that she will think so? "
" Fowk knows what ane anither's aboot, ye know, 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?"
Ono 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 ap
parent closeness.
ROBERT FALCONER. 18T
" 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, care-
fully 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 whitewashed walls, and
the long flagged transe that led to his silent grandmother
seated in her arm-chair, gazing into the red coals, for some-
how 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 parlor, 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 sura
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,
1 will not take it from you; I will only keep it fcr you."
188 ROBERT FALCONER.
" Weel, weel, mem ; if ye'll keep it till I speir for 't. that'll
du weel eneuch." answered Robert, with a smile.
He labored diligently ; and his progress corresponded to hia
labor. 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. Hia
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
be 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. Fal-
coner 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 Ic ved 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
thoughtof 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 tha
heart of a true woman the talk of a child even will take life.
ROBERT FALCONEK. 18S
One evening Robert rose from the table, not unwatchcci cf
his grandmother, and sped swiftly and silently through the
dark, as was his custom, to enter the chamber of enchant-
ment. Never before had his hand failed to alight, sure as a
lark on its nest, upon the brass handle of the door that ad-
mitted 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 door-way 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 lid
been.
PART II. -HIS YOUm
CHAPTER XXVI.
ROBERT KNOCKS AND THE DOOR IS NOI OPENED.
The remainder f 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
wallod up, like the nun he had read of in the " Marmion " she had
lent him. He might have rung the bell at the street-dooi,
and been admitted into the temple of his goddess ; but a certain
vague terror of bis 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 en-
trance 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. Fal-
coner." 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 leddy. 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.
bonily leddy creep into the pines on the hill, whose " soft and
Boul-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
130
ROBERT FALCONER. 191
not some particle find its way by winds and waters to syca
more forest of Italy, there creep up through the channels of
its life to some finely rounded curve of noble trees, on the
side that ever looks sunwards, and be chosen once again by
the violin-hunter, to be wrought into a new and fame-gather-
ing instrument ?
Could it be that his bonny leddy had learned her wondrous
music in those forests, from the shine of the sun, and the
sighing of the winds tlirough the sycamores and pines ? For
Robert knew that the broad-leaved sycamore, and the shar}),
needle-leaved pine, had each its share in the violin. Only aa
the wild innocence of human nature, uncorrupted by wrong,
untaught by suflFering, 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 his-
tory. This Robert could not yet think, and had to grow able
to think it by being himself made an instrument of Gods
music.
What he could think was that the glorious mystery of his
bonny leddy was gone forever and alas ! she had no soul.
Here was an eternal sorrow. He could never meet her again.
His affections, which must live forever, 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 com-
forted 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 herplace, nor occasion reproach
of inconstancy.
But, in the mean time, 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
waa dreary enough. The glow was out of his heart ; the
192 ROBERT FALCONER.
glow was out of the world. The bleak, kindless wind was
hissing through those pines that clothed the hill above Body-
fauldj and over the dead garden, where in the summer time
the rose had looked down so lovingly on the heart's-ease. 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
Boul. 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 ofi"; 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 van-
ished in the smoke of the martyred violin, and all their afifec
tion had gone into the dust-heap of the past.
Dooble Sanny's character did not improve. He took more
and more whiskey, his bouts of drinking alternating as before
with fits of hopeless repentance. His work was more neg-
lected 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
lastthey became a nuisance to the whole street. Little did
the whiskey-hating old lady know to what god she had really
ROBERT FALCONER. 193
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 lapped 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 Grod. 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 not. 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 com-
fort ; he could no more be lonely. A fountain of glad imagi-
nations 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
giirret-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 tem-
pest, 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
-3
194 ROBERT FALCONER.
of the very need which he had created. Younger people than
Eobert are capable of such divine metaphysics. Hence h
continued to disappear from his grandmother's parlor at much
the same hour as before. In the cold, desolate garret, ha
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 parlor cold to the very
heart. God was not to be found, he said then. He said after-
wards that even then " God was with him, though he knew it
not."
For the very first night, the moment that he knelt and cried,
" 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 leva me, if 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 sup-
posed 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-favorite. 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
ROBERT FALCONER. 19S
as he could ; struggled to reduce his rehellious feelings, to love
that whicli was unlovely, to choose that which was abhor-
rent, 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 qui-
etness 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 grand-
mother before he should enter. Shargar saw that Eobert was
unhappy, and the nearest he could come to the sharing of his
unhappiness was to take his place outside the door within whicn
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
favor, 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 favor was granted
to his prayers, that, indeed, would have been to be left to
his own inventions, to bring forth not fruits meet for repent-
ance, 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 out-
look 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,
19G BOBEET FALCONEB.
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,
diflfering 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 cloth-
ing after a civilized fashion better than that of the gypsy 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 gypsy, 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 gypsy adds a fowl or two to the prod-
uce of his tinkering ; or, once again, if the gypsy 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,
are 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 Shar-
gar 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
ROBERT FALCONER. 197
K.se and left the room. But he could not go near the garrei.
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 piano-forte. The fire within lighted up the crimson cur-
tain, but no voice of music came forth. The window was aa
dumj) as the pale, faintly befogged moon overhead, itself seem-
ing 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, care-
less 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 wail-
ful 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 aa
only the shoemaker could play it. But, alas ! the cry respon-
sive 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 con-
fiscated by Mrs. Falconer. But this was a strange tune to
play at a wedding ! The shoemaker, 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 loneli-
ness. Indeed, Robert learned more of music in those few min-
utes of the foggy winter night and open street, shut out of all
doors, with the tones of an ancient grief and lamentation floats
ing through the blotted moonlight over his ever-present sorrow,
198 ROBERT FALCONER.
than be could have learned from many lessons, even of Miss St.
John. He was cold to the heart, yet went in a little com-
forted.
Things had gone ill with him. Outside of Paradise, de-
serted 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
Rqjjert was that, when he was in bed that night, his heart be-
gan 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 shoemaker ? The wail of that violin echoed now
in Kobert's heart, not for Flodden, not for himself, but for the
debased nature that drew forth the plaint. Comrades in mis-
ery, 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 XXVII.
THE STROKE.
The following night, he left his books on the table, and tlw
house itself behind him, and sped like a greyhound to Double
Sanny's shop, lifted the latch, and entered.
By the light of a single dip set on a chair, he saw the shoe-
maker 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 shoemaker looked ghastly, and
ROBERT FALCONER. 199
they were eyes of despair that he lifted to the face of the yjuth
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 blows,"- resumed the shoemaker, 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 blows for cryin' doo"
my ain auld wife to set up your bonny leddy. The one's
gane a' to ashes and dust, an' frae the tither," he went on,
looking down on the violin at his feet as if it had been some-
thing dead in its youth, "an' frae the tither I canna draw
a sound, for my richt ban' has forgotten her cunnin'. Man,
Robert, I canna lift it frae my side."
" Ye maun gang to yer bed," said Robert, greatly con-
cerned.
" Ow, ay, I maun gang to my bed, and syne to the kirk-
Jraird, and syne to hell, I ken that weel eneuch. Robert, I
ea' my fiddle to you. Be guid to the auld wife, man, bet-
ter 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 hia
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, Jnnes, the schcol-master. Shargar had been
200 ROBERT FALCONER.
baiiished in consequence from the parlor, and Lad seated him-
self outside Robert's room, never doubting that Robert waa
inside. Presently he heard the bell ring, and then Betty came
up ihe stair, and said Robert was wanted. Thereupon Shargar
knocked at the door, and, as there was neither voice nor hear-
ing, opened it, and found, with a well-known horror, that he
had been watching an empty I'oom. 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 entreat 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,
liowever, 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 ap-
prenticed 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 waa
jjretty sure to gain a good bursary, and she would thus be re-
lieved for four years, probably forever, 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 his bed."
" What's come ower him ? "
"A stroke."
" That's what comes o' j)layin' the fiddle."
' I never heard o' a stroke comin' frae a fiddle, grannie.
It comes oot o' a cloud whiles. If he had hauden till 's fiddle,
he wad hae been playin' her the nicht, in place o' 's airm l^in'
at 's side like a shoemaker's thread."
ROBERT FAICONER. 201
"Hm ! " said his grandmother, concealing her indignation
ftt this freedom of speech, "ye dinna believe in God's judg-
ments? ''
"Not upon fiddles," returned Robert.
Mr. Innes sat and said nothing, with difficulty concealing
his amusement at this passage-of-arms.
It was 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 grand-
mother'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 de-
spair 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 grand-
mother all should be above-board from henceforth.
" Not upon fiddles," Robert had said.
" But upon them 'at plays them," returned his grand
mother.
"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 the 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."
202 ROBERT FALCONER.
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
hand him ohn deid o' hunger an' cauld."
"What for dinna ye tell me 'at Dr. Anderson had gien ye
sic a sicht o' siller ? It was ill-faured o' ye, an' him aa
weel."
" 'Cause ye wad hae sent it back till 'im ; an' Shargar and
me 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; "and guid 'll
come o' 'm, and that'll be heard tell o'."
" If he had but the grace o' God, there wadn be muckle
to compleen o'," acquiesced his grandmother.
" There's time eneuch for that, Mrs. Falconet. Ye canna
get auld heids upo' young shoothers, ye ken."
" Deed for that maitter, ye may getmony an auld heid upo'
auld shoothers, and nae a spark o' grace in 't to lat it see hoo
to lay itsel' down 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 shoemaker-
craturs hae 't. But dinna gie them mair nor a shillin' or twa
at ance, jist to baud them in life. They deserve nae mair.
But they maunna starve. And jist ye tell them, laddie, at if
they spen' ae saxpence o' 't upo' whuskey, they s' get nat
mair."
" Ay, ay, grannie," responded Robert, with a glimmer oi
gladness in his heart. "And what aboot the fiddlin', gran
KOBEBT FALCONER. 203
nio?" he added, half playfully, hoping for some kind oonces-
sif n 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 biead
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
hfA some business to mak' an en' o', an' we want nae
ae .distance."
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, buu 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 hia
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
Bum of twenty shillings except a pound note, succeeded in getting
silver for it at the bank, and then ran to the shoemaker's.
After he left the parlor, the discussion of his fate was re-
sumed, and flnally settled between his grandmother and the
school-master. The former, in regard of the boy's determina-
tion to befriend the shoemaker in the matter of music as well
as of money, would now have sent him at once to the gram-
mar school in Old Aberdeen, to prepare for the competition in
the month of November ; but the latter persuaded her that if
204 ROBERT FALCONER.
the boy gave his whole attention to Latin till the next sum-
mer, 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 if ye inter-
cept him upo' the shore-road, he'll tak' to the hill-road ; an' I
b' warran' a braw lad like Robert '11 get mony a ane in Eb-
berdeen '11 be ready eneuch to gie him a lift wi' the fiddle, and
maybe tak' him into waur company nor the puir bed-ridden
shoemaker ; an' wi' you an' me to hing on to the tail o' 'im
like, he canna gang ower the clifiF afore he learns wit."
" Hm ! " was the old lady's comprehensive response.
It was further arranged that Robert should be informed ol
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 pros-
pect of a college education. But his first thought at the news
was not of the delights of learning nor of the honorable course
that would ensue, but of Eric Ericson, the poverty-stricken,
friendless descendant of yarla and sea-rovers. He would see
Mm, 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,andread" Caesar," "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 tha
morning school before breakfast. His health was excellent,
else it could never have stood such treatment.
EGBERT FALCONER. 206
CHAPTER XXVIII.
His sole relaxation almost lay in the visit he paid every
evening to the shoemaker 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 sufierings,
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 invari-
ably when such had taken place, the shoemaker would ask for-
giveness before he went. Holding out his left hand, from
which nothing could efiace the stains of rosin and lamp-black
and heel-ball, save the sweet cleansing of mother-earth, he
would say :
" Robert, ye'U jist pit the sweirin' doon wi' the rest, an'
score 't oot a'thegither. I'm an ill-tongued wretch, an' I'm
beginnin' to see 't. But, man, ye're jist. behavin' to me like
God himsel', an' if it warna for you, I wad jist lie here roarin*
an' greitin' an' damnin' frae mornin' to nicht. Ye will be in
206 ROBERT FALCONER.
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. " If 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 if a man repents the richt gait, he'll forgio
him."
He could not say more than " They say," for his own hori-
zon 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 forever.
" An' what is the richt gait? " asked the shoemaker.
" 'Deed, that's mair nor I know, Sandy," answered Robert,
mournfully.
" Weel, if ye dinna know, what's to come o' me?" said
Alexander, anxiously.
" Ye maun speir at Himsel'," returned Robert, " an' jist
tell him 'at ye dinna know, 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 shoemaker 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 encoun-
ter such effort and agony.
All this time he had never doubted that there was a 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 whiskey, 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
EOBBKT FALCONER. 207
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 difierence between
slovenliness and accuracy, and between accuracy and expres-
sion, 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 endeavor to bring about that condition first. He did
not know that the truth makes its own iiest 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,
nowadays at least, neither love nor common sense. He there-
fore dwelt upon the sins of the shoemaker, magnifying them
and making them hideous, in the idea that thus he magni-
fied the law, and made it honorable, while of the special ten-
derness 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 shoemaker; "but, man Robert,
dinna ye think the minister was some sair upo' me ? "
"I du think it," answered Robert.
" Something heirs 't in upo' me 'at He wadna be sae sail
upo' me himsel'. There's something i' the New Testament,
some thought 'at's pitten 't into my held ; though, faith, I
dinna know whaur to luik for 't. Canna ye help me oot wi' 't,
man?"
208 ROBERT FALCONER.
Robert could think of nothing but the parable of the prodigal
Boa. Mrs. Alexander got him the New Testament and he read
it. She sat at the foot of the bed listening.
" There ! " cried the shoemaker triumphantly, " I tolled je
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'. Lord," he broke
out, " I'm comin' hame as fest 's I can ; but my sins are jist
like 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' if Idanna fiddle
weel, it 's no be my wyte. Eh, man ! but that is what 1 ca'
gude, an' a' the minister said honest man 's jist blether
till 't. Lord, I sweir if ever I win up again, I'll put in
ilka stitch as if the shune war for the feet o' the prodigal him-
eel'. It sail be gude wark, Lord. An' I'll never lat taste
o' whusky intil my mou', nor smell o' whusky intil my nose,
if sae be 'at I can help it, I sweir 't, Lord. An' if I
binna raised up agaip "
Here his voice trembled and ceased, and silence ensued 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 Ijhe
minister, honest man ! I tell ye I hae been a scoon'rel to ye.
I haena ever hauden my ban's aff o' ye. And eh ! ye war a
bonny lass when I merried ye. I hae spoiled ye a'thegither.
But if I war up, see if 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 hae 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
forgi'en me. Gie me anither kiss, lass. God be praised, and
mony thanks to you I 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."
" Hoota ! hoots ! " cried Sandy, angrily. " What are y
ROBEai FALCONER. 209
ftboot ? Nae mair o' that. I hae dune wi' that. What's i'
the heid' o' ye, man ? "
" What'U I play than, Sandy ? " asked Robert, meekly.
"Play ' The Lan' o' the Leal,' or ' My Nannie's awa','or some-
thing 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 shoemaker never called his fiddle his auld
wife.
Robert walked home with his head sunk on his breast.
Dooble Sanny. the drinking, ranting, swearing shoemaker,
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 Tes-
tament than in playing the fiddle to the shoemaker, 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 rumor got abroad that he was a " changed character,"
how is not far to seek, for Mr. Maccleary fancied himself the
honored 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 hia
OTTO, 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
210 ROBERT FALCONER.
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 abott 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 shoemaker's humor,
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 abootthat."
" I do not care aboot the deein' o' 't. But I jist want to
live lang eneuch to lat the Lord know 'at I'm in doonricht
earnest aboot it. I hae nae chance o' drinkin' as lang 's I'm
lyin' here."
" Never ye fret yer heid aboot that. Ye can 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 shoemaker, earnestly.
" It maun be a' pitten richt. It wad be dreidfu' to be latten
aflT. 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 shoe-
maker stretched out his one left hand, and took it from him,
laid it across his chest and his arm over it, for a few momentSj
as if he were bidding it farewell, then held it out to Robert,
Baying:
" Hae, Robert. She's yours. Death's a sair divorce.
Maybe they'll hae an extra fiddle whaur I'm gaein', though
Think o' a Rothieden shoemaker playin' afore his Grace ! "
Robert saw that his mind was wandering,- and mingled the
paltry honors 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
ROBERT FALCONER, 2J1
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, seat-
ing herself on the edge of the bed, said :
" Dinna bide, Robert. ltd a' ower noo. He's gane hame.
If 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
grieve, 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 grand-
mother's parlor.
" 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' gand ? "
" '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 may 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 know,"
Robert went on, fearful lest she might consider herself divinely
commissioned to extirpate the whole race of stringed instru-
ments, " 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 hia
bed, locked his door, put the key in his pocket, and descended
to the parlor.
"He's deid, is he?" said his grandmother, as he re-en-
tered.
212 BOBERT FALCONER.
" Ay, he is, grannie," answered Robert. " Ht deid a re-
pentant man."
" An' a believin' ? " asked Mrs. Falconer.
"Weel, grannie, I canna say 'at lie believed a' thing 'at
ever was, for a body michtna know a' thing."
" Toots, laddie ! Was 't savin' faith ? "
"I dinna richtly know what ye mean by that; but I'm
thinkin' it was muckle the same kin o' faith 'at the prodigal
Lad ; for they baith turned an' gaed hame."
" 'Deed, maybe ye're richt, laddie," returned Mrs. Fal-
coner, 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
dilTerent. Even Bodyfauld seemed to have lost its enchant-
ment, 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 shoemaker's fiddle, and get what he
could for it, to help his widow.
" Poor Sanny ! " said Robert ; " it never cam' intil 's heid
to sel'i her. nae mair nor if 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 repug-
nance, almost as if it ha,d been the prise of blooi. But Robert
ROBERT FALCONER. 213
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 Sandy's workshop. She cer-
tainly 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 XXIX.
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 sub-
ject, 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 Aber-
deen, 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.
214 ROBERT JJ'ALCONER.
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 him-
self as well. Then he rose, bade a hasty good-night, and
hurried away.
A strange conflict arose in his mind at the prospect of leav-
ing 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 gayest troubles
into tales of fairyland, and his deepest griefs into songs of a
sad music. Then he thought of Shargar, and what ^as 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, aud 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 tlie 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
colors 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 splendors towards purple-black
heart' s-eases, 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
ROBERT FALCONER. 215
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 in-
stead 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 pre-
sented 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 sweet pea, 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 evanes-
cent 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 the 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 pur-
poses 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
216 ROBERT FAI.COXKR.
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 Eobert'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 un-
heeded, and the roses sparkled with the dew that bowed yet
lower their heavy heads, all unheeded. By the time they had
ROBERT FALCaNER. 217
Guished, Mr. Lammie's gig Avas 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,
la 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 it
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 Atlan-
tis 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 roadside 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 color 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 labor 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.
218 ROBERT FALCONER.
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 ,hcr. 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. Wh^n
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 bor-
rowed a screw-driver 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 com-
panionship with the currant-bushes; underneath that, etc.;
and underneath etc., 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 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
ROBERT FALCONER. 219
he had already unpacked from his hex, he forgot all about
school and college, and went on playing till hia landlady
brought up his dinner, which he swallowed hastily that h*"
might return to the spells of his enchantress !
CHAPTER XXX.
THE COMPETITION.
1 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, cut 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 wa's 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 labored, 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 jburst, 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
220 ROBERT FALCONER,
Ilis 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 labor.
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 wina 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 quad-
rangle, or under the arcade, each with his " Ainsworth's Dic-
tionary," the sole book allowed, under his arm. But when
the sacrist appeared and unlocked the public school, and the
black-gowned professor 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.
EGBERT FALCONER. 221
It was done. Four weary hours, nearly five, cae 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, be 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 for-
got the rights of her sex in the middle of it, and in the accusa-
tive of a future participle passive, I dp 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 forever 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 dropt 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 lika
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. Sud-
denly a strange phenomenon appeared within him. The sub-
ject 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. Wcel,
the crater had better bide it quaietly, and no cry oot. Lie
doon, an' haud yer tongue. /Soror tua haud meretrix est,
ye brute ! " He burst out laughing, after a doubtful and ulu-
lant 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 dis-
222 ROBERT FALCONER.
gusting to him. He wandered about the new town, along
[Jnion 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, ijnd 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
mother 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 re-
mained, he had a chance of winning prizes at the end of the
session, and that would more than repair his honor. 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 hejan when a marjistrand 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.
BOBEKT FALCOKER. 223
CHAPTER XXXI.
DR. ANDERSON AGAIN.
At tlie post office he procured the desired information at
once. Dr. Anderson lived in Union Street, towards the west-
ern 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 car-
pet, crimson curtains, easy-chairs, grandly bound books, and
morocco-covered writing table, it seemed the very ideal of com-
fort. 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 dress-
ing-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 tho
other boy I forget his name,"
224 ROBERT FALCONER.
" Ye mean Shargar, sir. It's uo 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 grammar 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 know better. An' I had a heap
to do, an' a' for naething, efter a'. But if I had known 'at
ye wad like to see me, I wad hae likit weel to come to yc."
" 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 know Avhat to say, sir. Ye see I
wasna that sharp-set the day, sae I had jist a mou'fu' o' bried
and cheese. I'm turnin' hungry, noo, I maun confess."
The doctor rang the bell.
"You must stop and dine with me. Johnston," he con-
tinued, as his servant entered, "tell the cook that I liave 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 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
colored room they had left could hardly be imagined. A few
book-shelves on the wall were filled with old books. A fire
ROBERT FALCONER. 225
blazed cheerily in the little grate. A bed with snow-white
coverlet stood in a recess.
"This is the nicest room in the house, Kobert," 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 advan-
tage he was working like a slave from morning till night. My
heart is sometimes sore with the gratitude I feel to him.
Though he has 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 as I could, and I am hap-
pier here than anywhere in the world."
By this time Robert was perfectly at home. Before the din-
ner was ready he had not only told Dr. Anderson his presen
difficulty, but his whole story as far back as he could remem-
ber. 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 din-
ing-room. Robert followed, and they sat down to a meal sim-
ple 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 re-
tired 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 thai
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 wduld
15
226 EGBERT FALCONER.
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 1 he 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
nightj and, after mentioning the unexpected pleasure of Robert's
visit, not only explained the advantage to himself of the ar-
rangement he had proposed, but set forth the greater advan-
tage 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 other
wise 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 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, pre-
paring his "Virgil " for the next, when he found himself growing
very weary, and no wonder, for, except the walk of a few hun-
dred 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,
" Tbis way and that dividing the swift mind," *
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 th/ depth of dark-
ness to be traversed before he could find a music-shop, ha
caught up his cap, and went to rush from the house.
Tennyson's " Morte d'Arthur."
" Atque auimum nunc hue celerem, nunc dividit iliuc."
yF.neid; IV. Si'
ROBERT FALCONER. 227
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 XXXII.
ERIO ERICSON.
Robert sprang across the dividing chasm, clasped Ericson's
hand in both of his, looked up into his face, and stood speech-
less. Ericson returned the salute with a still kindness, ten-
der and still. His face was like a gray morning sky of sum-
mer, 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 if I had known ye was beark-
enin'."
"You couldn't do better than your best," returned Eric,
smiling.
" Ay, but yer best micht aye grow better, ye know," per-
sisted Robert.
"Come into my room," said Ericson. "This is Friday
night, and there is nothing but chapel to-morrow. So we'll
liave 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 ofier you," said Ericson
228 ROBERT FALCONER.
"You remind me of Peter and John at the Beautiful Gato
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, if ye know 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 van-
ished 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 innaething 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-con-
tempt. " But as soon as the real earnest comes that is all
over. The sea-moan is the cry of a tortured w"brld 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 be-
lieving eyes justified confidence, and Ericson had never had
any one to talk to. He rose again, opened a cupboard at hia
side, took out some papers, threw them on the table, and,
taking his hat, walked towards the door.
" Which of your strings is broken? " ha asked.
BOBEKT FALCONER. 229
" 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
rcrses, 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 suulight 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 church-yard 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 labor and pain,
Then why should not I in my grave ? "
His heart ready to burst with a sorrow, admiration, and de-
votion, 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
230 ROBERT FALCONER.
must be a, storm somewhere, away in the deep spaces of ita
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 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'U get yer deith
if ye Stan' that way i' the weet."
"Amen," said Ericson, turning with a smile that glim-
mered 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 alone
whan I micht be wi' ye a' the time if ye wad lat me. Ye
war oot o' the hoose afore I weel knew 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 ti 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
ROBERT FALC0N3R, 233
the new town. Robert bouglit 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 Ant-
werp 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 afrien' 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 con-
dition 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. lie
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
282 ROBKKT FALCONER.
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 feel-
ing 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 work.
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 know 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 Aber-
deen 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 whiskey offered by th^
bookseller, rose, and staggered out.
ROBERT FALCONER. 233
"If I were only home!" he said. "But where ia
home ? "
" We'll try to mak' ane," returned Robert. " Tak' a hand
o' me. Lay yer weicht upo' me. If 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 hoLjw, and were crossing the
canal-bridge by Mount Hooly, Ericson's strength again failed
him, and again he leaned upon the bridge. Not 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 cairry '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 bedsids,
tried to sit up, asking, feebly :
" Where am I ? "
234 ROBERT FALCONER.
" 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 Lis crowK
of red hair
"Ow! I'mnaebody."
" You must be somebody, or else my brain's in a bad state/'
returned Ericson.
" Na, na, I'm naebody. Naething at all. Robert'll be
Lame in ae meenit. I'm Robert's dog," concluded Shagar,
with a sudden inspiration.
This answer seemed to satisfy Ericson, for Le closed Lis eyes
and lay still ; nor did Le 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. Lad reduced Eric Ericson to Lis 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, cLiefly in kind, to be paid for wLcn Eric Lad a profession.
TLis 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, wit'-
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 at the university who made his knowl-
edge 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
Bought to break a passage upwards. Herein his experience
corresponded in a considerable degree to that of Robert ; only
Erie's more fastidious and more instructed nature bred a thou-
Robert falconer. 235
sand diiBculties which he would meet one by one; whereas
ilobert, 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 heav-
ily over Robert's well of life than over that of Ericson : the
obstructions to his faith were those that rolled from the disin-
tegrating mountains of humanity, rather than the rubbish
heaped upon it by the careless masons who take the quarry
wlience they hew the stones for the temple built without hands,
etei'nal 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 kind-
ness when your turn comes, if you won't accept one yourself ? "
Ericson held out his wrist. Dr. Anderson questioned, pre-
scribed, 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 opened, Robert joined Shargar in his own room
There he made up a good fire, and they sat and dried them
selves.
236 ROBERT FALCONER.
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 speyke to me that way, Robert, or I'll cut my
throat," he returned.
"Hoots! I maun know 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 lyin' as I used to be,
Robert. I hae tried it ower an' ower 5 but a lie comes rouch
throw my windpipe noo. Faith ! I cud hae lied ance wi' ony-
body, barrin' the de'il. I winna, lie. I'm nae lyin'. 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 pre-
tended displeasure.
" Gie me something to ate, an' I'll tell ye what to do wi'
me," answered Shargar. " I dinna care a 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
rumor 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 Shar-
gar. " Dinna ye think I'm the 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
0' '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
ROBERT FALCONER. 237
liingin' aboot the Royal afore the coches startit. I luiket a'
up and doon the street till I saw somebody hine awa vri' a
porkmanty. Till 'im I ran, an' he was an auld man, an'
maist at the last gasp wi' the weioht o' 'it, an' gae me 't to
carry. An' wha duv ye think gae me a shillin' the veriU first
nicht ? Wha but my brither Sandy ? "
"LordRothie?"
" Ay, faith. I knew him weel eneuch, but little he knew
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 some-
thing no canny o' that kin' ; for faith ! brither Sandy's no ower
canny himsel', I'm thinkin'. But Geordie the aulder the
waur inclined. An' sae I'm thinkin' wi' his maister."
" Did ye ever 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
'a to lat me come hame at nicht, and lie upo' the flure here.
I sweir I'll lie i' the street if ye dinna lat me. I'll sleep aa
soun' 's Peter Maclnnes whan Maccleary's preachin'. An' I
winna ate muckle, I hae 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 awn 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 re-
joining Robert. Thence, too, he had watched to please Mss.
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 thunder-
bolt out of a clear sky. He fled at once.
238 RCBERT FALCONER.
" Weel, ye can hae my bed the nicht," said Robert, "for 1
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 eneucb
efter -what I've come throu' sin' I drappit frae the window-siU
i' the ga'le-room. But jist lin' me yer plaid, an' I'll sleep
upo' the rug here as if I war i' Paradees. An' faith, sac ]
am, Robert. Ye maun gang to yer bed some time the nicht
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 the 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, etc., etc.
There were but two subjects which Robert avoided, Miss St.
John and the Bonny Leddy. Shargar was at length deposited
upon the little bit of hearth-rug which adorned rather than en-
riched the room, with Robert's plaid of shepherd tartan arounii
him, and an Ainsworth's dictionary under his head for a
pillow.
"Man, I fin' mysel' jist like a muckle 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 twisein ae lifetime. Sae I'll fa' asleep at ance, an'
sae 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 granny'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 bad visited him from time to time, but he had not
awakened. 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
ROBEKT FALCONER. 239
the clouds from the sky, and the whole world of stars was
radiant over the earth and its griefs.
" God, where art thou? " he said in his heart, and wer t
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 thi?
moaning all of the earth, or was there trouble in the starry
places too ? thought Robert, as if already he had begun to sus-
pect 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 home-
wards, even towards the bosom of that Father.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
A HUMAN PKOVIDENCB.
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 viaa
240 ROBERT FALCONER.
gone, and for a moment he doubted whether he had not beer
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
BO 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 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 markia's, that's it. Hia
mither's a randy wife 'at gangs aboot the country, a gypsy,
they say. There's nae doobt aboot her. An' by a' accounts
the father's likely eneuch."
" And how on earth did you come to have such a question-
able companion? "
" Shargar' s as fine a crater as ever God made," said Robert,
warmly. "Ye'U 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 fervor of his young kinsman ; "I
only wanted to know how he came to be your companion."
"I beg your pardon, doctor; but I thocht ye was some
Bcunnert 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 forgether wi' 'im."
KOBEBT FALCONER. 241
" 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 tailor o' 'im ; an' he jist run 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 !
if she could only get my father hame ! " sighed Robert, after a
pause.
" What should she want him home for ? " asked Dr. Ander-
son, still making conversation.
" I didna mean hame to Rothieden. I believe she cud bide
never seein' 'im again, if only he wasna i' the ill place. She
has awfu' notions aboot burnin' ill sowls forever an' ever. But
it's DO hersel'. It's the wyte o' the ministers. Doctor, I do
believe she wad gang an' be burnt hersel' wi' a great thanks-
givin', if it wad lat ony puir crater oot o' 't, no to say my
father. An' I sair misdoobt if 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, Mt. 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 if 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."
16
242 ROBERT FALCONER.
" I thocht he was comin' to himsel','' returned Robert
" But I will tak' care, I assure ye, doctor. Only I'm feared 1
may fa' asleep the nicht, for I was so 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 Mrs. 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 in' 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 neces-
sity ; with just enough in it of the salt of choice to keep it
from losing its savor. 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 not-
withstanding that religion had much, I ought to say every-
thing, 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
bia sadness came, we need not inquire. Some woman out in
ROBERT FALCONER. 243
that fervid land may have darkened his story, darkened it
wronglessly, it may be, with coldness, or only -with death.
But to return home vrithout 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 heav-
ens 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. Deatb
and, the west are behind us ever behin(? us, afid settling into
the unchangeable.
It was natural that he should be interested in th! fine prom-
ise 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 if. He wa? rugged in the simplicity of hi^
truthfulness, and his speech betrayed him as altogether of the
people ; but the doctor knew the hole of the pit whence ha
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 furthei
his plans. But he was too wise to overwhelm him with a cat'
aract of fortune instead of blessing him with the merciful dev
of progress.
" The fellow will bring me in for no end of expense," hr
said, smiling to himself, as he drove home in his chariot
" The less he means it the more unconscionable ho will be
There's that Ericson but that isn't worth thinking of. 1
must do something for that queer protege oi his, though
that Shargar. The fellow is as good as a dog, and that's say-
ing not a little for him. I wonder if he can learn or if ho
244 ROBERT FALCONER.
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 hov
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 de-
light 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 tran-
scended 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 con-
template ? might he not inherit in the purification of his
will such an absorption as should intensify his personality ?
CHAPTER XXXIV.
A HUMAN SOUL.
Ericson lay for several weeks, during which time Robert
and Shargar were his only nurses. They contrived, by abridg-
ing both rest and labor, to give him constant attendance.
Sharger went to bed early and got up early, so as to let
Robert have a few hours' sleep before his classes began. Rob-
ert 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 pro-
euro for Ericson all that he wanted. The shopping of the two
ROBERT FALCONER. 245
boys, in their utter ignorance of such df .icacies 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,
ller 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 cheer-
fully, and refused to add anything to the rent on Shargar'a
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 enclosed in a parcel containing all Shar-
gar'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 grand-
child 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
246 ROBERl FALOONBR.
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 hia
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 underclothing, 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, coloring a little ; " I was readin' a
bit o' the ' Anabasis.' "
The doctor smiled a far-oflF, sly smile.
"I think it was rather the Katabasis, if one might venture
to judge from the direction of your labors."
" 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 whole, an' learn my Greek at
the same time ? Hoots, doctor ! dinna laugh at me. I was
doin' nae ill. A body may please themsel's, which, surely,
is no sin."
"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' if it warna for you, doctor, I do not
know what wad come o' 's ; for ye see I hae no richt to come
apo' my grannie for ither fowk. There wad be nae en' to
that."
" But I could lend you the money to buy him some stock-
ings."
^' An' whan wad I be able to pay ye, do you think, doctor?
In anither warl' maybe, whaur the currency micht be sae
diflferent 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 '11 do. Forbye, if ye began wi' his claes, ye wadna
know whaur to baud ; for it wad jist be the new claith upo'
the auld garment : ye mich* as weel new deed him at ance."
nOBBRT FALCOKER. 247
' And why not, if I choose, Mr. Falconer ? "
" Spoir ye that at Mm, an' see what ye^ll get, a luik 'at
wad fess a carrion crow frae the shy. 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 win-
dow 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 pairi, 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 non-
sense to ordinary people ; to Robert they seemed inspired.
His imagination, which was greater than any other of his fine
faculties, wag 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 colored light from th
rainbow walls of the heavenly city.
248 ROBERT FALCONER.
' If God were thinking me," said Ericson, " ab ! But if
he be only dreaming me, I sball go mad."
Ericson's outside was like his own nortbern clime, - - dark,
gentle, and clear, with gray-blue seas, and a sun thti seems
to shine out of the past, and know nothing of the future.
Eui within glowed a volcanic angel of aspiration, fluttering
his half-grown wings, and ever reaching towards the heights
wheme all things are visible, and where all passions are safe
beeaui'e true, that is, divine. Iceland herself has her Hecla.
Robort listened with keenest ear. A mist of great meaning
hung ahout 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 ;
Kive 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 cliflf of unheard prayer 1
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 it. But I prefer giving 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 ques-
tioning love, which so often darkened his sky, did, it length,
" Turn forth her silver lining on the night."
" SONG.
" They are blind and they are dead ;
We will wake them as we goj
aOBEET FALCONER. 24J
There are words have not been said;
There are sounds they do not know.
We will ripe 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 I
Flashes through the lashes leaping I
" Te 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 fi-ost and snow,
Till the daisies are in blow.
" Te 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 alJ
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 miser-
able, 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
250 llOBERT FALCONER.
God that does not exist. Better be miserable because I ar,
and cannot help it. God ! "
Yet, in his misery, he cried upon God.
These words came upon Robert with such a shock of sym.
pathy, 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. lie swal-
lowed 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.* 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 some-
times 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 ia
strong enough to draw it from the concealing thicket. Here
were (swo, each thinking that God had forsaken him, or was
xiot to be found by him, and each the very love of God, com-
aiissioned to tend the other's heart. In each was he present
to the other. The one thought himself the happiest of mortals
in waising 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
fece, believed in God.
For some time after Ericson was taken ill, he was too de-
pressed and miserable to ask how he was cared for. But by
Why should Sir Walter Scott, who felt the death of Camp, his buU-
terrler, so much that he declined a dinner engagement in consequence,
say on the death of his next favorite, a greyhound bitch, " Best her
body, since I dare not say soul " ? Whei'e did he get that dare not? Is
It well that the daring of genius should be circumscribed by an un-
belief so commonplace as to be capable only of subscription ?
ROBERT FALCONER. 251
slow degrees it dawned upon him that a heart deep and gra-
cious, like that of a woman, watched over him. True, Robert
was uncouth, but his uncouthness was that of a half-fledgod
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
lio pondering, not how. to repay him, but how to return hia
kindness.
How much Robert's ambition to stand well in the eyes of
Miss St. J ohn 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 ad-
vanced 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, hia 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, ^hargar, likewise, took his
share in the love and the fellowship, worshipping in that bn
believed.
CHAPTER XXXV.
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
252 V ROBEUT FALCONEK.
cultivated, until almost any Friday evening Ericson was to be
found seated by Mr. Lindsay's parlor 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
great-coat, 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 Sor-
dello in the " Purgatorio " :
" ) nel maover degli occhi onesta e tarda : "
ROBERT FALCONER. 253
tbey semed too largo to move otherwise than with a slow turn-
ing 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 sereuo fUlgor d'amabil nero. "
A wise observer would have been a little troubled in regard-
ing 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 every-
body 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
254 ROBERT FALCONER.
history he had been taken upby an active lawyer ;n Edin
burgh, 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 favor, 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
fear 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 neitherpast, 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 impend-
ing 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 favorite
dishes ; old, musty books, that looked as if they knew some-
thing 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 angela.
KOBERT FALCONER. 255
I would not have my reader suppose that Mjsie's mind was
corrupted. It was so simple and childlike, leaning to what was
pure, and looking up to what was noble, that anything di-
rectly bad in the books she happened for it was all hap-
hazard 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
bo 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 tansy ; 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 good-
ness for goodness itself; not the worst result, but bad enough,
and involving an awful amount of suffering and possibly of de-
filement 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 stjirtled by
a loud knock at the back-door, which, opened on a lane, lead-
ing along the top of a hill. But she had almost forgotten it
again, when the door of the room opened, and a gentleman en-
tered without any announcement, for Jennie had never heard
of the custom. When she saw him, Mysie started from her
seat, and stood in visible embarrassment. The color went and
came on her lovely face, and her eyelids grew very heavy; She
had never seen the visitor before ; whether he had never 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
256 ROBERT FALCONER.
of manhood, the Baron of Rothie. Since the time of mj
first description of him, he had grown a mustache, which im-
proved his countenance greatly, by concealing his upper lip
with its tusky curves. On a girl like Mysie, with an imagi-
nation so cultivated, and with no opportunity of comparing its
fancies with reality, such a man would make an instant impres-
sion.
" I beg your pardon, Miss Lindsay, I presume ? for in-
truding upon you so abruptly. I expected to see your father,
not one of the graces."
She blushed all the color 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 Jennie 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 nev-
ertheless ; for the falser he knew himself, the more honor he
judged it to persuade women of his truth.
It is unnecessary to record the slight, graceful, marrowlesa
talk into which he drew Mysie, and by which he both bewil-
dered 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 trem-
ble. 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, pos-
sess ! 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. Tbcra
ROBERT FALCONER. 257
are no such men nowadays ! It is a shame to spe-ak of such,
and there/ore they are not I Decency has gone so far to abol-
ish virtue. Would to God that a writer could be decent and
honest 1 St Paul counted it a shame to speak of some things,
and yet he did speak of them because those to whom ho
spoke did them.
Lord Rothie had, in five minutes, so deeply interested Mr
Lindsay, in a question of genealogy, that he begged his lord-
ship 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 favorite pursuits, was an excessive reverence for rank.
Had its claims been founded on mediated revelation, he could
not have honored 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 there is about 'im."
" Wasna yer brither i' the air my, Shargar?"
" Ow, 'deed, ay. They tell me he was at Waterloo. Ile'a
a cornel, or something like that."
"Whatellt yea' that?"
" My mother whiles," answered Shargar.
17
258 BOBBRT FALCONER.
CHAPTER XXXVI,
ROBERT'S VO-W.
Ehioson was recovering slowly. He could sit up in bed the
greater part of the day, and talif about getting out of it. He
was able to give Robert an occasional holp with his Greek, and
to listen with pleasure to his violin. The night-watching grew
less needful, and Ericson would have dispensed with it will-
ingly, but Robert would not yet consent.
But Ericson had seasons of great depression, during which
he could not bear 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 com-
fort 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 /'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 expres-
sion 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, if there he ane, that if y
die, I'll tak' up what ye lea' ahin' ye. If 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, if he be in life, to bring him back
to the richt way, if there be a richt way. Sae ye can think
aboot whether there's onything ye wad like to confide till mo.''
ROBERT FALCONER, 259
A something grew in Ericson'a eyes as Robert spoke. Be-
fore 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 i'ight? Ah ! but he must be such a
God as I could imagine, altogether, absolutely, true and good.
If we came out ot 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 natu-
ral, 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 know, 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 !
Vaugely, 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 re-
member 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.
260 ROBERT FALCONER.
' Tt 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?" sug--
gested 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 ! Bead it your-
self, or leave it."
Eagerly Robert took it, and read. The folioFing was the
best he could make of it :
" Oh, that a wind would call
From the depths of the leafless wood '
Oh, tfiat a voice would fall
On the ear of my solitude I
Far away is the sea,
With its sound and its spirit-tono ;
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 j
But my heart is full of fears,
For the sun shines far away;
And they look in my face through tesra,
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, di
ever thought that there was one who, in the face of the fact.
ROBERT FALCONER. 2G1
and in recognition of it, had dared say, " ITot 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 only know the fall, and not the sparrow.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
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. 1 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."
"Might not the fog be the torn-edge like o' the cloudy
pillar?" suggested Robert.
" Very likely," assented Ericson ; " for, whatever truth
tliere 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 forever."
" 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 toluik at, but to latye see a'thing."
Ericson regarded him with some surprise. Robert has-
tened to be honest.
"It's not that I know ony thing aboot it, Mr. Ericson. I
was only talking nonsense, reasoning from the two symbols
o' the cloud an' the fire, knowing nothing aboot the thing
262 KOBERT FALCOWBR.
itsel'. I'll awa' to the kirk, an' see what it's like. Will I
give ye a hook before I go ? "
"No, thank you. I'll just lie quiet till you comeback
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 ita men, laid hold of his imagination for the first time
No doubt the necessity imposed by the unyielding materia.'
had its share, and that a large one, in the character of the
building : whence else that simplest of west windows, six 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 tlie res-
toration of this grand old monument of the belief of their
fathers ' Deformed as the interior then was with galleries,
and with Gravin 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 cathe-
dral. The service was like the church only as a dead body is
like a man. There was no fervor 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
ROBERT FAIiCONKR. 263
be otherwise : one of the favorite 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, lie
could not even preach hell with any vigor ; 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 docti-ine had been drawn from the ^neid,
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 conso-
lation that."
" Sma' eneuch," responded Robert. "I cudna help
thinkin' I knew mony a dog that God had made wi' mair o'
what 1 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 thocht, 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 tres-
pass. 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 week blink o' a chance o'
no bein' burnt 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 pit-
ten us intil't, and jist gied a bit wag o' 's han' whiles to hand
the deevil aflf o' 's whan he was like to destroy the breed
a'thegither. For the grace that he spak aboot, that was less
nor the natur' an' the providence. I cud see unco little o
grace intil 't."
264 ilOBBRT FALCONER.
Here Ericson broke in, fearful, apparently, lest his boy
friend should be actually about to deny the Ood 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, '
Ke shall know him by his perfection, his grand perfect truth,
fairness, love, a love to make life an absolute good, not :v
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.* They represent a God who does
wonderfully well, on the whole, after a middling fashion.
* Amongst Ericson's papers I find the fcHowing sonnets, whicli
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
Blacli: 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 1
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 theet
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."
KOBBRT FALCONER. 265
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 Ericsoa forgotten that he had no proof of such a God 7
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 know that I'm here, Mr. Ericson," suggested Rob-
ert.
"I know nothing of the sort. You may be another phan-
tom only clearer."
" Ye speik to me as if ye thooht 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 if 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
knowing 'at it 's a' a lee, and nae able to win clear o' 't."
" li 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 don't think I could
believe 't if ye war to pruv 't to me."
" I don't believe it. Nobody could prove that either, oven
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
behovei to be able to pruv that ? Do ye think God cud stan'
to be pruved as if he war something sma' eneuch to be turned
roon' and roon', and luikit ap upo' ilka side? If there war a
God, wadna it jist be sae that we sudna prove him to be, J
mean?"
266 ROBERT FALCONER
" 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 sums. Says he, ae day, ' Robert, my man, if ye will aye
unnerstan' afore ye du as ye 're tellt, ye'll never unnerstan'
onything. But if ye du the thing I tell ye, ye'll be i' the midst
o' 't afore ye know 'at ye're gaein' intil 't.' I jist thoeht 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 thoclit the maister was wrang,
for I never knew the riazon o' a' that beginnin' at the wrang
en', an' taking 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
Bingin', that ane wi' the foxes i' the tail o' 't, lang divis-
ion came into my heid again ; and first ae bit glimmerin' o'
licht came in, and syne anither, an afore the psalm was dune
I saw tbrou' the hail process o' 't. But ye see, if 1 hadna dune
as I was tauld, and learnt a' aboot boo it was dune aforehan', I
wad bae had naething to gang rizzonin' aboot, and 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 haddock i' the press."
' "I have been looking, Robert for years."
"Maybe, like me, only for the rizzon o' 't, Mr. Ericson
if 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 beyond me noo. I canna tell that, JMr. Ericson.
It canna be gaein' to the kirk, surely. Maybe it micht bo
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 thouglit of
turning to the story of Jesus, finding some word that he had
ROBERT FALCONER. 2(i7
epoken, 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 bis firma-
ment?
In the evening Ericson asked again for his papers, from
hich 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 soest 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 yat 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 seenu
Across the purple hills to roam ;
Sweet odors 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 highl
The breast of man is vat of stone ;
I am alive, I, only 1 1
" Thou hast beheld a throated fountain spout
Full in the air, and in 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 1
868 ROBERT FALCONBH.
Beauty is pleasant in the eyes of Jore ;
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 unreal.
" One heart beats in all nature, differing
But in the work it works ; its doubts and clamon
^e but the waste and brunt of instruments
Wherewith a work is done ; or as the hammers
On forge Cyclopean piled 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 stono ;
And I am alive, I, only I."
Robert, having read, sat and wept in silence. Ericson saw
Iiim, 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 onoe more deceive my-
self and be happy,"
" Dinna say that, Mr. Ericson. That's waur than despair.
ROBERT FALCONER. 269
That's flat unbelief. Ye no more know that ye're deceivin'
yersel' than ye know that ye're no doin' 't."
Ericson did not reply ; and Robert read the following 8on
net aloud, feeling his way delicately through its mazes :
" Lie down upon the ground, thou hopeless one 1
Press thy face in grass, and do not speak.
Dost feel the green globe whirl? Seven tims 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 XXXVIII.
SHARGAR'S ARM.
XoT 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 thor-
oughfare 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 whei'e Dr. Anderson was to be found, gen-
erally 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 camo
upon the doctor's chariot standing in one of the narrowest
270 ROBERT FALCONER.
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 him-
self. 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.
" Lord ! " cried Shargar, as he rose, with his arm dan-
gling by his side, "what will Donal' Joss say? I'm like to
faint. Hand awa' frae that basket, ye 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 hfe found the carriage stopping with himself
and the hamper inaide it.
As soon as the coachman had got his harness put to rights,-
the doctor had driven back to see how he 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 pre-
liminary measure were proceeding to deliver the latter.
" Whaur am I? whaur the deevil am I?" cried Shargar,
umping 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 know ye. Lat me awa'. I beg yer pardon,
doctor : I thoclit ye was ane o' thae gallows-birds rinnin' awa'
wi' Donal' Joss's basket. Eh me! sic a stoun i' my airm '
ROBERT FALCONER. 271
But naebody ca's me Moray. They a' ca' me Shargar. WhaJ
richt have /to be ca'd Moray ?^^ added the poor boy, feeling,
I almost believe for the first time, the stain upon his birth.
Yet he had as good a right before God to be called Moray aa
any other son of that worthy sire, the Baron of Kothie in-
cluded. 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.
" De'il a bit o' 't ! " cried Shargar. " He daurna lea' his
box wi' thae deevils o' horses. What makes ye 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' thatT That's no muckle. You'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 'tjines again, to baud them gaein', ye ken.
It winna be muckle to you, doctor," added Shargar, be-
seechingly.
" Trust me for that, Moray," returned Dr. Anderson. " 1
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'll 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 ita
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' cor way, 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 p^or boyi you don't think I'm going to leave you
here, do you ? " said the doctor, proceeding to open the car
dage-door.
272 ROBERT FALCONER.
" But whaur's the hamper?" said Shargar, looting about
him in dismay.
"The coachman has got it on the box," answered the
doctor.
"Eh ! that'll never do. If thae rampaugin' brutes war to
take 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." Aa
he spoke, the doctor got out.
" Take care o' 't, sir ; take care o' 't. William Walker said
there was a jar o' drained hinney i' the basket ; an' the bairns
wad miss 't sair if '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 to?" 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 precise
Robert. But I'll jist say 'at ye garred me, doctor. Maybe
that'll saitisfee him. An' faith ! I'm queer about my left arm
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 John-
ston 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 hearth-rug.
Robert was delighted to hear how well Shargar had acquitted
himself. There followed a small consultation about him ; for tho
ROBERT FALCONER. 27
accident had ripened the doctor's intentions concerung 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 spirit,
that is, if it be for ony ither body. He wad never lift a ban'
for himsel' ; an' that's what made me tak' till him sae muckle.
He's a fine crater. He canna gang him lane, but he'll gang
wi' onybody, and baud 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.
"If ye cud ensure him no bein' made a general o', he wad
mak' a gran' sojer. Set's face foret, and say 'quick, raairch,'
an' he'll ca his bagonet throu' Auld Hornie. But lae nae con-
sequences 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 XXXIX.
mtsib'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 turaed
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 min'l knows
274 ROBERT FALCONER.
its own consolations ; and I believe the saddest life bas 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 he ; 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 spring-
ing from bis 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 imme-
diate 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 Differen-
tial 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 ex-
pect 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 even-
ing 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 doubt*
ful. He then sat down to his books, till Ericson came to his
ECTBBRT FALCONER. 275
door, dressed, and hence in Eobert'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, " boo can I do that? To tak'
her wi' me the first time I gang to a strange hoose, as if I
thocht a'body wad think as muckle o' my auld wife as I do
mysel' ! That widna be mainners, wad it noo, Mr. Eric-
son?"
" 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's mak's a' the differ," answered Robert.
" Thank you," said Ericson, as Robert went towards his in-
strument; 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 layin' i' the street like
a verra deevil to get a grup o' ye. If ye dinna pit on yer
plaid, I wanna 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 musjc raised the
Buddener storms in her mobile nature, that she was unable to
give that feeling utterance. The waves of her soul dashed tha
276 ROBERT FALCONER.
more wildly against their shores, inasmuch as those shores were
precipitous, and yielded no outlet to the swelling waters. It
was that hia 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 gather-
ing 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 parlor 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 parlor. Mysie was put-
ting 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.
Bhe held out her hand to Eric, and her sweet voice was yet
more gentle than wont, for ho had been ill. His face flushed
at the tone. But although she spoke kindly, he could hardly
tiave fancied that she showed him special favor.
Robert stood with his violin under his arm, feeling as awk-
ward as if he had never handled anything more delicate than a
pitchfork. But Mysie sat down to the table, and begun 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
ROBERT FALCONER. 277
come from poring over " Spotiswood," in search of some " Will-
o' -the- wisp " or other, and had grown stupid from want of suc-
cess. 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 conscious-
ness relapsed into dreamland. Had not Robert been with Erie-
son, 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 starta
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 saya,
" Feels at each thread, and lives along the line. '
278 ROBBRT FALCONER.
And while Ericson watched its shadows, the music must hare
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'a eyea
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 imgination. 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 sea-
shore. 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 hia
love, and now she wanted both it and the hand to draw to her-
self the lover of a young maiden whom she hated. But the
dead hand closed its fingers upon hers, and her power waa
powerless against the dead. And the tide came rushing upj
and the dead hand held her till she was drowned. She lies
with her lover to this day at the bottom of the Swalchie whirl-
pool ; and when a storm is at hand, strange moanings rise fi'om
ROBBRT PALCONBR. 279
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 lit-
tle 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 likeJihood as the
story of the dead hand. When Ericson ceased, Mysio gave a
deep .sigh, and looked full of thought, though I dare say 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 dur-
ing 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, ofiered 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.
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.
^bO ROBBRT FALCONER.
Robert looked up. Close about tbe 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 eye-
brow; 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 XL.
THE LAST OE THE COALS.
The next Sunday Robert went with Ericson to the Episcopal
chapel, and for the first time in his life heard the epic musio
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, de-
spairing ; gathered hope and tried again, and yet again ; till at
last, with constantly recurring fits of self-despite, lie could
aot 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 witli a
delight, resting chiefly on bis social approximation to Robert,
which in one week elevated the whole character of his person
and countenance and bearing, George Moray bent himself to
ROBERT FALCONER. 281
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 Dr. Anderson had made up his
mind to leave his money to Eobert, 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 accompa-
nied him ; and as there was a good deal of original similarity
between the doctor and Ericson, the latter soon felt his obliga-
tion no longer a burden. Shargar, likewise, though more occa-
sionally, 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 gypsy blood and law-
less 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 doc-
tor'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.
282 ROBERT FALCONER.
To the latter especially, as I think I have said befcfe, 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
earth to be worshipped by him who dwelt upon it.
The end of the session came nigh. Ericson passed his exami-
nations with honor. 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 labor 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,
oiie, 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 '11 say to me," said Robert.
"She'll be very glad to see you, whatever she may say,"
remarked Ericson.
"She'll say, ' Noo, be quiet,' the minute I hae shacken
hands wi' her," said Robert.
"Robert," returned Ericson, solemnly, " if I had a grand-
mother 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
BO lonely ! "
"But you have a cousin, haven't you?" suggested Robert.
Ericson laughed, but gcod-naturediy.
ROBERT FALCONER. 283
' 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 ' Para-
dise 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 jastice, he only charges me wholesale."
"What'llhedothatfor?"
" 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 country bank. I don't be-
lieve he would do anything for me but for the honor 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 hae no brothers or sisters ? "
" No, not one. Thank God for your grandmother, and dp
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 re-
strained 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 hava
me to be? Come now."
Robert thought for a moment.
284 ROBERT FALCONER.
" Weel, ye canna be a minister, Mr. Ericson, 'cause ya
Jinna believe in God, ye know," 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 thipkin there canna be muckle diflfer atween houp an'
faith," said Robert. " Mony a ane 'at says they believe in
God has unco little houp o' onything frae 's ban', 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 last 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 yo 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 be a
lawyer."
" A lawyer ! Lord ! " said Ericson.
" Why not? " asked Robert, in some wonderment ; for ho
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
dispenses justice; but well, it's not for me. Icould not do
the best for my clients. And a lawyer has nothing to do with
the kingdom of heaven only with hia clients. He 7nust be
a party-man. He must secure for one so often at the loss of
ROBERT FALCONER. 285
the rest. My duty and my conscience would always bo 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 n9 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 saru."
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' away', Mr. Ericson," said Robert; "an' the
Lord 'at we know naething aboot alone knows 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 unconscioua-
286 ROBBRT JALCOKBB.
nesa. 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 con^
tent withoot a God," responded Robert. " It's dreidfu' to
think even o' fa'in' asleep without 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 paperj
from his hand, and searched for the poem indicated.
" I'm not in the way of doing this sort of thing, Robert,"
ke said.
" I know that," answered Robert.
A.nd Ericson read :
" SLEEP.
" Oh, is it Death that comes
To have a foretaste of the whole ?
To-night the planets and the stnrs
Will glimmer through ray window-ban,
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?
Wlien I am still upon my bed.
The moon will shine, the winds will riw.
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.
ROBERT FALCONBR. 287
"And all the long night through,
Tlie restless streams -will hurry hy ;
And round the lands, with endless roar.
The white waves fall upon the shore,
And bit by bit devour the drv
" 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 I "
" 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 know 'at it's a
poem is jist this : it opens my een like music to something 1
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 when the richt time comes, it'll be as nat'ral
as fa'in' asleep whan we're doonricht sleepy. If thore be a
God we ca' oor Father in heaven, I'm no thinkin' that be wad
288 ROBERT FALCONER.
to sae money bonny tunes pit a thought for the hinder end. I'm
thinkin', if there be onything in 't, hear ye know I'm no
Bayin', for I dinna know we maun just believe in him, to die
dacent an' happy, an' nae sic strange awful' fash aboot it as
some fowk wad make 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 myself whan ye took to sic things, Mr. Ericson. But
'deed, maybe my 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 violius. 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 bd.
But ere he had fallen asleep, Ericson was beside him;and
before he was dressed, Ericson appeared again, with his fetick
in his hand. They left Shargar still asleep, and desceniied
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 jour-
ney 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-parteii roadside inns.
ROBERT FALCONER. 2b9
When Shargar awoke, he wept in desolation ; then crept into
.Robert's bed, and fell fast asleep again.
CHAPTER XLL
A STRANGE NIGHT.
The youths had not left the city a mile behind when a thick
finow-storm 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 sun-
shine 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 ofiered glass of whiskey, started again
on their journey. They did not talk much, for their force was
Bpent 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
19
290 ROBERT FALCONER.
about, and take a short breathing time under the lee of each ;
BO 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 way 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."
" If 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 saxpenoe
or twa atween this and that ? I thocht ye cared for naething
that time, or space, or sense could grip or measure. Mr. Eric-
son, 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 hia 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
thoroughbreds.
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 to 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 togethei
EGBERT FALCONER. 29J
into solid lumps of ice. The coachman could scarcely liold hia
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 vethe-
mence ; 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 back-
wards ; 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 shelter o' the bank here, oot o' the reach
o' thae horses," said Robert, taking oflF 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 get throu' the nicht there weel eneuch. I'll speir aC
292 EGBERT FALCONER
the gaird, the minute the horses are clear. We war 'maist
ower the bridge, 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 Eobert.
"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 mairnor the breadth o' a rig or twafrae the burn."
" I can take you by the road," said Ericson.
"It will be very cold," said Miss St. John, already shiv-
ering, partly from disquietude.
" There's wood eneuch there to hand's warm for a twal-
month," said Robert.
He went back to the coach. By this time the horses were
nearly extricated. Two of them stood steaming in the lamp-
light, 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, an' 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 be-
ROBERT FALCONER. 293
longed only to the beginning of the preceding century, some-
where 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 browuBr. 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 aw-
fully 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
294 ROBERT FALCONER.
until lately some care had been taken of the place to keep it
from the weather. There Eobert left his companions, who
presently heard the sounds of tearing and breaking below, ne-
cessity justifying him in the appropriation of some of the wood-
work for their own behoof. lie tore a panel or two from the
walls, and, returning with them, lighted a fire on the empt_y
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 yield
ing 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. De'il ane. An' if 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 "wajited to go to
sleep again, "gang and mak luv till her. Nae lass '11 think
o' meat as lang 's ye do that. That '11 baud 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 dis-
just. But there was no place he knew of where anything
ioiild be had, and he must return empty-handed.
ROBERT FALCONER. 295,
The light of the fire shone through a little hole ia 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 in-
stinctively 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 whc has
just ceased speaking. They had not found his absence awk-
ward at least.
" I hae been efter something to eat," said Robert ; " but I
eanna fa' in wi' Anything. We maun jist tell stories or sing
gangs, as fowk do in buiks, or else Miss St. John '11 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
Bs his mind was of Mysie, he could not fail to feel the ch^-m
of a noble, stately womanhood that could give support, insl^ad
of rousing sympathy for helplessness. There was in the dig-
296 ROBERT FALCONKK.
nified 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 com-
pliment.
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 des-
tined to an early death ; he would leave no one of his kin to
mourn for him ; the girl whose fair face had possessed his im-
agination, 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 con-
scious yet helpless atom, to eternity. It was not annihilation
he feared, although he did shrink from the thought of uncon-
sciousness ; 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 rea-
soned 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 gallei-y, 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,
Bhi found herself looking down into the red dusk below. She
Btopd riveted; for in the centre of the hall, with his hands
ROBBKT FALCONER. 29'
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
had 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 word^
" 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 in-
tellect, to recognize as of its own, and lay hold of by faithful
hope. And what fitter messenger of such hope than the har-
monious 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. Hjfrmony, 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
298 ROBERT FALCONER.
lite 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 rumors 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
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 har-
mony 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-
houi; 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 Rotheiden, the events of the
night began to wear the doubtful aspect of a dream. No allu-
sion was made to what had occurred while Robert slept ; but
all the journey Ericson felt towards Miss St. John as Words-
worth felt toward 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 moment-
ary hardness towards him, she was ministering to his wounded
head.
CHAPTER XLII.
HOME AGAIN.
When Robert opened the door of his grandmother's parlor,
he found the old lady seated at breakfast. She rose, pushed
KOBEllT FALCONER. 299
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, Is'
warran'. "
" I said there was nae odds i' me, Betty," peirsisted Robert,
laughing.
"I kenna what may be in ye," retorted Betty; "but
there's an unco' odds upo' ye."
"Hand 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 atdeith'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.
'Ohy frien' o' yours, laddie," she replied, qualifying her
words only with the addition, "if he be a frien'. Whaur
k he noo? "
"He's up at Miss Napier's."
" Hoots ! What for didna ye fess him in wi' ye ?
Betty ! "
" Na, na, grannie. The Napiers are frien's o' his We
maunna interfere wi' them. I'll gang up mysel' ance I haa
had my breakfast."
800 ROBERT FALCONER.
" Weel, weel, laddie. Eh ! I'm blythe to see ye ! Hao
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
if ye hand frae drink an' frae frae leein'. "
" I never tellt a lie 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 crown o' glory to ye, grannie.
He worked like a horse till Dr. Anderson took him by the
ban', an' sent him to the schuil. An' he's gaein' to make
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 neighborhood ! simply because, being a law to her-
self, she would therefore be a law to other people, a conclu-
sion 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 human-
ity 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
ROBERT FALCONER. ?01
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 some-
times, 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 ridic-
ulous 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 Mac-
Gregor 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, etc.,
etc. 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 dis-
tinction he had merited.
Ericson stayed only a fe,w days. He went back to the twi-
light of the north, his fishy cousin, and his tutorship at Sir
Olaf Peterson'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 if ye tak' to
ane anither, ye canna do better."
But Robert's thoughts were so difierent from Mrs. Falcon-
er'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 less 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 ia
?02 EGBERT FALCONER,
worth doing ; but the very noise of the Biege will sometimea
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 StT. 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 hia
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 ab-
horred 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 im-
pression 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 ap-
BOBEET FALCONER. SOS
proved was she drawn bj Robert's eagerness into these cov
sorts.
But the heart of the king is in the hands of the Ijord.
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 ho 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 with-
out, although unconsciously, leavmg 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 sympa-
thy with such thoughts and feelings ; he was but a boy. Nor
in power of dealing with truth vi^as he at all on the same level
with her, for however poor he might have considered her theo-
ries, she had led a life hitherto, had passed through sorrow
without bitterness, had done her duty without pride, had
hoped without conceit of favor, had, as she believed, heard
the voice of God saying, " This is the way." Hence she was
not afraid when the mists of prejudices began to rise from
around her path, and reveal a country very difierent 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 honored
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 hia
papers. For he began to have papers ; nor were they occu-
804 ROBERT FALCONER.
pied 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 oncfe at Bodyfauld ; rode Mr.
Lammie's half-broken filly ; revelled in the glories of the
summer once more ; went out to tea occasionally, or supped
witli the school-master ; and, except going to church on Sun-
day, which was a weariness to every inch of flesh upon his
bones, enjoyed everything.
CHAPTER XLIII.
A GRAVE OPENED.
One thing that troubled Bobert on this his first return
home, was the discovery that the surroundings of his child-
hood had deserted him. There they were, as of yore, but
they seemed to have nothing to say to him, no remem
brance of him. It was not that everything looked small and
narrow ; it was not that the streets he saw from his new :juar-
ters, the gable-room, were awfully still after the roar of Aber-
deen, 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 liim 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 be-
loved 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, ai
BOBERT FALCONER. S05
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 Amer-
ica 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 un-
troubled rows of papers bundled in red tape. True, they
looked almost awful in their lack of interest and their non-hu-
manity, for there is scarcely anything that absolutely loses
interest save the records of money ; but his mother's work-box
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 fa-
miliarity 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 aspirar
20
306 ROBERT FALCONER.
tion. Surely such doubts are far more precious in the sighl
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 bandies
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 some-
thing, 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 eye 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 manhpod ; 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 re-
demption from an eternal grief.
He turned to his equation ; it had cleared itself up ; he
worked it out in fivs minutes. Betty came to tell him that
the dinner was ready, and he went down, peaceful and hope-
ful, 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 fee]
what summer was ! Blessings on the cheerless days of rain,
ROBERT PALCONKR. 807
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 sup-
pressed triumph from behind the growing corn and thf. budding
sallows on the river-bank. Nay, even when the stow 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 : Eric-
son 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 Aberdeen, 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 neighbors con-
gregated 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 bcrn in Aberdeen. '
CHAPTER XLIV.
ROBERT MEDIATES.
One lovely evening in the first of the summer Miss Bt.
John had dismissed him earlier than usual, and he had wan-
dered out for a walk. After a round of a couple of miles, he
returned by a fir-wood, through which went a pathway. He
508 ROBERT TALCONBR.
had heard Mary St. John say that she was going to see the
wife of a laborer who lived at the end of this path. In the heart
of tlie trees it was growing very dusky ; but when ho 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."
" Then if he doesn't care for them, he won't mind my hear-
ing 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 fulfill-
ing his destiny.
" I will be as jealous of his honor as ever you can wish,'
answered Miss St. John, gayly.
Robert laid himself on the grass at her feet, and read :
" When the storm was proudest,
And the wind was loudest,
I beard the hollow carerus drinking down below,
ROBERT FALCONER. 309
"WTien the stars were bright,
And the ground was white,
I heard the grasses springing underneath the snow.
" Many voices spake,
The river to the lalce.
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, " 'a only jist scrattit
in, as if 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 interuppit it."
" When the sun was setting,
All the clouds were getting
Beaatiful 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,
1 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 its coming, and I am waiting now."
" There 1" 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.
J ust 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
810 ROBERT FALCONER.
going home. Besides. 1 really don't think you can see to read
any more."
" Weel, it's better no' to try, though I hae them maistlj
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
cowards the town.
Robert opened the fountain of his love for Ericson, and let
it gush like a river from a hill-side. He talked on and on
about him, with admiration, gratitude, devotion. And Miss
S'' John was glad of the veil of the twilight over her face as
she listened, for the boy's enthusiasm trembled through faei as
the wind through an ^olian 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 even-
ing of a market-day, when the shop-keepers, their labors
over, would be standing in a speculative mood at their doors,
surrounded by groups of friends and neighbors, felt shy of
showing herself on the square with Robert, and proposed that
they should part, giving as a by-the-by 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
ROBERT FATiCONER. , 811
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, tlierefore, no weapon of offence
to strike terror withal. Her dulness was her defence. He
liked Robert. When he saw him, he wakened up, laid bold
of him by the button, and drew him in.
" Come in, lad," he said, " an' tak' a pinch. I'm waiting
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 partak-
ing, Macgregor drew himself with some effort upon the coun-
ter, saying in a half-comical, half-admonitory tone :
" Weel, and hoo's the mathematics, Robert?"
"Thrivin'," answered Robert, falling into his good-humor.
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 the 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. Mac-
gregor, 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. ' If a watch
gangs ower fest, ye fin' 't oot. If she gangs ower slow, ye fin'
t oot, an' ye can aye calculate upo' 't correck enuch for mait-
ters sublunairy, as Mr. Maccleary says. An' if a watch stops
a'thegither, ye ken it's failin', an' ye ken whaur it sticks, an'
a' 'at ye say's ' Tut, tat, 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 leeing' 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 ha-i a watch o' my father's, an' I regairdit
it wi' a reverence mair like a human bein' ; the second time it
812 ROBERT FALCijKER.
played me that pliakie, I dang oot its inwards upo' the loupin'-
on-stane at the door o' the shop. 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 ;
hut tak' ye tent what ye're aboot. Dinna ye think 'at ilka
bonnie lass 'at may like to baud a wark wi' ye's jist ready to
mairry ye aff ban' 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
odor wafted from Arabian fairyland, rose before him : it was
Jessie HewsQn.
" I know 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 know. Poor thing ! she's been doin' some-
thing wrang, to gang slinkin' aboot i' the gloamin' like a
bat, wi' her plaid ower her heid. Dinna fash wi' her."
" Ifonsense ! " returned Robert, with indignation. " What
for shouldna I speik till her ? She's a decent lassie, a
dochter o' James Hewson, the cotter at Bodyfauld. I know
her fine "
KOBBRT FALCONER. 313
He said this in a whisper; but the girl seemed to hear it,
for she left the shop with a perturbation which the dimaesa 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
hei 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. lie gave a long stride or two and
laid his hand on her shoulder. She stood still, trembling.
"Jessie, dinna ye know 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-color 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 thought
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 shaking 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' rap 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 I'oom
from this side but instinct or something else led him straight
to her door. He knocked.
S14 ROBERT FALCONER.
" Come in," she said, never doubting it was the maid, and
Robert entered.
She wa3 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 woman-
hood 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 Rob-
ert'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 odor
that filled the room, perhaps also a faint suspicion of impro-
priety suflBcient 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 dis-
pleasure.
"Ye maun hearken till me, mem. Whan I was oot at
Eodyfauld," 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 oot at Bodyfauld ae
simmer, I grew acquaint wi' a bonnie lassie there, the dochter
o' Jeames Hewson, an honest cotter, 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 mo, aa
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' ! Hei
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
change. A white face, an' nothing but greitin' to come oot 9
KOBERT FALCONER. 815
her She ran frae me as if I had been the dei'l himsel'. -A-n'
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 gar
ment to his lips.
" Dinaa be angry at me, Miss St. John," he pleaded, "buf
bo 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 Tvad luik
the sun himsel' oot o' the lift if 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 if I was you, I wad gie her a kisa
to begin wi'. i 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. If she gangs on like
that she'll not 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 plead 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 ser-
vice and doing well, they said. The next time lie opened tha
S16 KOBEBT FALCONER.
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 over-
head, 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 SBonian 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 dropped over her knee.
She laid her hand on his clustering curls,, bethought herself,
and left the room. Robert wandered out is in a dream. At
ROBERT FALCONER. 817
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 XLV.
BBIOSON LOSES TO WIN.
If Mary St. .John had been an ordinary woman, and if, not-
withstanding, 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 other-
wise 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 re-
demption 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. Liter-
ally, not figuratively, Robert would kiss the place where her
foot had trod ; but I know that once he rose from such a kisa
" to trace the hyperbola by means of a string."
It had been arranged between Ericson and Robert, in Miss
Napier's parlor, 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 waa
818 ROBERT FAU!ONER.
with an elder sister's feeling for Letty's admiration of the
' Ian' 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 known her, 's no sae auld a frien' to you, Mr. Ericson, as
oorsel's, nae oflFence to her, ye know. A'body canna be
frien's to a'body, and as lang 's anither, ye know."
" 'Deed I maun alloo. Miss Napier," 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 Napier mak's me
welcome as weel's you."
" An' lullliaak' ye welcome, Robert, as lang's ye're a gude
lad as ye are, and gang na efter, nae ill way. 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 Napier ! " said Robert, " what hae I dune
to set ye at ue that gait ? Faith, I dinna know what ye
mean."
" Nae mair do I, laddie. I hae naething against ye what-
ever. Only yt 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 richl till. Haud the tongue o' ye. Mr. Ericson's
to come here neist."
And the old lady laughed such good humor into her stock-
ing-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 Mister
Robert that Mister Ericson was come, and wanted to see him.
Robert pitched Hutton's Mathematics on to the floor, sprang
to his feet, all but embraced Crookit Caumill on the spot, and
was deterred only by the perturbed look the man wore. Crookit
Caumill wa a very human creature, and hadn't a fault but the
drink. Miss Napier said. And very little of what he would
have had if she had been as active as she was willing.
ROBEKT FALCONER. 819
" What's the matter, Caumill ? " asked Robert, in consider-
able alarm.
' Ow, naething, sir," returned Campbell.
" What makes ye look like that, then? " insisted Robert.
" Ow, naething. But whan Miss Letty cried doon the close
upo' me, she had her awpron till her een, an' I thocht some-
thing 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 bo
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 ques-
tion, but went in, a dreadful fear in his heart. Two of the
sisters and Dr. Gow stood by the bed.
Ericson lay upon it, clear-eyed and still. His cheek waa
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 qaiet, 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' know 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 knew weel eneuch
'at he wad be a' the quaieter if ye war here. Jist gie a knock
upo' the flure if ye want ony thing, 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.
320 ROBERT FALCONER.
" Dinna speak," said Robert, in alarm ; "dinna speak. Mi
Ericson."
" Nonsense," returned Ericson, feebly. "They're making
a work about nothing. I've done as much twenty times ginco
I saw you last, and I'm not dead yet. But I think it's com-
ing."
" 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 if ye speik like this. Miss Letty
winna lat me come near ye, no to say her. O Mr. Erie-
son ! if ye die, I sanna care to live."
Bethinking himself that such was not the way to keep Eric-
son quiet, he repressed his emotion, sat down lohind the cur-
tain, and was silent. Ericson fell fast asleep. Robert crept
from the room, and, telling Miss Letty that h .; 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 hj 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 man-
aged. 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 jiat be like a watch-dog ta
haud a'body oot ower frea 'im. We maun bide oor time
KOBBRT FALCONER. 321
But if ye say ye'U gang, that '11 content him i' the mean
time. I'll tell him."
" I will go any moment," she said. " Is he very ill 7 "
" I'm afraid he is. I dooht 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 XLVI.
SHAReAB ASPIRES.
Robert's heart was dreary when he got on the box-seat ot
the mail-coach at Rothieden; it was yet drearier when he
got down at the Royal Hotel in the street of Bon 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. "If ye dinna speyk to me, I'll cut my throat. I will,
faith!"
"Haud yer tongue wi' yer nonsense, Shargar. Mr.
Ericson's deein'."
" Lord ! " said Shargar, and said nothing more for the
Bpace of ten minutes.
Then he spoke again slowly and sententiously.
" He hadna you to tak' care o' him, Robert. Whaur is
he?"
21
822 ROBERT FALCONER.
"At the Boar's Heid."
" That's weel. He'll bo luikit after there."
" A body wad like to hae their ain han' in't, Shargar."
" Ay. 1 wiss we had him here a;ain."
The ice of trouble thus brokeii, 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 height
of age and experience, " and maybe ye loill 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 Shar-
gar's future, "for ae thing, I doobt whether Dr. Anderson
wad hae ta'en ony fash aboot ye, if 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 iBsculapius downwards. Robsrt
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 th
ROBERT FALCONER. 323
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.
tie returned kindness with faith.
" If I be in ony want, doctor, I'll jist rin to ye at ance.
Aji' if 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 fqr 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." i
" Ay, ay, doctor. But he's a fine crater, Shargar, an' I
dinna think he'll be that easy to blauu. 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 if 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 Scotchj you know."
" Weel, sir, I hae been tryin' ; but what am I to do whan
ye speyk to me as if 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
B24 BOBERT FALCONER.
momenta after, Sl.argar 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 ? "
" DuT ye think 'at I ever could grow intil a gentleman ? "
" Dr. Anderson says he expeos '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 be-
came oracular.
" Speyk the truth," he said.
' ' I'll do that. But what aboot my father ? "
" Naebody '11 cast up yer father to ye. Ye need hae nae
fear o' that."
"My mither, than?" suggested Shargar, with hesitation.
" Ye maun hand yer face to the fac'."
" Ay, ay. But if they said onything, you know about
her."
" If ony man-body says a word agen yer mither, ye maun
jist knock him down upo' the spot."
" But I michtna be able."
"Ye could try, ony way."
" He micht knock me down, ye know."
" 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 wonder-
ful 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 be-
came darker, and the albino look less remarkable, though btill
he would remind one of a vegetable grown in a cellar.
Dr. Anderson thought it well that he should have anothei
BOBERT FALCONBB. 825
year at the grammar school before going to college. Robert
now occupied Ericson's room, and left hia 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 con-
sidered 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 in- '
different 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 evermora
326 ROBERT FALCONER.
to the anprogressive 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 re-
pose and protection and motherhood in a strong-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 de-
voured 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, Ro^iert? "
" Hoo suld I know, Shargar ?" answered Robert, puzzling
over a problem.
"I've been haein' a glass wi' Jock Mitchel."
" Wha's Jock Mitchel ? "
" 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, if my memory serves me, ye tauld ma
yersel' was i' the mids o' a' his maister's deevilry ? "
" Yer memory serves ye weel eneuch to be doon upo' me,"
ROBERT FALCONER. 327
Ba'd Shargar. " But there's a bit wordy 'at they read at the
cathedral kirk the last Sunday 'at's stuckeu to me as if 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 bo
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 glass doon my breist. It wasna like
ink ; it wadna du my sark ony ill."
" But what made ye gang wi' 'im at a'? He wasna fit
company for a gentleman."
" A gentleman 's some saft if he be ony the waur o' the com-
pany he gangs in till. There may be rizzons, ye know. Yo
needna du as they du. Jock Mitchell was airin' Reid Rorie an'
Black G,eordie. An' says I for I wantit to know whether i'
was sic a broom-bush as I used to be says I, ' Hoo are ye,
Jock Mitchell?' Ah' 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. 'Iflbenaa
gentleman, or a' be dune,' an' there I stack, for I saw I
was a muokle 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 if 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 baud it ohn gane intil the opposit ee.
'We're no far frae there,' says I aA' 'deed I can hardly
tell ye, Robert, what made me say sae, but I jist wantit to
know 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 glass thegither. I'll stan' treat.' Sae he gaa
me the bridle, an' I lap on. The deevil tried to get a mou
fu' o' my hip, but, faith ! I was ower swack for 'im ; an' awa'
we rade."
S28 ROBERT FALCONER.
"J didna know 'at ye cud ride, Shargar."
" Hoots ! I cudna help it. I waa 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 know
Jock sae weel. We war guid eneuch frien's whan I didna care
for leein' or sweirin', an' sic like."
" An' what on earth did ye want wi' 'im noo? "
" I tell ye I wantit to know 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 if 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
know 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' knew a heap o' things,
mair nor't was gude to know, maybe. She gaed aboot the
country sae muckle, an' they say the gypsies 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 know. She may turn up ony day."
"There's ae thing, though, Shargar; if ye want to be a
gentleman, ye mauna gang keekin' that way intil ither fowks'
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 fowks' affairs.
My mither tellt me he did verra ill efter Watterloo till a stran-
ger 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, author-
itatively, and in his best English.
" 'Deed I cudna mak' naething o' 'm. He winkit an' he
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
ROBERT FALCONER. 329
aboot that. If I cud only win at that, maybe I cud play him
a plisky. But he coupit over three glasses o' whuskey, an' the
mair he drank the lesg 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 ver-
sion.
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 XL VII.
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
Bpeyk here. Come wi' me."
830 ROBERT FALCONER.
" I won't go with you without knowing who you are, oi
where you're going to take me."
" Dinna ye know 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 swell-
ing at the sight of the pale, worn countenance of the girl.
" I was Jessie Hewson ance," she said, "but naebody heie
knows me by that name but yersei'. Will ye come in?
There's no a crater i' the boose but mysel'."
Robert turned at once. "Goon," 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
BO 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 naeflurin' there. Haud i' the middle efter
me, or ye' 11 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' re-
store the sinner ? Fowk think 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, per-
haps 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 after mair mia*
cheef, and if onything cud be dune to haud him frae 't "
" Wha's efter mischeef, Jessie? " interrupted Robert.
BOEERI ITALCONES. 331
" Lord Rothie. He's gaein' aff the nicht in Skipper Horn-
beck's boat to Antwerp, I think they ca' 't, an' a bonnie young
leddy wi' 'im. They were 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 don't think she rises muckle afore
twa o'clock the nicht. But hoo know 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
boose we're in hasna a gude character. We're middlin' dacent
up here ; but the floor o' the place is dreadfu'. Eh for the
bonnie leys o' Bodyfauld ! If 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' 'at."
" 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 know 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 drunk, I'm
thinkin'. I cudna tell ye a' 'at they said. That's a punish-
ment noo, if ye like to see and hear the warst o' ye 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 heark-
enin'. My lord's aff the nicht, as I tell ye. It's a queer
way, but a quaiet, he thinks, nae doobt. If 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 know. But I hae been watchin' to see you ever
sin' syne. I hae seen ye going by mony a time. Ye're the
only man I know '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 iutil her
han' ? Or ye cud gie 't to the skipper to gie her."
" I know the skipper weel eneuch. He's a respectable man.
If he knew what the baron was efter, he wadna tak' him ofl
boord.'"
832 ROBERT FALCONER.
" That wad do little guid. He wad only hae her aff some
ither way."
"Weel," said Robert, rising, "I'll awa' hame an' think
aboot it as I go. 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 sail 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 aa
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 con-
front 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 take her frae."
" Ye vratch ! what for dinna ye tell me that afore ? "
" Ye wadna hear aboot ither fowks' affairs. Na, not youl
But some fowk has no richt to consideration. The very stones
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 go to."
" 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 line 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.
B05ERT FALCONER. 833
" This is the hoose," said Shargar.
Rohert 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 sick headache."
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 may be surer, for I saw him come
cot wi' my ain eyes."
"Weel, Shargar, it's grown something awfu' noo. It's
Miss Lindsay. Was there ever 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 away to the wharf, an'
see what'll turn up. I wonner hoo's the tide."
" The tide's, risin'. They'll never try to run 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 'a worse 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 pub-
lic 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 Hoornbeck. 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
wharf along which they were hurrying, to avoid the cables,
834 KOBERT FAIiCONEK.
rings, and stone posts that made its margin dangerous ia 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 bor-
ders of the water was seated on a stone smoking, probably for-
tified against the rain by the whiskey 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'," an-
BV?red 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 gets across the herrin'-pot her fine passengers '11 get 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 talkar
tive mood.
"Fegs! if 't come on to blaw," he resumed, "I wadna
wonner if they got the skipper to set them ashore at Stane-
hive. I heard auld Horny say something aboot lyin' to there
for a bit, to take a keg or something aboord."
The boys looked at each other, bade Alan good-night, and
walked away.
" Hoo far 'a it to Stonehaven, Shargar? " said Robert.
" I dinna richtly know. Maybe frae twelve to fifteen miles."
Robert stood still. Shargar saw his face pale as death, and
contorted with the effort to control his feelings.
" Shargar," he said, "what am t to do? I vowed to Mr
Ericson that, if he deid, I wad luik efter that bonny lassie
An' noo whan he's lyin' a' but deid, I hae let her slip throu'
my fingers wi' clean carelessness. What am I to do ? If 1
cud only get to Stonehaven afore the Amphitrite ! I cud go
aboord wi' the keg, and if I cud do naething mair, I wad hae
tried to do my best. If I -do naething, my hert '11 brak wi'
the weicht o' my shame."
Shargar burst into a roar of laughter. Robert was on tha
ROBERT FALCONER. 336
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 chok
ing 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 sp^ak yet for
the enjoyment of his own device.
" If 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' to, ye scarecrow?"
panted Robert, as he laid hold of his collar.
" Let me go, Robert," gasped Shargar. " Losh, man !
ye' 11 be on Black Geordie in anither ten meenits, an' me
behind ye upo' Reid Rorie. An' faith if 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. If 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' eight horse-
hoofs 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 darkcess.
336 BOBERT FALCONER. '
" Robert," he whispered, " gie's yer cap. I'll be wi' ye \a
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 d6esna 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 cap, 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 griflSn. 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'll ye get the horses in again, Shargar?" asked
Robert.
"Afore I get them back," answered Shargar, "they'll be
tired eneuch to go hame o' themsel's. If 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 head o' 'm, an' left
him lyin' the coorse villain ! "
The horses never flagged till they drew up in the main street
ROBERT FALCONER. 837
of Stonehaven. Robert ran down to the harbor to mate in-
quiry, and left Shargar to put them up.
The moon had risen, but the air was so full of vapor 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
harbor, and descended by a stair into a little skiff, where a
barrel, or something like one, lay under a tarpaulin. Robert
bade Shargar good-by, and followed. They pushed off, rode
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 fresh-
ened. Mysie had been ill ever since they left the mouth of
i-i
838 ROBERT FALCONER.
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 labored much.
Robert never felt better, and if it had not been for the cause
of his seafaring, 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 pro-
ficient enough to be useful. When the sun rose, they were in
a tossing wilderness of waves. AVith 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 bad 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
ROBERT FALCONER.- 339
clmging, upright branches of the poplar, a lovely instance
of Art following Nature's suggestion .
CHAPTER XLVIII.
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. R,obert
followed the pair, saw them enter "The Great Laborer,"
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 a*n
honor to a girl to have him for her ruin. Her after life had
no significance for him, save as a trophy of his victory. Ho
never perceived that such victory was not yielded to him ; that
he gained it by putting on the garments of light ; that if his in-
ward 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
840 ROBERT FALCONER.
he gazed upon visible grandeur growing out of the human soul,
in the majesty of everlastingness, a tree of the Lord's plant-
ing. 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 un-
trodden. 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
wTiole 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 dove-
cots. But the space between was alive with awe, so vast.
30 real !
He turned and descended, winding through the network of
atone 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 speech-
less delight, he was slowly descending still, when he saw on hia
ROBERT FALCONER. j, 841
left hand a door ajar. He would look what mysfery 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 fright-
ened, even as if Mary St. John had said she loved him, Robert
sprang 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 temple 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 oflF 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 fantasy ; but a sweet tone is never the less a mes-
senger of God; and a right harmony and sequence of such
tones is a little gospel.
At length he found himself following, till that moment un-
consciously, 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
842 4 ROBERT FALCONER.
the" city' of Antwerp with a glorious fantasia. He did not
kdow*that only upon grand, solemn, world-wide occasions, such
as a king's birthday or a ball at the Hotel 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
gendarmes, commanded by the sacristan of the tower, had been
thundering thereat He waited only to finish the last .notea
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 XLIX.
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 bis coat,
and put evidently a momentous question about some algebraical
calculations on the fly-leaf of it. Fortunately or unfortu-
nately 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 pas-
sage to London, whence he wrote to Dr. Anderson for a sup-
ply, and was in Aberdeen a few days after.
This was Robert's first cosmopolitan experience. He con-
fided 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 inquir-
ing after him. Ericson was growing steadily worse, in
fact, he feared Robert might not see him alive.
ROBERT FALCONER. 343
If this news struck Robert to the heart, his paijl" was yef"
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 ofiF 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 with-
out Ericson. Every turn of the road reminded him of him.
A.nd 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, 1 do
not care. The One I mean is, and in him I hope.
Very weary was Robert when he walked into his grand-
mother'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 'a ta'enan' 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
sufiSciently. Then he heard a voice, Ericson's voice ; but
344 ROBERT FALCONEU.
oh, how^fefaanged ! He had no idea that Ke ought not to
listen.
"Marj," the voice said, " do not look like that, /am not
Buffering. It is onlj 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 lovea
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 Ilim. 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 be-
lieved 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 groat wrong,
Mary. Would you now banish me forever, 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 jda 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 callai unto
deep in his soul. The waves and the blltoWs went over him.
Mary St. John answered not a word. I -think she must
KOBERT PALCONER. . 346
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.
846 ROBERT FALCONER.
CHAPTER L.
IN MEMOKIAM.
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 after-
wards.
Tumultuons 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 coA
This Earth another turning : all aglow
EGBERT FALCONER. 847
Thon shouldst have reached me, with a purple show
Along far mouataln-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
Bursteth a sun unutterably bright.
GALILEO.
" And yet it moves I " Ah, Truth, where wert thou then ,
When all for thee they racked each piteous limb?
Wert thou 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 1 I'll cry aloud
How the green bulk wheels sunward day by day I
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 thoa wonldst 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
ftfove 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 I 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 s
B- B' 848 ROBERT FALCONER.
Nor with like rngged 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.
THE WATCHEB.
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 liqaid rolling, or affrays
Their deep-set contemplation ; steadily glow
Those ever holier eyeballs, 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 j
.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.
One do I see and twelve ; but second there
Methinks I know thee, thou belovfid 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 I Upon my heart
It lay a heavy hour : features like thine
' This sonnet and the preceding are both one line deflcenli.
ROBERT FALCONER. 343
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 eyeballs doubly clear,
And twice as strong because thou didst thy duty,
And, though affianced to immortal Beauty,
Hidest not weakly underneath her veil
The pest of Sin and Death which malietli pale :
Henceforward be thy spirit doubly dear.*
THE LILT 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.
To these two sonnets Falconer had appended this note : " Some-
thing I wrote to Bricson concerning these, during my first college va-
cation, 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.' "
350 350 ROBERT FALCOSEB.
SPOKEN OP SEVERAL PHILOSOPHERS.
I pray yoa, 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 ;he rood, I will.
If thus ye u^e me like a pewter pot!
Good friend, thou art a toper and a sot ;
I will not be the lead to hold ttiy swill,
Nor any lead ; I will arise and spill
Thy silly beverage, spill it piping hot.
Nature, to him no message dost thon bear,
Who in thy beauty flndeth not the power
To gird himself more strongly for the hour
Of night and darkness. Oh, what colors 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 I
Not with the rest of slumber, but the trance
Of onward movement steady and sereue.
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 1
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 vapor, 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.
ROBERT FALCONER. 351
WEITTEN ABOUT THE LONGEST DAY.
Summer, sweet Summer, many-flngered Summer I
We hold thee very dear, as well we may :
It is the kernel of tlie year to-day
All hail to thee 1 Thou art a welcome comer !
If every insect were a fairy drummer,
And I a flfer that could deftly play,
We'd give the old Earth such a i oundelay
That she would cast all thought of labor from her.
Ahl what is this upou my window-pane?
Some sulky, drooping cloud comes pouting up.
Stamping its glittering feet along the plain I
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 I
ON A MIDGE.
Whence do ye come, ye creatures ? Each of yon
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 I
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 forever, and I drop
Into the whirl of time, and without s,op
Pass downward thus ! Again my ej es I raise
To thee, dark rock ; and through the mist and haae
My strength returns when I behold thy prop
Gleam stern and steady through the wavering wrackc
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 I
352 52 ROBERT FALCONER.
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-labored 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 cometti close and hard,
Like flery 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, wlien very young,
I saw the great sea first, and heard it swell
As I drew nearer, cauglit 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 1 An awful power
I claimed with trembling hands and eager eyes.
Mine, mine forever, an immortal dower.
The noise of waters soundeth to this hour.
When 1 look seaward through the quiet skies.
ON THE SOURCE OF THE ARTE.
Hear'st thou the dash of water, loud and hoarse.
With its perpetual tidings upward climb.
Struggling against the wind ? Oh, how sublime I
For not in vain fi'om its portentous source,
Thy heart, wild stream, hath yearned for its full foroo^
But from thine ice-toothed caverns, dark as time.
At last thou issuest, dancing to the rliyme
Of thy outvolleying freedom ! Lo, thy course
Lies straight before thee as the arrow flies.
Right to the ocean-plains. Away, away 1
Thy parent waits tliee, and her sunset dyes
Are raffled for thy coming, and the gray
Of all her glittering borders flashes high
Against the glittering rocks. Oh, haste, and fly i
PART III. -HIS MANHOOD.
*
CHAPTER LI.
IN THE DBSBRT.
A LIFE lay behind Robert Falconer, and a life lay before
him. He scood 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. Thiier 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 Aber-
deen. 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 hoy. 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 want-
ing to go somewhere. You're not afraid to trust me, are you,
sir?"
33 353
354 ROBERT FALCONER.
" 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 al; 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 per-
euading 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 re-
fusing 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' go wi'
ye. I'll awa' to Dr. Anderson. He's sure to lat me go."
" 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 know. 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
8 despairing philosophy derived from the days when his mother
ROBERT FALCONiiiR, 855
thrashed him. " But, eh ! Robert, if it had only pleased the
Almichty to sen' me into the warl' in a some respectable kin'
o' a fashion ! "
" Wi' a chance o' gaein' aboot the country like that curst
villain yer brither, I suppose ? " retorted Robert, rousing him-
self 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. If he dinna mak' something o' ye yet,
it'll be your fault, 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 ccAA open as in its own natural clime,
would a few words caase the clouds that enveloped this period
of his history to dispart, and grant me a peep into the phan-
tasm 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 hia
words. A silent man in company, he talked much when hia
hour of speech arrived. Seldom, however, did he narrate any
356 ROBERT FALCONER.
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 out-
side 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
nan'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 t&
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 right-
eousness, which God has wrought in them by Christ."
I never knew a man in wnom 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 in-
formed by his highest feelings. He regnrded all human af-
fairs from the heights of religion, as from their church-spirea he
looked down on the red roofs of Antwerp, on the black roof*
of Cologne, on the gray roofs of Strasburg or on the brown
SOBEBT FALCONER. 357
roofs of Basel, uplifted for the time above them, not in dis-
sociation 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 awoko
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 , clea; , for the
moon iwas shining on his window-blind. The sounu 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 tlie
talking of water-ripples against the side of a barge in a slow
canal, all as soft as the moonlight, as exquisite as an odor,
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
H.nd attuned by their thin harmony, not on the wind that
fioated without breaking their lovely message, but on the rip-
ples of the wind that bloweth where it listeth, came the
words, unlocked for, their coming unheralded by any mental
premonition, " My peace I give unto you." The sounds died
s2)wly away in the distance, fainting out of the air, even aa
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 giva
858 ROBERT FALCONER.
ante you," waa 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 tley of
the multitude of the heavenly host, and they of the song,
" On earth peace," I do not know. The important point ii
not how the words came, but that the words remained, re-
mained 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
n? 'row 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 child-
hood, the silence seized upon him. In the midst of the si-
lence 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
KOEERT TALCONEB. 359
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 odor 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 as-
cending 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 re-
ceiving 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, ex-
pressing the conviction that God is a hard Father, fond of dis-
appointing his chilaren ; 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 contemplata
it, work even more good than in its presence.
At length he came in sight of the Alpine regions. Far oflF,
860 ROBERT FALCONER.
the heads of the great mountain 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 water-
fall, 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
ROBERT FALCONER. 361
strange grasses. Ever and anon from the cleft steamed up
great blinding clouds of mist, which now wandered about over
the nation 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, sus-
pended between peaks and gulfs. The wind must roar aw-
fully there in the winter ; but the mountains stand away with
their avalanches, and all the summer long keep the cold oflF the
grassy fields.
The same evening, he was already weary. The next morn-
ing 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 vapor, that hung
lazy and leaden-colored 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 returns
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
eannot invent a better, it may be, but it can imagine grander
results."
He did not yet know what the religion was of which lie
spoke. As well might a man born stone-deaf entimate the
362 ROBERT FALCONER.
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 dny more in the
placs. He opened his valise to get some lighter garments.
His eyes fell on a New Testament. Dr. Anderson had it put
there. He had never opened it yet, and n/)w he let it lie. Ita
time had not yet come. He went out.
Walking up the edge of the valley, he came upon a little
Btream 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 be-
gan 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 turf of heather over his head, the quiet as of a Sabbath
afternoon fell upon him, that quiet which is the one alto-
gether 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 wiy
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
ii"^ 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
f
EOBBRT TALCONER. 363
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 even-
ing he returned to the brook, and fell to searching the storj,
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 ref-
erence to Falconer and his previous knowledge. They were
these : that Jesus taught
First, That a man's business is to do the will of Gbd.
Second, That God takes upon himself the care of the
man;
Third, Therefore, that a man must never be afraid of any-
thing ; and so,
Fourth, be left free to love God with all his heart, and his
neighbor 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 tho
364 ROBERT FALCONER.
moment these questions appeared, the following words should
Jart 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 meana
of arriving at a conviction of the truth or falsehood of all thai
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 difiSculty.
The theology of his grandmother rushed in upon him, threat-
ening 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 pllin that what he came to do was just to lead his life.
That he should do the work, such as recorded and much be*
ROBERT PAIiCONBR. 865
sides, that the Father gave him to do, thia was the will of
God concerning him. With this perception arose the convic-
tion 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 sim-
plicity 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 Lis
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
w ho 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 cams for him to find his father, if such an hour was writ-
ten 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
S66 ROBERT FALCONER.
given him, that ia, some hint which he could follow with ao-
tion. 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 learn-
ing 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 should greatly prefer
going to a German university for two years. The doctor re-
plied that of course ho would rather have him at home, but
that he was confident Robert knew best what was best for him-
self ; therefore he had only to settle where he thought proper,
and the next summer he would come and see him, for be was
not tied to Aberdeen any more than Bobert.
CHAPTER LII.
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
ROBERT FALCONER. 361
put oflFhis shoes when he drew nigh the burning hush 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 hin.
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 criti-
cism, he found that the word the Lord had spoken remained
steadfast; for in doing righteously, in loving mercy, in walk-
ing 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 re-
gion 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 re-
ceiving 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
3*53 KOBERT fa:.conbe.
10 thjm, 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 re-
turned 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 mastifiFupon a distressed Italian grayhound.
His eyes shimmered with feeling, but Robert's tears, if ho
ever shed any, were kept for very solemn occasions. lie was
more likely to weep for awful joy than for any sufibrings either
in himself or others. " Shargar ! " pronounced in a tone fuJl
of a thousand memories, was all the greeting he returned ; bu'^
his great, manly hand pressed Shargar's delicate, long-fingereH
one with a grasp which must have satisfied his friend that every
thing was as it had been between them, and that their friend
ship from henceforth would take a new start. For with al'
that Robert had seen, thought, and learned, now that the bitter
ness of loss had gone by, the old times and the old friends wer
dearer. If there was any truth ia the religion of God's will
1 1 in which he was a disciple, every .moment of life's historj
which had brought soul in contact with soul must be sacred ai
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."
ROBERT FALCONER. 3G9
" Can he go with me, doctor? " asked Kobert, 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 him-
self 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 oqual slowness and a tremor in his voice which ren-
dered 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, Gentle-
man," 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 ! Hang English ! " he broke out at last. " If 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 ser-
vant to a' etairnity."
So saying, Shargar resumed his seat, filled his glass with
trembling hand, emptied it to hide his feelings, but with5ut
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.
J jhn had left soon after Ericson's death ; whether he was sorry
2i
oTO ROBERT FALCONER.
or glod that he should not see her he could not tell. lie
thouoht 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 parlor. She rose with her old state-
liness, when she saw a stranger enter the room, and stood wait-
ing 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 ex-
pected 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 know it was you, or I wadna
hae come into the room without knocking 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 ban'."
Btttty stood staring and irresolute, overcome at sight of the
manly bulk before her.
"If ye dinna behave yersel', Betty, I'll jist awa' ower to
Muckledrum, an' hae a 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
ROBERT FALCONER. 871
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 years 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 if it knew a' aboot it, and had only come to
help her throu' the warst o' 't; for it gaed hame 'maist as
Bune'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
872 ROBERT FALCONER.
ca' ye a spot ? Wuman, dinna drive me mad to hear ye lower
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 way aboot yer ain
da'ichter."
" I dinna unnerstan' ye," returned Hewson, looking raised-
like at him.
" Dinna ye know, man, that amo' them 'at know the Lord
best whan he cam' frae haiven to luik efter his ain, to seek
and to save, ye know, amo' them 'at cam' roon aboot him to
hearken till 'im, was lasses 'at had gane the wrang way
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 'caiise 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 if ye gang on that gait ye'll be sidin' wi' the Phari-
see, an' no wi' oor Lord. Ye may lippen to yer wife, ay, an'
to Jessie hersel', that knows 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 frombeiween 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 tin' 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
ROBERT FALCONER. 373
Budh 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. BecausH
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 boldest 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 sufier for and with them, that they may be partak
ers of thy inefiable 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 liea
wh'va 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 ofience 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 deter-
mine Robert's life as that of a medical man, but from what he
bad learned of his feelings, he was confident that a knowledge
374 ROBERT FALCONER.
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
w^isdom sought to prepare him for it. However this may be,
Robert entertained the proposal gladly, went into the Bchema
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 attend-
ance 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 instinct-
ive, should have been rapidly developed in him, to the wonder
and delight of his friend and master.
In this labor 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 sf the man should appear in true relation to the
yet uncompleted result. He who cannot feel the humanity of
his neighbor because he is diflFerent 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 thin-
nest film had grown over his heart, though in all else he waa
considerably changed. The army had done everything that
was wanted for his outward show of man. The drawling walk
ROBERT FALCONEU. 375
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 honor and aflfection. 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 Church-yard.
CHAPTER LIU.
A MEBE 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 thems.elves, about six o'clock, in Grace-
church Street. It was a fine summer evening. The street
was less crowded than earlier in the afternoon, although there
was a continuous stream of wagons, omnibuses, and cabs both
S7(5 ROBERT Falconer.
ways. As they stood on the curbstone, a little way north of
Lombard Street, waiting to cross
"You see, Shargar," said Robert, "Nature will hare 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 falla a shadow, as grotesque, as strange, as fall of unut-
terable things as any shadow on a field of grass and daisies."
" I remember feeling the same kind of thing in Lidia,"
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 ortho-
dox 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 vehi-
cles 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 cjty.
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
gypsy gear. The foremost was conducted by a middle-aged
woman, of tall, commanding aspect, and expression both cun-
ning 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 move-
ments 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-comolexioned, wild-looking young
woman, with her black hair done up in a red handkerchief,
ROBEKT FALCONER. 877
who conducted her donkey more quietly. Botli seemed aa
much at home in the roar of Grace-church 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 bun-
dles on the foremost cart peeped a lovely, fair-haired, English-
looking child.
Robert took all this 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 em-
brace 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 relax-
ing 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 im-
pressive that it was low and hoarse.
The fellow saw what he meant, and whipped his horse.
878 ROBERT FALCONER.
Shargar sprung on the box, and dragged him down all but
headlong.
" Now," he said, "beg my mother's pardon."
" Be hanged if I do, etc., etc.," said the cabman.
" Then defend yourself," said Shargar. " Robert."
Falconer was watching all, and was by his side in a moment.
" Come on, you, etc., etc.," 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 mo-
ment 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, belaboring his liorse, and pursued by a roar
from the street, for the spectators were delighted at his pun-
ishment.
" 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-loggit
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 way,
if 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,
ROBBKT FALCONER. 37S
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 glass,
ffuman," said Falconer. " Dinna hand 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 way than," said the elder, turning again to
Falconer.
Shargar and he led the way to St. Paul's Church-yard, and
the woman followed faithfully. The waiter stared when they
entered.
" Bring a glass of whiskey," said Falconer, as he passed ou
to their private room. When the whiskey arrived, she tossed
/t off, and looked as if she woaid 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' Andrew Faukner?" she as^ed again, with
evident interest.
"The same," answered Robert.
" Weel, 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
Bon.
" He needna be ashamed o' your company, ony way,
queer kin' o' a mither 'at I am."
"He never was ashamed of my company," said Shargar,
still gloomily.
"Ay, I knew yer father weel eneuch," she said, now an-
swering 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.
380 ROBERT FALCONER.
" Ow ! ye needna go into sic a flurry. He^W no come near
ye, I a' warran'."
" Tell me where he is," said Robert. ' Where did you see
him ? I'll gie ye a' 'at I hae if ye' 11 tak' me till him."
" Hooly ! hooly ! Wha's to go 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 makes ye sae sure ? "
" 'Cause I never was vrang yet. Set a man ance atween
my twa eyes, an' that '11 be twa 'at knows 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 know what he's like, what for suld ye tak'
the trouble to speir ? But 'deed ye'll know 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 sat-
isfied that it was of no use. Probably she had found a back
way into Paternoster Row, whence the outlets are numerous.
Bi^BERT FALCONBB. 88i
CHAPTER LIV.
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 metropo-
lis 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 be 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 suc-
cesses 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.
382 ROBERT FALCONER.
He haunted the streets at night, went into all places of enter
tainment, often to the disgust of senses and soul, and made hia
way into the lowest forms of life without introduction or pro-
tection.
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- exer-
cise of his profession though not an object yet a ready acci-
dent.
He lived in lodgings in John Street, -^ the same in which
I found him when I came to know him. He made few ac-
quaintances, and they were chiefly the house surgeons of hos-
pitals, 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 Testa-
ment, 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 re-
call him, though he had often spoken of visiting him in Lon-
don. It now appeared that, unwilling to cause him any need-
less 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, re-
calling, 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
ROBERT FALCONER. 383
into the study, and was passing through it to go to the cottage*
^j
" The maister's no up yet, sir," he said, with a very sol-
emn look. " lie's been desperate efter seein' ye, and I maun
gang an' lat him know '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'U hardly know
'im. He's that changed ! "
Johnston left the study by the door to the cottage, Fal-
coner had nf.ver known the doctor sleep there, and, returning
a moment after, invited him to enter. In the bed in the re-
cess, 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, if it hadna been for you ! "
Robert's feelings overcame him. He resumed, brokenly :
" Ye gae me a man to believe in, when 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 hia
elbow, " to think what God makes 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 so-
cial refinement of his countenance with it. The face of hia
ancestors, the noble, sensitive, heart-full, but rugged, bucolic,
384 ROBERT FALCONEU.
and weather-beaten, through centuries of windy ploughing,
hail-stormed sheep-keepin', long paced seed-sowing, and multi-
form labor, surely not less honorable in the sight of the work-
ing 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 bed-
side :
" I dinna know," he said, " whether it's richt, but I hae
nae fear o' dei'h, an' yet I canna say I'm sure aboot onything.
I hae seen mony a ane dee that cud hae no faith i' the Sa-
viour but I never saw that fear that some gude fowk' wud liae
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 held when he wrote it. It is as ye
say, ower contemptible to ca' an argument. I'll read it to
ye ance mail."
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 know-
est 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 bo.
" 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, not
how the bones do grow in the womb of her that is with child,
even so thou krowest not the works of God who maketh all.
ROBERT FALCONER. 385
" In the morning sow thj seed, and in the evening with-
hold 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 afif for an argument that takes 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
eure. 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 knew mair aboot a' thae things I
cud see 't i' the face o' 'm nor ony ither man at ever I
knew. An' it's no by comparison only. I'm sure he did
know. 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 observa-
tions 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 him-
self had said of them, "They are spirit and they are life; "
and what folly to buttress life and spirit with otlier 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 know
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 ago, as peacefu', though the road wag
sae rouch, as if he had been gaein' hame till 's father."
" Sae he ws," returned Robert.
886 ROBERT FALCONER.
" Ay ; but here am I lyin' upo, my bed, slipping easy awa'.
An' there was he "
The old man ceased. The sacred story was too sacred fo
speech. Eobert 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 old Brahmin frien',
Robert. It's true I thought his religion not only began but
ended inside him. It was a' booin' doon afore and an aspirin'
up into the bosom o' the infinite God. I dinna mean to say
'at he wasna honorable to them aboot him. And I never saw
in him muckle o' that pride to the rest that belangs to the
Brahmin. It was raither a stately kin'ness than that conde-
scension which is the vice o' Christians. But he had nae-
thing to do wi' them. The first comman'ment was a' he knew.
He loved God, nae a God like Jesus Christ, but the God
he knew, 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 neebor as yoursel', he
didna know. 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, an' 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 labored amongst the poor.
"Did you never try," Robert asked, "to lat him know
aboot the comin' o' God to his world in Jesus Christ? "
" I couldna do muckle that way honestly, my ain faith was
Bae poor and sma'. But I tellt him what Christians believed.
I tellt him aboot the character and history o' Christ. But it
didna ssem to tak' muckle hauld o' him. It wasna interestin'
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 without the other. It's little we can know what God
to love, or hoo to love him, withoot ' thy neighbor as thyself.'
ROBERT FALCONBR 387
Ony ane o' tbem withoot the ither Stan's like tjie ae factor o'
a multiplication, or ae wing upo' a lark."
Towards the close of the week he grew much feebler. Fal-
coner 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, boo it whustled
and sang ! and the cauld o' 't was stingin' ; but my father bad
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 there-
aboots. An' syne I thooht I heard my mither singin', and
knew by that that the ither was a dream. I'm thinkin' a hantJe
'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 way. 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, and nae that far
afiF. 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
lather, if he be alive, that I hae sib to me. My will's i' the
bottom drawer upo' the left ban' i' my writin' table i' the lee-
brary : 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 go on as
yer doin' in London for ten year mair. If 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 if ye didna fa' in wi' yer father within ten
year, ye maun behaud a wee, an' jist pack up yer box, an'
go awa' ower the sea to Calcutta, an' du what I hae tell't 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
difliculty wi' a promise. I'm only tellin' ye what I wad like.
Especially if ye hae fund yer father, ye maun go by yer ain
jeedgment aboot it, for there'll be a hautle to do wi' him efter
388 ROBERT FALCONER.
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
Btill. After an hour, he looked, and saw that, although hith-
erto much oppressed, he was now breathing like a child. There
was no sign save of past suffering ; his countenance was peace-
ful as if he had already entered into his rest. Robert with-
drew, 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 de-
parture of a spirit from the womb of the world into the un-
known. 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 peac
which is the farewell of the soiil to its servant.
Robert knelt and thanked God for the noble man.
BOBEBT FALCONER. 3od
CHAPTER LV.
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 ap-
pearance. She was one of those wbio, 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
bard repose, as ever ; but her behavior 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 in-
terlunar cave." Her face was gradually turning from him
towards the land of light.
" I hae buried my best frien' but yersel', granny," 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 quiet and a weel-behaved
man ; and ye hae rizzon to respec' his memory. Did he die
the deith of the richteous, thnik ye, laddie? "
" I do not think that, grannie. He loved God and his Sa-
viour."
" The Lord be praised ! " said Mrs. Falconer. " I had guid
houps o' 'im in 's latter days. And fowk say he's made a rich
man o' ye, Robert?"
B90 ROBERT FALCONBK.
" He's left me ilka thing, excep' something till 's servan'a
wha hae weel deserved it."
"Eh, Robert! but it's a terrible snare. Siller's an awfa'
thing. My puir Andrew never begud to go the ill gait till ha
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 gae mair o'
't to some fowk. But as ye say, it's his, and if 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 billow ower yerheid;
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 liearkent to my prayers for you ; and
if ye gang on as ye hae begun, my prayers, like them o' Davidj
the son o' Jesse, are endit. Go on, my dear lad, go on to
pluck brands frae the burnin'. Haud oot a helpin' han' to
ilka son and dauchter o' Adam 'at will take a grip o' 't. Be a
burnin' an' a sbinin' licht, that men may praise, no you, for
ye're but clay i' the ha's o' the potter, but yer Father in
heaven. Tak' the drunkard frae his whuskey, the doboshed
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 an' 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 tell't ye what I waa
aboot in Lonnon ? "
" Himsel'."
"Dr. Anderson?"
" Ay, jist himsel'. I hae had letter upo'^letter frae 'm
aboot you and a' 'at ye was aboot. He keepit me acquaint wi'
t a'."
This fresh proof of his friend's affection touched Robert
deeply. He had himself written often to his grandmother, but
ROBERT FALCONER. 391
lie had never entered any detail of his doings, although the
thought of her was ever at hand beside the thought of his
father.
" Do ye know, 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 c&nna
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 if 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 think-
in' this, that if God heardna ae sang o' glory frae this ill-doin'
earth o' his, he wadna be nane the waur ; but "
" Hoo know 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?
lie can waur want that, remainin' the slave o' iniquity, than
God can want his glory. Forby, ye know 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 if God cares for that same
glory, ye ocht to think o' that first, afore even the salvation
o' yer father ! "
" Maybe ye're richt, grannie. An' if 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
892 ROBERT FALCONER.
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 yer richt, laddie ; but ye hae a way o' say-
iii' things 'at 'a some fearsome."
"God's nae like a prood man to tak' offence, grannie.
There's naething pleases him like the trowth, an' there's na&-
thin' 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 if he was a puir,
prood, bailie-like body, fu' o' his ain importance, an' ready to
be doon upo' onybody 'at didna ca' him by name o' 's office,
aye 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 heir 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' woman, or a despised pub-
lican ; was he thinkin' aboot 's ain glory, think ye ? An' we
hae no richt to say we know God, save in the face o' Christ
Jesus. Whatever 's no like Christ is no like God."
"But, laddie, he cam' to satisfee God's justice by sufferin'
the punishment due to oor sins; 1o turn aside his wrath. an'
curse ; to reconcile him to us. Sae he cudna be a' thegitlier
like God."
"He did naething o' the kin', grannie. It's a' a lee that.
He cam' to satisfee 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'rc i' the richt.' He cam' to lift the weichto' 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 Tes-
tament, for there was no need o' that ; it was us that 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
ROBERT FALCONER. 893
an' pain o' body, as a'bodj knows. It wasna his ain sins, for
he had nane, but oors, that caused him sufferin' ; and he took
them awa', they're vanishin' even noo frae the earth., though
it doesna luik like it in Rag-fair or Petticoat-lane. An' for
owr sorrows, they jist garred him greit. His richteousnesa
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' ban', by no quibblin' o' the lawyers, aboot imputin' his
richteousness to us, an' 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 consequence, and there
are ye, grannie, growin' oot o' yours in consequence, an' haein'
nearhan' dune wi' them a'thegitber er' this time."
" I wis' that maybe true, laddie. But I carena boo ye put
it," returned his grandmother, bewildered no doubt with this
outburst, " sae be that ye put him first an' last an' i' the raids'
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' superstitious."
" Weel, grannie, I haena the least assurance. But I hae
the mair houp. Wad ye know him gin ye saw him ? "
" Know him ! " she cried ; " I wad know him if had been
no to say four, but forty, days i' the sepulchre ! My ain
Andrew ! Hoo cud ye speir sic a question, 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 nanetbeless wad I know him."
"I wis' I knew what he was like. I saw him ance,
hardly twice ; but a' that I min' upo' wad stan' me in ill stead
amoo' the streets o' Lonnon."
" I doobt that," returned Mrs. Falconer, a form of ex-
pression rather oddly indicating sympathetic and somewhat re.
894 EOBBRT FALCONER.
gretful 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 know."
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' upo' a'body, an' upo' her
maist o' a', till he took to the drink, and worse, if worse can
be. It was a' siller an' company, company 'at cudna be
merry ohn drunken. Verily their lauchter was like the cracjklin'
o' thorns aneath a pot. Het watter and whuskey was aye the
cry, efter their dcnner an' efter their supper, till my puir
Andrew tuik till the bare whuskey i' the mornin' to fill the ebb
o' the toddy. He wad never hae dune as he did but for the
whuskey. 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' 11 ever fa' in
wi' him."
" God's aye doin' unlikely things, grannie," said Robert,
Holemnly
"He's dune a' 'at he can for him, I doobt, already."
ROBERT PALCONEB. S95
" Duv ye think 'at God cadna save a man if 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' fowks' free wull. To gar fowk
be gude wad be nae gudeness."
' But if God could actually create the free wull, dinna ye
think he cud help it to gang richt, withoot ony garrin' ? We
know sae little aboot it, grannie ! Hoo does his Speerit help ony-
body? Does he gar them 'at accep's the offer o' salvation? "
" Na, I canna think that. But he shawa them the trowtb
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. If I knew that a
man had seen the trowth as I hae seen 't whiles, and had de-
leeberately 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 know."
" I did a' for him that I knew hoo to do," said Mrs. Falco-
ner, ,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 forgive me, if that be true. I deserve hell mair nor my
Andrew."
"But, ye see, grannie, supposin' it war sae,. that wadna be
laid to your' accoont, seein' ye did the best ye knew. Nor
wad it be forgotten to him. It would make a hantle difference
to his sin ; it wad be a great excuse for him. An' jist think,
if 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 im-
possible to measure what God cud do wi' his Speerit winnin' at
them frae a' sides, and able to put sic thouchts an' sic pictures
896 KOBBRT FALCONER.
into them as we canna thinlc. It wad a' be true that he tellt
them, and trowth can never be a meddlin' wi' the free wull."
Mrs. Falconer made no reply, but evidently went on think'
ing.
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 apprecia-
ble 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, " / haena
dune a' for him 'at I can yet ; and I'm no gaeih' to believe
onything that would make me remiss in my endeavor. TIoup
for mysel', for my father, for a'body, is what's savin' me, an'
garrin' me work. An' if 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 ban's drap doon by my sides, an' my
legs winna go. No," said Robert, rising, " God '11 gie me
my father some time, grannie ; for what man can do, wantin' a
father ? Human bein' canna win at the hert o' things, canna
know a' the oots an' ins, a' the sides o' love, excep' ho has a
father amo' the lave to love; an' I hae had nane, grannie.
An' that God knows."
She made him no answer. She dared not say that he
expected too much from God. Is it likely that Jesus will say
ao of any man or woman when he looks for faith in the earth?
Robert went out tc see some of his old friends, and when ho
returned it was time for supper and worship. These were the
same as of old : a f late of porridge, and a wooden bowl of
milk for the former ; a chapter and a hymn, both read, and a
ROBERT FALCONER. 397
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 LVI.
shargae'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 bis 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 odors of grass
and of clover and of the yellow flowers on the old earth-walla
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 foot-bridge and turned into the bleach-field. 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. Tho thundering beatles were still. The huge
legs of the wauk-mill took no more seven-leagued strides no-
whither. The rubbing-boards with their thickly fluted surfaces
no longer frothed the soap from every side, tormenting tho
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 boiU
ing spouts and peaks and ridges, lay empty and cold. Tho
898 BOBEBT FALCONEB.
little house behind, where ita 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 wentslipping and
sliding through the deserted places, a power whose use had
departed. The canal, the delight of his childhood, was nearlj
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 aiver 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, 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 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," bethought,
" 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
ROBEKI FALCONER. 399
dyke. It shone like a little moon in the grass. By humor-
ing 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 uncanninesa of the mcon, pre-
vents 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 moon-
light 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 of the back wynd where he had found
Shargar sitting on the door-step. 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 lifte
the latch and entered. He took up the candle, snufied it as
he best could, and approached the woman. When the light
fell on her face she sat up, staring wildly with eyea that
ihunned and sought it.
" Wha are ye that winna lat me dee in peace and quaiet'
Aess?"
" I'm Robert Falconer."
400 ROBERT FALCONER.
"Come to speir efter yer ne'er-do-weel o' a father, 1
reckon," she said.
"Yes," he answered.
"Wha'sthatahin' 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 'a
"inither!"
" 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 'a
mither an' hid her gude-by, an' her gaein' to hell."
"If 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
ahoot i' the kirks. Na, na. There's nae gnde o' that. There's
nae time to repent noo. I doubt 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 an' me." He'll hae naethin' to say to me, but
' gang to hell wi' ye.' "
" 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 when she wadna think it."
"An' I hae gieu my bonny bairn to the deevil wi' my ain
ban's ! She 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' hei
ooto' their grup, whaever they be."
She sat up again, and stared at him for a few moments with-
out speaking.
"I left her wi' a wuman waur nor mysol'," she said at
length. " God forgie me ! "
ROBERT FALCONER. 401
'He will forgie ye, if ye tell me whaur she is."
"Do ye think he will? Eh, Maister Faukner ! The
wuman bides in a coort aflf o' Clare Market. I dinna min'
upo' the name o' 't, though I cud go till 't wi' my een steekit.
Her name's Widow Walker an auld rowdie curse her
BOwl!"
" Na, na, ye maunna say that if ye want to be forgien yersel'.
I'll fin' her oot. An' I'm thinkin' it wanna be lang or I hae
a grup o' her. I'm gaein' back to Lonnon in two days or
threa
" Dinna go till I'm deid. Bide an' hand the devil aff o' me.
He has a grup o' my hert noo, rivin' at it wi' his lang nails
as lang's bird's 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 in-
ternal 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 door-step, 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 '11 clear a' scores, o' this
side ony way," she added.
They lifted her upon the mattress, and made her more com-
fortable than perhaps she had ever been in her life. But it was
only her illness that made her capable of prizing such comfort.
402 BOBERT FALCONER.
in health, the heather on a hill-side was far more to her tasta
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 80(il bred like this woman could have been born capable of
entertaining. But she, too, was eternal and surely not to be
fised forever 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 accom-
panying 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 creat-
ures who came to him how kindly he spoke to them how
he cured them. He told her how gentle he was with the sin-
ning 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 lan-
guage in vhich she sought relief at first. He said to himself,
" What matter if I see no sign ? I am doing my part. AVho
can tell, when the soul is fi-ce from the distress of the body,
when sights and sounds have vanished from her, and sho is
silent in the eternal, with the terrible past behind her, and
ROBERT FALCONER. 403
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 aU kind-
ness, 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 informa-
tion 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
Scotch woman 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 labors. 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." Labor 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, light,
gladness ! I thank thee that thou hast blessed me with this
ministration. Now lead me to my father. Thine is the king-
dom, and the power, and the glory, forever 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. Ho
will ; he will. Noo gang yer wa's, and do the wark he giea
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.
404' ROBERT FALCONEKi
CHAPTER LVII.
THE SILK-WBAVBK.
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 with-
out interfering with the quietness upon which he believed that
the true effect of his labors in a large measure depended, ho
would not have scrupled simply to carry off the child. With
much diflBculty, 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 be saw in her some resemblance to his friend Shar-
gar. 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 house-keeper. 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 neighbor is to
give to his neighbor. Finding how the unbelief of the best of
the poor is occasioned by hopelessness in privation, and the
Bufferings of those dear to them, he was confident that only the
personal comoiunion 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
ROBERT FALCONER. 405
bim, 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 aa
if he were the only one who could render this individual aid,
or as if men influencing the poor individually could not aid
ach other in their individual labors. 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 sili^-weavers and
their families. Hearing a loud voice as he passed down a stair
from the visit he had been paying farther up the house, he
|went into the room whence the sound came, for he knew a
little of the occupant. He was one De Fjeuri, or as the
neighbors 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 hesatsilent,
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 Fal-
coner's humor 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 un-
belief of the man no nearer than the clangor of negro kettles
afiects the eclipse of the sun. Falconer stood watching his
opportunity. Nor was the eager disputant long in affording
him one. Socratio 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 contradic
tion of the first, that the poor, sorrowful weaver burst into a
406 ROBERT FALCONER.
laugh of delight at the discomfiture of his tormentor. After
some stammering, and a confused attempt to recover the line
of argument, the would-he partisan 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 :
" Mr. De Fleurl, I believe in God with all my heart, and
soul, and strength, and mind ; though not in that poor creat-
ure'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 daugh-
ter ? "
" Very poorly, sir. She's going after the rest. A Spital-
fields 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 for-
get 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
bis fellow. Falconer had never met with a similar instance.
" I do. I won't kill her, and I won't kill myself. I am
ROBBRT FALCONER. 407
not bound to accept charity. It's all right. I only want tc
leave the whole affair behind ; and I sincerely hope there's
nothing to come after. If I were God, I should be asharaed
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 ia
to be seen, liut I didn't send that bore away to bore you my-
self. I'm going to see Katey."
" Very well, sir. I won't go up with you, for I won't in-
terfere 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 chil-
dren 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 waa
worn and thin, but hardly death-like. Only extremes met in
it, the hopelessness had turned through quietude into com-
fort. Her hopelessness affected him more than her father's.
But there was nothing he could do for.her.
Then 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
Baid :
" I won't say good-by yet, Katey, for I'm going to have a
408 ROBERT FALCONBR.
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, 'eft the bedside and
came towards him. Whether be knew her by her face or her
voice first, he could not tell.
" Robert," the 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 some-
';imes then? "
" Yes. Perhaps we can help each other."
"You can help me," said Falconer. "I have a girl I
flon'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-by."
" 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 aa
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. Fal
coner took a broken chair, the only one, and sat down.
" I am going to take a liberty with you, Mr. De Fleuri,"
he said.
" ^fl you please, Mr. Falconer."
" I want to tell ypu the only fiiult I have to you."
BOBBBT FALCOXEB. 409
"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 neighbor."
He held that to help a neighbor is the strongest antidote to
unbelief, and an open door out of the bad air of one's own
tjoubles, as well.
De Fleuri laughed bitterly, and rubbed his hand up and
lown his empty pocket. It was a pitiable action. Falconer
understood it.
"There are better things than money; sympathy, for in-
stance. Y^ou 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 favor."
" 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
410 ROBERT FALCONER.
How he had been brought up, describing the country and theii
ways of life, not excluding liis 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 proud as Lucifer! He won't
accept a neighbor'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 some-
thing more to me than a mere equal, I would go telling you
my own history ? But I forgot ; I have told you hardly any-
thing 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 hia
consent for granted, he hurried De Fleuri away with him, and
knowing how unfit a man of his trade was for walking, irre-
spective of feebleness from want, he called the first cab, and
H)ok him home. Here, over their tea, which he judged tho
flafest meal for a stomach unaccustomed to food, he told him
ROBERT FALCONER. 411
about liis grandmother, and about Dr. Anderson, ana how ha
came to give himself to the work he was at, partly for its own
Bake, 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 expendi-
ture of a certain sum weekly, as he should judge expedient,
for the people who lived in that and the neighboring houses,
in no case, however, except of sickness, or actual want of
bread from want of work. Thus did Falconer appoint a sor-
row-made infidel tq 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 ordhiary 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 in-
tervention of class or creed, the more the humanity, which ia
the divinity of it, will appear."
412 ROBERT FALCONER.
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 3 good
many people who, without being prepared, or perhaps able to
take any trouble, are yet ready to do a kindness when it ia
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 be easily 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 bis 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 toj
work, and regularly read for the bar.
CHAPTER LVIII.
MT OWN ACQUAINTANCE.
It was after this that my own acquaintance with Fal-
coner commenced. I had just come out of one of the theatres
in the neighborhood 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 north-
wards, 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 bead 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 look-
ROBERT FALCONER. 413
ing over her shoulder with the smile of a seraph, perfectly un
conscious 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
month, 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 up-
holding and ministering to the life of the pure, the gracious,
the fearless. Aware from his tone more than from his pro-
nunciation tliat 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
14 ROBERT FALCONER.
inTentions 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."
" IIow could you do that? "
" I would merdy enlighten the hearts of childless people aa
to their privileges."
"Which are?"
"To be fathers and mothers to the fatherless and mother-
less."
"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 bo
their own ! That a child is God's is of rather more conse-
quence 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 beheld 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 "
ROBERT PALCONER. 415
" 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-shoul-
dered, remarkably long in the arms, and his hands were un-
commonly large and powerful. His head was large, and cov-
ered with dark, wavy hair, lightly streaked with gray. Hia
broad forehead projected over deep-sunken 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 ex-
pression of his mouth was of tender power, crossed with humor.
He kept his lips a little compressed, which gave a certain
sternness to his countenance ; but, when this sternness dis-
solved 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 re-
ceived 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 nae-
body."
"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 some-
thing odd, almost romantic, in this beginning of an intercourse ;
I would see what would come of it.
416 ROBERT FALCONER
" 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 havA
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 remember that you addressed me first."
" You spohe 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 more," 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 color 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
Bword-blad a thousand times shattered, quivered and palpi-
tated 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 light-
ROBERT FALCONER. 41T
ning had struck him, but he assured me there was uotuing
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 hiin intimately, that
in the moment of that lightning flasii, 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 phe-
nomenon was, that, in some cases, all that prevents a vivid con-
ception 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 there&re
visible.
"But," I ventured to ask, "whence the minutenrta of
detail, surpassing, you say, all that your memory cocild
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 (vhicli it
had forgotten. In the rapidity of all pure mental action, thia
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. Vf bile 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. 1 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 storm kept on intermittently, but the streets -viere rather
more crowded than usual, notwithstanding.
"Look at that man in the woollen jacket," said Falconer.
418 ROBERT 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. Its 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 pump-
ing bilge-music out of an accordeon 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 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 curbstone.
They were chattering fast, and apparently carrying on some
game, as happy as if they had been in the fields.
" AVouldn'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 tha
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"
ROBERT FALCONER. 419
" 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 con-
tent 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 3ne word about the vices of the poor in the Bi ble
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 hia waaies
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- render life much more in-
teresting to the poor than it is to those who, unblest with anx-
iety for the bread that perisheth, waste their poor heart
about rank and reputation."
" I thought such anxiety was represented as an evil in tho
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, 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 w.ehn, where, and how much ; but I
am sure it does. And I am confident that to freo those hearts
from it by any deed of yours would be to do theii. Ihe greatest
420 BOBERt FALCONBR.
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 thi? theory prove at last an anaesthetic 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 lesa
labor spent upon them. But there can be no true labor done,
save in as far as we are fellow-laborers with God. We must
work with him, not against him. Every one who works with-
out 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 any-
thing, 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
ffork with God ? " I asked.
" He must be a man amongst them, a man breathing the
ir of a higher life, and therefore in all natural ways fulfilling
liis endless human relations to them. Whatever you do for
tUem, 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 face was his genius.
" Of one thing I am pretty sure," he resumed, " that the
same recipe Goethe gave for the enjoyment of life applies
equalliy to all work : ' Do the thing that lies next you.' That
ROBKBT I'ALCONBR. 421
in 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
Hot. 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 ofiScers, 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 battle-
fields the recruit may yet be led, he does not know. Mean-
time he has nearly enough to do with liis 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 odor of
violets, like a glimmering twilight on the borders of moonrise,
and there is a passion that wraps itself in the vapors of
patchouli and coffins, and streams from the eyes like gas-light
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 difierences. I do not know anything
more touching than to see how a woman will sometimes wrap
122 ROBERT FALCOVKB.
around her the last remnants cf 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 Mas-
ter, 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' upstairs ; 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 Lily white, 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 read-
ROBERT FALCONER. 423
ing. 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 read-
ing, was so placed that we could not see the sufl'erer.
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 sec was no better than some of
the rest of us ! "
" I think he was a good deal worse, just then," said Fal-
coner, 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 hanged 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 sjlent.
" 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 sai 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
424 ROBERT FALCONER.
"Turn down the leaf there, please, sir. Lily white 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 tear-
ful look it wore, poor and expressionless. Falconer said some-
thing 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 re-
covered herself in a few moments, and, as if finishing her sen-
tence, put her hand up to her poor, thin, colorless hair, and
said :
" My hair aint long enough to wipe his feet."
" Do you know what he would say to you, my girl? " Fal-
coner 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'l
hand.
" What is your name ? " he said.
"Nell."
"What more?"
ROBEKT FALCONER. 425
" 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 aint your child," cried the girl, passionately. "I aint
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 un-
derstand our Lord."
426 KOBKET FALCONER.
" Some of them wouldn't have understood him any mor
than the Pharisee, though."
" I'm not so sure of that. Of course there are great differ-
ences. 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.
Wo 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
Bobbing a little, not much. The tiny creatures stood there
ROBERX FALCONER. 427
awfully awake in sleeping London, while eren their own play-
mates were far off in the fairyland of dreams.
" This is the kind of thing," I said, " that makes me doubi
whether there be a God in heaven."
" That is only because he is down here," aaswered 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 tcr 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 Irish woman opened it a little way and peeped
out.
"Here are two children crying at your door, ma'am," said
Falconer.
" Och, the dar^in'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 Irish woman. " 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 laugh-
ter between, " Nobody cares fofflbe, and I care for nobody !
Ha! ha! ha!" ,
428 ROBERT FALGONBR.
" 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 hia
arms, and carried it into the house. The face was blue aa
that of a strangled corpse. She was dead.
" Was she a married woman ? " Falconer asked.
" It's myse'lf caH't tell you, sir," the Irish woman answered.
" I never saw anybody with her."
" Do you know where she lived ? "
"No, sir. Somewhere not far off, though. The children
will know."
Bat 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 Fal-
coner. " 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.
ROBERT FALCONER. 429
' What a mercy they are, Robert, those little gates in tha
bee ! 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 wil
wake my maid, and we'll get them washed and put to bed ai
once."
Sbe was closing the door, when Falconer turned.
"0 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 se me. Good-night."
We took our leave without more ado.
" What a lady-like woman to be the matron of an asylum ! "
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 Jo 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 ?"
430 ROBERT FALCONER.
"Why should we be anything, so long as we do our
work ?"
"Don't you think there is some affectation in refusing
Dame? "
" 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 small-
est better than any belief about Him the greatest or
about anything else besides. But we exclude none."
" How do you manage without '! "
" By admitting none."
" 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, regard-
ing 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 out-
skirts 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.
Tohn, and twenty others, and a great many more I don't
ROBERT FALCONER. 431
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 laborers 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
(he church."
" Do you belong to the Church of England ? "
"Yes, some of us. Why should we not? Inasmuch 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 venniculate questions, as
Lord Byron 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 get-
ting very weary in body, and indeed in mind, though 1 hope
not in heart. Before we separated, I ventured to say :
" Will you tell me why you invited me to come and see
432 ROBERT FAICONKR
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 an-
cient 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 LIX
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 bis 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 honors,
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 beauti-
ful, and of enchanting address. How she could have remained
so long urynarried 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 pros;-
ROBERT FALCONER. 43b
ress he could yet boast of was that his attentions had not been,
60 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 atten-
tions 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 s'all see her yersel', an' syne I'll speir bacli yer ain ques-
tion 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 if 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 de-
pressed 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 aJready aboot aboot
my mither? "
" I dinna say that. Maybe it wad be equally fair to her
and to yersel' to lat her know ye a bit better afore ye do that.
We'll think that ower. When ye go 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-
434 ROBERT FALCONER.
hearted old lady, who spoke Scotch with the pure toe 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 iu
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 bad promised to procure him an invita-
tion.
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 han-
som.
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. Cer-
tainly, 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?"
" Wh a 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 countO'
ROBERT FALCONER, 435
nance 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
ha's been hangin' aboot her ever sin' she came in. But I
dinna think she likes him a'thegither by the leuk o' her."
" What for dinna ye go up till her yersel', man? I wadna
Stan' that if 'twas me."
" I'm feared 'at he'll know 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 aboct
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 take 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 gara
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 neighborhood 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 lead-
ing 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. Efut Shargar
did not return. For, the moment she reached the fresh air.
436 ROBERT FALCONER.
Miss Hamilton was so much better, that Lady Jaaet, 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 morn-
ing, 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 ? "
" 1 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 coiicern-
ing 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 tiie same delioskta
ROBERT FALCONER. 437
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 impassabla
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 ia
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 cir-
cumstances 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
iiever 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 ex-
pected, and that I felt hurt in consequence, aided the doubt.
Then the thought of my father returning, and finding that I
hud left him, came and burned in my heart like fire. But
what was I to do ? I had never been out of Aberdeen hetore.
I did not know even a word of French. I was altogethei 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
438 ROBERT FALCONER.
it in pieces. I entered the hotel, as wretched as girl could
well be. I began to dislike him. But during dinner he was
BO 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' 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."
" 1 knew it was you, that is, I was sure of it when I came
to think about it f 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 had little thought, during my imprisonment
because of it, that the end of my journey was already accom-
plished."
Mysie put her band in his.
ROBERT FALCONER. 439
"You have saved me, Mr. Falconer."
"For Ericson's sake, who was dying and could not," re-
turned 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 hg, know me then ? "
" No. Fortunately not. YoU would not have looked at
him then. It was all done fpr love of me. He is the truest
fellow in the world, and altogether worthy of you, Miss Ham-
ilton. 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 favor 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 mar-
ried 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 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'a
440 ROBERT FALCONER.
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 acquaint-
ance 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 honor
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 scorn-
ful 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 mar-
quis, who had not been brought up in a school of which either
self-restraint or respect for women were prominent charac-
teristics.
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 know, to baud me alive to
face him this day. No liar, my lord, but a bastard, thank
heaven." Then, with a laugh, he instantly added, " If I had
been ain brither to you, my lord, God only knows what a rascal
I micht hae been."
" By Heaven, you shall answer for your insolence," said the
marquis, and, lifting his riding-whip from the table where he
had laid it, he approached his brother.
ROBERT FALCONER. 44]
Mysie rang the bell.
"Haudyer 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 britber."
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 Boars-
head 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 know
yersel', if 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 wair 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.
442 ROBERT FALCONER.
CHAPTER LX.
A NEOPHYTE.
Before many months had passed, without the slightest ap-
proach to any formal recognition, I found myself one of the
church of labor 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 acquaint-
ing with the relation. She was old-fashioned enough to
acknowledge it even with some eagerness. The ancient clan-feel-
ing is good in this, that it opens a channel whose very exist-
ence 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, mergly 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 behavior to the Marquis of Boarshead, just recorded,
that he positively cultivated her acquaintance thereafter.
Lady Georgina was of an old family, an aged family, in-
deed ; 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
ROBERT FALCONER. 443
person of Lady Georgina. She was at least as tall as Mary St.
John, and very handsome only with somewhat masculino
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 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 patron-
ized Miss St. John, considerably to her amusement, and noth-
ing to her indignation. Of course she could not undei-stand
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 atten-
tion 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
labor between Miss St. John and him, and applied to the former
for some enlightenment. But Miss St. John was far from ex-
plicit, for she had no desire for such assistance as Lady Geor-
gina'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 hlasee, at least ennuyee, and begun 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
444 ROBERT FALCONER.
young lady ; she might have been a prophetess, and Byron wag
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 wc 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 ven-
ture such a step."
A smile, intended to be playful, covered the retreat of th
ROBERT FALCONER, 445
Bentence. 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 com-
mon 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. 1
need not tell you what kind of life a girl like myself leads.
I am not old, but the gilding is worn oif. Life looks bare,
ugly, uninteresting. I ask you to tell me whether there ia
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 oflF 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 oflF."
"But I am unwilling to think it is. lam 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, assur-
ance 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
446 ROBERT FALCONBB.
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 men-
tal 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 interrupted Lady Georgina to remark, for I, too, have
been a pupil of Falconer, that I believe she must have sus-
pected what her duty was, but would not look firmly at her
own suspicicion. 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 nowadays 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 ex-
pression ; 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 rumos I hear of
you people will talk, you know are all inventions.
They say you are forever burrowing amongst the poor. Ex-
cuse 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 for-
tune, not very limited, at my own disposal ; a gentleman, whc
is his own steward, would find his labors merely facilitated b^
administering fjr another as well such labors, I mean."
KOBERT FALCONER. 447
" I must beg to be excused, Lady Georgina. I am account-
able 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 G-eorgina, thoughtfully, and cast an in-
voluntary 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 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 ques-
tion."
"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 directiou
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 eflforts for the eleva-
tion 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 them-
selves, " How disagreeable of him ! I can't endure the man."
If they knew bow 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 dis-
like, 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 witlj
classes."
Lady Georgina gathered her failing courage.
448 EOBEKT FALCONER.
" Then there is the more hope for me," she said. " Surel;^
there are things a woman might be useful in that a man can-
not 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 dififerently, you know. I will be a sis-
ter 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, coald
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 misrepresenta-
tion 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 turn-
ing 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 proba-
bly inherit receive the intrusions from which they could not
protect themselves ? Would you be in no danger of finding per-
sonal 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, baboonlike woman,
ROBF.RT FALCONER. 44i
whoae very face makes my nerves shudder : could you believe
that woman might one day become beautiful as yourself, and
therefore minister to her ? Would you not be tempted, foi
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 noth-
ing 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 toler-
able 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 lay-
ing the needful foundations all the time. Not under any cir-
cumstances 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 do use whatever ? " Lady
450 ROBERT FALCONER.
Georgina asked, more to break the awkwardness of her pro-
longed silence than for any other reason.
"In as far as any of the persons they employ fulfil the con-
ditions 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 inca-
pable 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 some-
thing, if they would only set about it simply, and not be too
anxious to convert them ; if they would only be their frieuds
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
fer as I see, am likely of all things to avoid it. What I want
\ls 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
vou can do for them is to attempt to save them from the nat-
ural consequences of wrong ; you may sometimes help them
out of them. But it is right to do many things for them Avhen
you know them, which it would not be right to do for thera
ROBERT FALCONER. 451
until you know them. I am amongst them ; they know me ;
their chjldren know me ; and something is always occurring
that makes this or that one come to me. Once I have a foot-
ing, I seldom lose it. So you see, in this my labor I am con-
tent 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 conse-
quence. 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 e'very-day history. No
one can answer that question but yourself. Your next duty
is just to determine what your next duty is. Is there noth-
ing 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 Fal-
coner 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 embit-
tered by tlie 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."
452 ROBERT FALCONER.
" 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 hia
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 Geor-
gina. 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
80 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 On*
who can."
BOBEBT FALOONEB. 453
" 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 Gos-
pels, 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 honor 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 be
came out, he was weeping.
454 BOBEBT 7AL00NBK.
CHAPTER LXI.
THE SUICIDE,
Falconer lived on and labored on in London. Wherevei
he found a man fitted for the work, he placed him in such
oflSce as De Fleuri already occupied. At the same time he
went more into society, and gained the friendship of many in-
fluential 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 eifect for the class amongst which
he labored. As I have shown, he did not believe in any posi-
tive good being efiected 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 associ-
ation 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 pro-
vide that the people should be able, if they would, to live
decently. He had no notion of domestic inspection, or of offer-
ing 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 con-
sequences of their life. But there ought always to he 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 the 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 prob-
ably 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. Hia
own fortune was not sufficient for doing much in this way, but
he set about doing what he could by purchasing houses in
ROBERT FALCONER. 45rj
which the poor lived, and putting them into the hands of per-
sons whom he could trust, and who were immediately respon-
sible 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 con-
sidered 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 dread-
fully 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 exor
bitant 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 fall 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 edu-
cated 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 under-
taker, 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, aint it, sir ? "
Falconer had let him run on that he might have the meas-
ure 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 coflSns
to put those houses in a state to satisfy the inspector."
The wretched creature was struck dumb. Falconer re-
sumed :
"You're the sort of man that ought to be kept to youi
456 ROBERT FALCONER.
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 labor 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, labored 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 behavior
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 neighbors
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, andJooked
to the poor for their help. Without them he could not be made
perfect.
ROBERT FALCONER. 457
Some of my readers may be inclined to say that it was dis-
honorable in Falconer to have occasioned the publishing of hia
father's disgrace. Such may recall to their minds that con-
cealment 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
ttien knew of his vice ; they would be the first to honor 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 dis-
honor. 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 demo-
niac 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 consid-
erable 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 starving 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
458 ROBERT FALCONER.
rather, for the awful spaces of silence, where the railway di-
rector 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 nightshade, as our old dramatists
would have called her. I could hardly keep down an evil dis-
gust 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 lii,*.le
more than an animal intelligence, not brightened by the gii.
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 vapors 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, bat
where, in that chaos of humanity, right or left, before or be-
hind me, I could not even guess. Home to such regions,
from gorgeous stage-scenery and dresses, from splendid, mir-
ror-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 obliv-
ion, 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 se
crets God keeps must be as good as those he tells.
But no sights of the night ever afiected 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 op
pressed with sad thoughts and a sense of helplessness. I be
gaa to wonder what Falconer might at that moment be about
BOBERT I'ALCONBR. 459
I had not seen him for a long time, a whole fortnight. Up
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 feel-
ings 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 honored in having a hand
in the work that God is doing, and will do, whether you help
him or not. Some will be honored ; shall it be me ? A.nd
"this honor 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 some-
thing."
" 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 owd
moaths to put in that of their sick brother, or to stick in tha
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 pwi
children, half a dozen of them with babies in their arms ? "
460 ROBERT FALOoNER.
" 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 labor 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.
It was a blowing, moon-lit night. The gas-lights 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 w^alk'
ing 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 bo hur-
rying 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
ROBERT FALCONER. 46i
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 odors of death pushed 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-colored
baby-faces made a grimace or two, and sank to sleep on the
thin tawny breasts of the mothers, who, having gathered cour-
age 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 curb-stones. 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-guar-
dian 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 de-
scending 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-color 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 god-
desses of their kind. " God ! " I thought, but dared not
speak, "and thou couldst make all these girls so lovely!
462 ROBERT FALCONER.
Thou couldst give them all the gracious garments of rose a ad
blue and white if thou wouldst ! Why should these not he
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, 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 Westmin-
ster 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 board-
ing between, we looked down on the new portion, which was as
yet used by carriages alone. The moon bad, throughout the
evening, alternately shone in brilliance from amidst a lake of
blue sky, and been overwhelmed in billowy heaps of wind-tor-
mented clouds. As we stood on the apex of the bridge, look-
ing 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 iiowled through the arches
beneath, swept along the boarded fences, and whistled in their
holes. The gaslights blew hither and thither, and were per-
plexed to live at all.
Wo were standing at a spot where some shorter pieces had
been used in the boarding ; 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 boarding 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. lie 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
ROBERT FALCONER, 463
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 bad 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; " waa
this the only way left ? "
Then he spoke tenderly to her. What he said J ^^onld not
hear, I only heard the tone.
"0 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 kind of mechanical 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, continu-
ous, forceful, slow, he felt her shudder in his still clasping arm.
"Look," he said, " how it crawls along, black and slimy !
now 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 drift-
ing 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.''
iShe looked, from the mere glimpses I could get of her,
somewhere about five and twenty, making due allowance foi
464 ROBEKT FALCONER.
the wear of Buffering so evident even in those glimpses. 1
think she might have been beautiful if the waste of her historj
could have been restored. That she had had at least some ad-
vantages 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 peo-
ple 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 on 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 every-
thing, 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-
Palconer'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 aa
it were out of the infinite night, all but swallowed up in it.
KOBERT FALCONER. 4G'5
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 con-
cluded 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. 1
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 fol-
lowed. 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
diflEcult 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 Tuere now in a quarter of which I knew nothing, but as
SO
466 ROBERT FALCONER.
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 :
" Aint you got a glass of ale for a poor cove, gov'nor ? "
" T 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 aint a civil answer to give a cove after his lush, that
aint 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-humor. I know better
now. Some of these roughs will take all you have in the most
good-humored 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, look-
ing 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, Savory Sam," he ad led to
one of them.
ROBERT FALCONER. 467
"Now I don't want to hurt you," struck in the first, com-
ing nearer, " but if you gives tongue, I'll make cold meat of
you, and gouge your pockets at my leisure, before ever a blue-
skin 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, ad-
dressing 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
cecum. But we won't trouble him. We'll help ourselves.
Shell out now."
As he spoke he made a snatch at my watch-chain. 1 for-
got 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 rememfer seeing yet
another man a tall fellow coming out of the gloom of the
court. How it came into my mind 1 do not know, and what
I said I do not remember, but I must have mentioned Falcon-
er'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 1
had not heard before. " You don't know Long Bob, you gon-
nof !"
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' 11 knock you down if he thinks you want it, or
give you a half-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
468 ROBEET FALCONER.
not yet heard, " if so be this gentleman's a friend of Long Bob,
you' just let him alone, /say."
I opened my eye now, and saw before me a tall, rather slen-
der man, in a big, loose dress-coat, to whom Slicer had turned
with the words : ^
" You say ! Ha ! ha ! Well, /say There's my Scotch
haddock ! who'll toucn 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 tea-
spoon, I knew it by the smell to be gin. But I could not ydi
move. They began to talk about me, and I lay and listened.
Indeed, while I listened, I lost for a time all inclination to gat
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 ho was
after somebody or other, they think. No friend of lilr. Fal-
coner's would be after another for any mischief," eaid my
hostess.
' " But who is this Mr. Falconer ? Is Long Bob and he
both the same alias ? " asked a third.
" Why, Bessy, aint you no better than that cursed Slicer,
who ought to ha' been hung up to dry this many a year 7
But to be sure you aint 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 : -r-
" A man with a long, long beard, that goes about, and some*
times grows tired and sits on a door-step. I see him once.
But he aint Mr. Falconer, nor Long Bob neiiiisr," added
Bobby, in a mysterious tone. " I know who he lo."
ROBERT FALCONER. 469
" "What do you mean, Bobby ? Who is he then 7 "
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 say so. He alius 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 suffi-
ciently important to have his opinion asked.
" True enough," said his mother. "I see him once a-sittin'
on a door-step, lookin' straight afcre 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, an' 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 bed-
side.
"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 ont
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 / 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 ? "
470 ROBERT FALCONER.
'-'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'm sorry to see you, too, have been hurt, for my sake,
of course," I said. " Is it a bad blow ? "
" Oh ! it aint 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 tho
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 neighborhood, 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 Falcon-
er's chambers. Job got out and rang the bell. Mrs. Ashton
came down. Her master was not come home.
ROBERT EAliOONBR. 471
"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 custamoneering, 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 aint none so nice a place to go snoozing;
in, nohow. Where do you go to, guv' nor ? "
I told him. When I got out, and was opening the door,
leaning on his arm, I said 1 was very glad they hadn't taken
my keys.
" Slicer nor Savory 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,
guv'nor, and see if it's all right. Them pusses is manyfac-
tered express for the convenience o' the fakers. Take my
advice, sir, and keep a yellow sovereign in yer coat-tails, a
flatch half-crown in yer waistcoat, and yer 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 sovereign, 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
began 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
KOBERT FALCONER.
home, but Mrs. Ashton, instead of showing me into his rov.
'od 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 LXII.
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 am sorry I dinna ken ye, man. Do ye ken me ? "
" Fine that, Mr. Falconer. There's money ane knows 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 disappear-
ing down King Street from Whitehall. The driver heard,
turned, and in a moment more was by their side.
" Ye had better go into her an' awa' hame, and lea' the
poor lassie to me. I'll take 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, ai.d both able and wiring.
ROBERT FALCONER. 478
When he entered John Street, be came to observe before
leaching 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
Bofa. 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 labored, but there
was no further sign of suffering. He lay perfectly still. Fal-
coner saw at once that he was under the influence of some nar-
cotic, probably opium ; and the same moment the all but con-
viction darted into his mind that Andrew Falconer, his grand-
mother'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 the far-estranged soul ?
How ever send the cry oi 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
474 ROBERT FALCONER.
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
epoke to God, saying that he had made this man ; that the
mark of his fingers was on the man's soul somewhere. Ho
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. Hav-
ing breathed this out before the God of his life. Falconer rose,
Btrengthened to meet the honorable, 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 plana
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.
BOBERT PALCONBH, 475
But while he thus ministered, a new question arose in liis
teind 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
devotijn. 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 fear-
ful 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
bis 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 in-
Btrument 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 out-
side the chamber-door, which opened from his sitting-roora,
and began to play gently, softly, far away. For a while he
extemporized only, thinking of Rothieden, and the grand
470 &OBERT FALCONER.
mother, and the bleach-greon, 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 feel-
ing 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 fac-
tor in his calculation : how the man would awake from his arti-
ficial sleep. He had not reckoned of how the limbeck of his
brain would be left discolored with vile deposit, when the
fumes of the narcotic should have settled and given uo its cen-
tral 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 Eim, 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 ether
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
n the poor man's garden, till at length it drew nearer once
ROBERT FALCONER. 47^
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 bo 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 f 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 fricht-
Bome 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
ncAv 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 dark-
ness of the night, and a sluggish fog to aid it, the light of a
pure heaven made its slow, irresistible way, his hope grew tliat
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
478 ROBERT FALCONER.
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 snufi", 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 tl/.e other.
He called his house-keeper. 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, aa the patient would most likely wake with a head-
ache. He instructed her to wait upon him as a matter of
course, and lexplain nothing. He had resolved to pass Ur 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 sufiered 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 ha
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. Ha
ROBERT FALCONER. 479
had (aught cold before De FJeuri and liis comra'.les found him.
He was now ill, feverish and oppressed. Through the whole
of the following week thej nursed and waited upon him with-
out his asking a single question as to where he was or who they
were ; during all which time Falconer saw no one but "i)e
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 prob-
ably 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 re-
duced 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
th352 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.
I or 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
bim to attempt whatever his hand found to do.
480 KOBBKT FALCONER.
CHAPTER LXm.
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 mas^
ter, as he phrased it, once more. He soon began to see that,
i{ 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 firo
one afternoon, for he needed much artificial warmtli. Tho
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 some-
thing, 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 your-
self 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 rum my character as a professional man to let a
patient in your condition leave the house. The weather is
unfavorable. I cannot I must not consent."
" Where am I? I don't understand it. I want to under-
sUnl it."
ROBERT FALCONER. 481
" Your friends wish you to remain wLere you are for the
present."
" I have no friends."
" You have one, at least, who puts his house here at your
ervice."
" 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. 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 ol
terror had crossed him.
" You do not mean I am in a mad-house ' "
31
482 ROBERT FALCONER.
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 conse-
quence ; 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 child-
hood, 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 con-
tradictory. Indeed, the moment the subject was approacjied,
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 trem-
bling 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
BOBSRT FALCONER. 483
him dressed like a gentleman, a change which pleased him
much. The next step was to take him out eyerj 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 hia
adventures, of the truth of which Robert was not always cer-
tain, 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 lead-
ing him into regions of confession which must be avoided, re-
suming 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. Eilled 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
whiskey 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 hia
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 barkeeper jumped
across the counter and approached with his fists 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 scatheless, and bore him oat of
the house.
484 ROBERT FALCONER.
'i crowd gathers in a moment in London, speeding to a fraj'
as the vultures to carrion. On the heels of the population of"
the iieighhoring 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-wheeled 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 hurrj
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 barkeeper 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 around 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's 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
ia no other way, Andrew Falconer."
lie 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
, 3ab came up ; the policeman got out ; Andrew stepped in of lua
own accord, and Robert followed.
" You see it's all right," he said. " Here, give the barman
ROBERT FALCONER. 485
a sovereign. If he wanta more, let me know. He deaerTcd 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 hig couch, and his father
retxeated in dismay to his chamber.
CHAPTER LXIV.
THE BKOWN 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 recov-
ered 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 its 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, hop-
ing 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 house-keeper 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, lookc^j^t
486 ROBERT FALCONER,
the address, looked at the seal, laid it on the table, and gazed
again with troubled looks into the fire. He had had no cor-
respondence 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 volun-
tary, such as the wind plays, of an amber autumn evening, on
the seolian 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 dark-
ness, 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
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 for-
gotten 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 ! 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 Robett, read the words? 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 ia
like to break with its longing after you, my own Andrew ?
Shall I never, never see you again ? That is the terrible
ROBERT FALCONER. 487
lli-ught, 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 evei-y night now !
If I should only wake in the crowd of the resurrection, and
not know where to find you ! 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, be-
cause you do not, cannot any dore 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 forever,
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, '
Lord, Andrew, Andrew ! ' Then he smiled, and said, ' Daugh-
ter, 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 prec-
ipice , 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
488 ROBERT FALCONER.
much to bear ; and when I thouglit 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. Andrew,
what if the dream should come true ! But if it should not
come true ! I dare not think of that, Andrew. I couldnH
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 prodi-
gal 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
Bend 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. 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 tlie
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 1 am dead. Good-by, Andrew. I love you all the
same. I am, my dea/-est 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 feeblu
ROBERT FALCONER. 489
by the contrasted strength of the words. When Falconer read
it stfterwards, 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,
discolored 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
30uld think of, recalling Dooble Sandy's workshop, that he
alight recall the music he had learned there.
No one who understands the bit and bridle of the associatioE
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 Fal-
coner'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 (he church
to which he had gone when a boy, with his mother, I sup-
pose. 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 ou-r day,
Are yet a master light of all our seeing."
For an hour he did not venture to go near him. When ho
4110 ROBERT FALCONER.
entered the room he found him sitting in the same place, no
longer weeping, but gazing into the fire with a sad counte-
nance, the expresssion 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, not-
withstanding. -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 de-
moniacs 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 feel-
ings, 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 solu-
tion 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 sup-
pose 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 frora the fact that extremes meet,
and that this disposition is so opposite to the other that
ROBERT FALCONER. 491
it looka 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 for-
tune 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 LXV.
FATHER AND SON.
Once more Falconer retired, but not to take his violin.
He fcould 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
"Oom. H'j kneeled and prayed for guidance and help. , Some-
thing with in 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 auiiibl*
voice :
492 ROBERT FALCONER.
" Are you my son ? my boy Robert, sir ? "
" I am. I am. father, I have longed for you by day,
and dreamed about you by night, ever since I saw that othei
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 afiection, 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
Bay 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 much aa
God loves you."
"God can't love me," said Andrew, 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 owa
BOBBRT FALCONER. 493
But long before that he had begun to get me ready to go after
you. He had put such love to you in my heart, and gave me
Buch teaching and such training, that. I have found you aV
last. And now I have found you, 1 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 im-
prisonment for life, I suppose. But thought was moving in
him. After a long pause, during which the son's heart waa
hungering for a word whereon to hang a further hope, the old
man spoke again, muttering as if he were only speaking hia
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 roofn. 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 hia
forehead.
" Father," he said, going up to him.
The old man stopped in his walk,, turned, and faced his
son
"Farther," repeated Robert, "you've got 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 tq
do anytMng there, only to moan and cry and suffer forever,
494 ROBERT FALCONER.
they think. It is eflFort, the outgoing 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 them-
selves ; 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 Kobert. "Gsd
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 inter-
rupted 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 witli
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,
ROBERT FALCONER. 495
not with them, but in them ; they are pluming themselves on
being selfish after a godly sort.
"I do believe the Bible, father," returned Kobert, ''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 LXVI.
CHANGE OF SCENE.
But. various reasons combined to induce Falconer to post-
pone 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 pos-
sible 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 labor 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,
4;)G ROBERT FALCONER.
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 por-
tals 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
commonplace 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 im-
possible.
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 writ-
ing you can do aa 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, especially 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 re-
turned.
" 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."
ROBERT I'ALCONEE.
45)7
'' Of course not. But what is it you hope I am not of hia
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
BO weak that he cannot spare the help of a weary man ? Bat
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 hia Father. I
told him, ' Yes, when his time was come, not sooner. Be-
sides, he often avoided both speech and action.' 'Yes.' ho
answered, ' but he could tell when, and we cannot.' ' There-
fore,' I rejoined, 'yon ought to accept your exhaustion as &
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 Fal-
coner, laughing. " Be at the Paddington Station at noon to-
morrow. To tell the whole truth, I want you to help me with
my father."
33
49S ROBERT FALCONER.
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 dresa
of decay.
"Is it not remarkable," said my friend to me, " that the
older I grow, I find autumn afiecting 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 tu-
multuous 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 mucli 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
BOBERT FALCONER. 499
the place felt close and torpid. Andrew complained that the
ceaseless sound wearied him, and Robert that he felt the aim-
less endlessness of it more than was good for him. I confess it
irritated me like an anodyne unable to soothe. We were
clear] j 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 un-
known. 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 peo^
pie 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
500 ROBERT FALCONER.
preach in Westminster Abbey, or teach a ragged class, so yo
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 be-
longing of right to the Falconer family, and that much relig-
ion 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 knowledge ; there is infi-
nite room for hope. Falconer said no more. We betook our-
selves early within doors, and he read King Lear to us, ex-
pounding the spiritual history of the poor old king after a
fashion I had never conceived, showing us how the said his-
tory 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 ofi" 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.
BOBBRT FALCONER. 501
CHAPTER LXVII.
IN THE COUNTRY.
The next morning Falconer, who knew the country, took
8 out for a drive. We passed through lanes and gates out
upon an open moor, where he stopped the carriage, and led ua
a few yards on one side. Suddenly, hundreds of feet below
Qs, 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
502 ROBERT FALCONER.
you one little poem containing an expression of the same Sow-
ing. 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 Silt 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 im-
pression 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 propor-
tion as we labor 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 dis-
ciples 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,
i' it does not quite answer to the question about which we
have been talking. The Lord got rid of the pain of the ugli-
ness by finding the beautiful in it."
" It does correspond, however, I think, in principle," re-
turned 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
ROBERT FALCONER. 503
and more powerful than ugliness, which is death. ' A dram
of sweet,' says Spencer, ' 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, iu
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
to(ether. 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. " 1
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 copld both see that this talk was not in the
least interesting to our companion. We got again into the
sarriage, which, by Falconer's orders, was turned and dilven
504 ROBERT FALCOJTER.
in the opposite direction, still at no great distance from tha
lotty 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 fre 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 imme-
diately 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 out-
side 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 murmyrous sound came up
from its shore.
We descended and seated ourselves on the short, springy
grass of a little mound at the loot of one of the hills, where it
ROBEKT FALCONBB. 505
ank 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 math-
ematical 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 noth- ;
ing more like Shelley's poetry than this valley, wildly fan- ,'
tastic 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 furtheij
on."
We rose, and walked out of the valley on the other side,
along the lofty coast. When we reached a certain point, Fal-
coner 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 th outline of it like? Whose face is
it?"
" Shakespeare's, by all that is grand ! " I cried.
" So it is," said Andrew.
" Eight. Now I'll tell you what I would do. If I were
very rich, and tiiere 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, if 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 m
506 ROBERT rALCONBH.
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 Westmin-
ster 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 act-
ually a little color 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 mother-
less 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-de-
struction," 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
bakers cart, and walked away to his club-dinner? Harsh
words of rebuke, and the thread 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 Venison, Port, & Co."
"But you mustn't be too hard upon him. Falconer; for if
bis god is his belly, how can he regard suicide as other than
the most awful sacrilege? "
ROBERT FALCONER. 50T
" Of course not. His well-fed divinity gives him one great
oommandment : ' 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 re-
flect on the fact that the good Belial does not feed all his vota-
ries ; that he has his elect ; that the altar of his inner-table 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 disre
pute."
" Eeally, 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. Fal-
coner gave a pleased glance at me, and for a mocaent 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 ij;s 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 under-
stand 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
508 AOBBRT FALCONER.
which all other duty springs, the duty to the possible God.
Mind I say possible God, for I judge it first of vaj duties
towards my neighbor 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
senteritiously of the wrong done to a society which has done
next to nothing for him, by the poor, starved, refused, hus-
band-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, 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 suffer-
ing 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 under-
stand 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
ftgonies a man must have gone through, in whom neither the
ROBERT FALOONBS. 509
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 ! "
"Bat," 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 nowadays, I
fear. We don't like hurting people."
" No. We are infested with a philanthropy which is the off-
spring 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 labors from all the aids
which Grod'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 overvaluing of the mere
life of the body. Hanging is tenderness itself to such a pun-
ishment."
" 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 in 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 be-
510 BOBERT FALCONER.
lieye their everlasting fate hangs upon their hands, for if God
once gets his hold of them by death they are lost forever.'
" 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 dis-
cipline 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
liksly 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 t
rouse in him feelings which are impossible to him in his pres
ent condition, is to do hiip a great wrong. The clergyman has
the message of salvation, not of sin, to give. Whatever oppres-
sion is on a man, whatever trouble, whatever conscious some-
thing 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 asnecessary to forgiveness. Repentance does not mean
sorrow ; it means turning away from the sins. Every mun 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 glim-
mer 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 Fal-
coner'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-stoiy ; anc
ROBRRT FALCONER. 51i
then Falconer talked as I never heard him talk before. No
little circumstance in the narratives appeared to have escaped
Eim. 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 ho 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.
AH 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
halfway 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 splendor 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 vapor 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
512 ROBERT FALCONER.
the sun aa 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 sor-
rowful, hopeless wind it seemed, full of the odors 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 over-
hung the shore far below. More here than from the hill-top
we seemed to look immediately into space, not even a parapet
intervening betwixt us and the ocean. The sound of a mourn-
ful 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 Re-,
quiescat. 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 radi-
ance 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 va-
porous edges. Some were of a dull, angry red ; some of as ex-
quisite 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 gloom-
ing horizon that it looked like an island, arose, as from a pier,
a wondrous structure of dim, fairy colors, a multitude of rain-
bow-ends, side by side, that would have spanned the heavens
with a gorgeous arch, but failed from the very grandeur of the
ROBERT FAICONBR. 613
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 colors, " 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
incloses 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 even-
ing compact of poet's 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 ua
again, colder, stronger, yet more laden with the odors 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 LXVIII.
THREE GBNBEATIONS.
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
33
514 ROBKRT FALCONER.
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 phys-
ical 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 iie
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,
md 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. Falcon-
er's feeling 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 parlor. 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,
vind there Tay the aged woman with her eyes closed. The
ROBERT FALCONER. 515
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 word 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 held!" 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 knew it a' the time, Lord. I knew it a' the time.
He's come hame. My Andrew, my Andrew ! I'm as happy's
a bairn. O Lord ! Lord ! "
And she burst again into sobs, and entered Paradise in ra-
diant weeping.
Her hands sank away from his head, and when her sod
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 ba
can?
016 KOBBRT FALCONER.
CHAPTER LXIX,
THE WHOLE STORY.
The men laid their mother's body with those of the gener
tions that had gone before her, beneath the long grass in their
country church-yard 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 lapped 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 ver-
sions. 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 moth-
er tongue :
" Come and luik at the place, father. I want to see 't
again, mysel'."
ROBERT FALCONER. 517
lie 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' thocht and
thocht what I wud 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 wid 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 gran-
nie'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 tri-
umph 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 thanks-
giving and his hope were equal.
'She prayer over, he took his father's hand and led him
down again to the little parlor, 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 cnt," he said,
parting the thick hair on the top of *his head.
His father hid his face in his hands.
" It wasna muokle 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
plastered it up, hoo I had gotten 't. And I didna mean tc
91b ROBERT FALCONER.
say onything aboot it ; but I wantit to tell you 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 behavior
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 make 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, if ye'll only lat him."
" I will, Robert."
"I was mysel' dreadfu' 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 lane, an' through the mirk comes the word o'
the mither o' 't, sayin', ' I'm hear, cratur ; dinna greit.' An'
I cam' to believe 'at he wad mak' you a good man at last.
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' thir.g for 's. An' noo ye maun
pray to God, father. Ye will pray to God to baud a grip o'
yo, 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 fount of memory was opened ; some tide of old tender-
ness gushed up in his heart; at some window of the past the
face of his dead wife looked in; the old man broke into a great
BOBBRT FALCONER. 519
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 speech-
less thanksgiving. The ideal of his dreams was beginning to
dawn, and his life was new-born.
It did not take Robert long to arrange his grandmother's
little aifairs. 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 you 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 know
Mistress Elshender ? "
" Fine that. , An' a verra dacent body she is."
" Weel, if ye like ye can baud this hoose, an' a' 'at's in 't,
jist as it is, till the day o' yer deith. And ye'U aye keep it in
order, an' the ga'le room ready for me at ony time I may hap-
pen to come in upo' ye in want o' a nicht's quarters. But
I wad like ye, if hae nae objections, to take Mistress Elshen-
der to bide wi' ye. She's turnin' some frail noo, and I'm
unner great obligation to her Sandy, ye know."
"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 gnde
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' when 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 know, 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' if onything suld happen to me, ye know, write to Mr.
Gordon, a frien' o' mine. There's his address in Lonnop ''
520
ROBERT FALCONBR.
" Eh, sir, but ye are kin'. God bless you 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 lift
lay in the shine of his father's yes when he entered the room
where he sat with Miss Lammie. The next day they left for
London.
CHAPTER LXX.
THE VANISHING.
Thbt 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 liis 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 ab-
solute 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 hyaena say I will be
a man, and become one. That would bo to create. Andrew
must be kept from the evil long enough to let him at least see
ROBERT FALCONER. 6il
the good, before Le was let alone. But when would wp 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, 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 per-
verted, 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 withont God, the fact
that he was in that pollution with such power must damn
him there forever. 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 fatJier 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 bad 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
cari'ied his flute with him, and the result of the two was some-
thing 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 witli 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 necea-
sary.
5l2 ROBERT FALOONIB.
One evening when I went to see Falconer, I found bin
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
hare 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 be-
lieves in it the most. My will is in the hands of Dobson. I
have left you evefy thing."
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 itind
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," 1
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 oom-
polled me to make the supposition "
SOBEKT FALCONEB. 523
" Of course. Go on."
" What am I to do with the money in the prospect of fol-
lowing you?"
" Ah ! that is the one point on which I want a word, al-
though 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 h
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 gayety 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 tliem on
board the steamer. I stayed with them there until she sailed.
It was a lovely morning in the end of April, when at last I
524 EOBBKT FALCONEE.
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 part-
ing.
The great iron steamer went down in the middle of the Atlantic,
and I have not yet seen my friend again.