( PDF ) Robert Falconer

Download PDF

ads:

Robert Falconer

George MacDonald

The Project Gutenberg Etext Robert Falconer, by George MacDonald

#10 in our series by Robert Falconer, by George MacDonald

the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!!

Please take a look at the important information in this header.

We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an

electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this.

**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**

**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**

*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations*

Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and

further information is included below. We need your donations.

Title: Robert Falconer

Author: George MacDonald

March, 2001 [Etext #2561]

The Project Gutenberg Etext Robert Falconer, by George MacDonald

******This file should be named rflcn10.txt or rflcn10.zip******

Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, rflcn11.txt

VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, rflcn10a.txt

This electronic text was created by John Bechard, London, England

(JaBBechar[email protected])

Project Gutenberg Etexts are usually created from multiple editions,

all of which are in the Public Domain in the United States, unless a

of these books in compliance with any particular paper edition.

We are now trying to release all our books one month in advance

of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing.

Please note: neither this list nor its contents are final till

midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.

The official release date of all Project Gutenberg Etexts is at

Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A

ads:

Livros Grátis

http://www.livrosgratis.com.br

Milhares de livros grátis para download.

preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment

and editing by those who wish to do so. To be sure you have an

up to date first edition [xxxxx10x.xxx] please check file sizes

in the first week of the next month. Since our ftp program has

a bug in it that scrambles the date [tried to fix and failed] a

look at the file size will have to do, but we will try to see a

new copy has at least one byte more or less.

Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)

We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The

time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours

to get any etext selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright

searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. This

projected audience is one hundred million readers. If our value

per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2

million dollars per hour this year as we release thirty-six text

files per month, or 432 more Etexts in 1999 for a total of 2000+

If these reach just 10% of the computerized population, then the

total should reach over 200 billion Etexts given away this year.

The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away One Trillion Etext

Files by December 31, 2001. [10,000 x 100,000,000 = 1 Trillion]

This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,

which is only ~5% of the present number of computer users.

At our revised rates of production, we will reach only one-third

of that goal by the end of 2001, or about 3,333 Etexts unless we

manage to get some real funding; currently our funding is mostly

from Michael Hart's salary at Carnegie-Mellon University, and an

assortment of sporadic gifts; this salary is only good for a few

more years, so we are looking for something to replace it, as we

don't want Project Gutenberg to be so dependent on one person.

We need your donations more than ever!

All donations should be made to "Project Gutenberg/CMU": and are

tax deductible to the extent allowable by law. (CMU = Carnegie-

Mellon University).

For these and other matters, please mail to:

Project Gutenberg

P. O. Box 2782

Champaign, IL 61825

When all other email fails. . .try our Executive Director:

Michael S. Hart <[email protected]m>

[email protected] forwards to hart@prairienet.org and archive.org

if your mail bounces from archive.org, I will still see it, if

it bounces from prairienet.org, better resend later on. . . .

We would prefer to send you this information by email.

******

To access Project Gutenberg etexts, use any Web browser

ads:

to view http://promo.net/pg. This site lists Etexts by

author and by title, and includes information about how

to get involved with Project Gutenberg. You could also

download our past Newsletters, or subscribe here. This

is one of our major sites, please email hart@pobox.com,

for a more complete list of our various sites.

To go directly to the etext collections, use FTP or any

Web browser to visit a Project Gutenberg mirror (mirror

sites are available on 7 continents; mirrors are listed

at http://promo.net/pg).

Mac users, do NOT point and click, typing works better.

Example FTP session:

ftp sunsite.unc.edu

password: your@login

cd pub/docs/books/gutenberg

cd etext90 through etext99

dir [to see files]

get or mget [to get files. . .set bin for zip files]

GET GUTINDEX.?? [to get a year's listing of books, e.g., GUTINDEX.99]

GET GUTINDEX.ALL [to get a listing of ALL books]

***

**Information prepared by the Project Gutenberg legal advisor**

(Three Pages)

***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS**START***

Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers.

They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with

your copy of this etext, even if you got it for free from

someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our

fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement

disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how

you can distribute copies of this etext if you want to.

*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS ETEXT

By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm

etext, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept

this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive

a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this etext by

sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person

you got it from. If you received this etext on a physical

medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.

ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM ETEXTS

This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-

tm etexts, is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor

Michael S. Hart through the Project Gutenberg Association at

Carnegie-Mellon University (the "Project"). Among other

things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright

on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and

distribute it in the United States without permission and

without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth

below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this etext

under the Project's "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.

To create these etexts, the Project expends considerable

efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain

works. Despite these efforts, the Project's etexts and any

medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other

things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or

corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other

intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged

disk or other etext medium, a computer virus, or computer

codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES

But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,

[1] the Project (and any other party you may receive this

etext from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext) disclaims all

liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including

legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR

UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,

INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE

OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE

POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.

If you discover a Defect in this etext within 90 days of

receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)

you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that

time to the person you received it from. If you received it

on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and

such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement

copy. If you received it electronically, such person may

choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to

receive it electronically.

THIS ETEXT IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER

WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS

TO THE ETEXT OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT

LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A

PARTICULAR PURPOSE.

Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or

the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the

above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you

may have other legal rights.

INDEMNITY

You will indemnify and hold the Project, its directors,

officers, members and agents harmless from all liability, cost

and expense, including legal fees, that arise directly or

indirectly from any of the following that you do or cause:

[1] distribution of this etext, [2] alteration, modification,

or addition to the etext, or [3] any Defect.

DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"

You may distribute copies of this etext electronically, or by

disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this

"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg,

or:

[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this

requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the

etext or this "small print!" statement. You may however,

if you wish, distribute this etext in machine readable

binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,

including any form resulting from conversion by word pro-

cessing or hypertext software, but only so long as

*EITHER*:

[*] The etext, when displayed, is clearly readable, and

does *not* contain characters other than those

intended by the author of the work, although tilde

(~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may

be used to convey punctuation intended by the

author, and additional characters may be used to

indicate hypertext links; OR

[*] The etext may be readily converted by the reader at

no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent

form by the program that displays the etext (as is

the case, for instance, with most word processors);

[*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at

no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the

etext in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC

or other equivalent proprietary form).

[2] Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this

"Small Print!" statement.

[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Project of 20% of the

net profits you derive calculated using the method you

already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you

don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are

payable to "Project Gutenberg Association/Carnegie-Mellon

University" within the 60 days following each

date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare)

your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return.

WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?

The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time,

scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty

free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution

you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg

Association / Carnegie-Mellon University".

We are planning on making some changes in our donation structure

in 2000, so you might want to email me, hart@pobox.com beforehand.

*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END*

This electronic text was created by John Bechard, London, England

(JaBBechar[email protected])

ROBERT FALCONER

by GEORGE MACDONALD, LL.D.

Note from electronic text creator: I have compiled a glossary with

definitions of most of the Scottish words found in this work and

placed it at the end of this electronic text. This glossary does

not belong to the original work, but is designed to help with the

conversations and references in Broad Scots found in this work. A

further explanation of this list can be found towards the end of

this document, preceding the glossary.

Any notes that I have made in the text (e.g. relating to Greek words

in the text) have been enclosed in {} brackets.

THE MEMORY

OF THE MAN WHO

STANDS HIGHEST IN THE ORATORY

OF MY MEMORY,

ALEXANDER JOHN SCOTT,

I, DARING, PRESUME TO DEDICATE THIS BOOK.

PART I.--HIS BOYHOOD.

CHAPTER I.

A RECOLLECTION.

Robert Falconer, school-boy, aged fourteen, thought he had never

seen his father; that is, thought he had no recollection of having

ever seen him. But the moment when my story begins, he had begun to

doubt whether his belief in the matter was correct. And, as he went

on thinking, he became more and more assured that he had seen his

father somewhere about six years before, as near as a thoughtful boy

of his age could judge of the lapse of a period that would form half

of that portion of his existence which was bound into one by the

reticulations of memory.

For there dawned upon his mind the vision of one Sunday afternoon.

Betty had gone to church, and he was alone with his grandmother,

reading The Pilgrim's Progress to her, when, just as Christian

knocked at the wicket-gate, a tap came to the street door, and he

went to open it. There he saw a tall, somewhat haggard-looking man,

in a shabby black coat (the vision gradually dawned upon him till it

reached the minuteness of all these particulars), his hat pulled

down on to his projecting eyebrows, and his shoes very dusty, as

with a long journey on foot--it was a hot Sunday, he remembered

that--who looked at him very strangely, and without a word pushed

him aside, and went straight into his grandmother's parlour,

shutting the door behind him. He followed, not doubting that the

man must have a right to go there, but questioning very much his

right to shut him out. When he reached the door, however, he found

it bolted; and outside he had to stay all alone, in the desolate

remainder of the house, till Betty came home from church.

He could even recall, as he thought about it, how drearily the

afternoon had passed. First he had opened the street door, and

stood in it. There was nothing alive to be seen, except a sparrow

picking up crumbs, and he would not stop till he was tired of him.

The Royal Oak, down the street to the right, had not even a

horseless gig or cart standing before it; and King Charles, grinning

awfully in its branches on the signboard, was invisible from the

distance at which he stood. In at the other end of the empty

street, looked the distant uplands, whose waving corn and grass were

likewise invisible, and beyond them rose one blue truncated peak in

the distance, all of them wearily at rest this weary Sabbath day.

However, there was one thing than which this was better, and that

was being at church, which, to this boy at least, was the very fifth

essence of dreariness.

He closed the door and went into the kitchen. That was nearly as

bad. The kettle was on the fire, to be sure, in anticipation of

tea; but the coals under it were black on the top, and it made only

faint efforts, after immeasurable intervals of silence, to break

into a song, giving a hum like that of a bee a mile off, and then

relapsing into hopeless inactivity. Having just had his dinner, he

was not hungry enough to find any resource in the drawer where the

oatcakes lay, and, unfortunately, the old wooden clock in the corner

was going, else there would have been some amusement in trying to

torment it into demonstrations of life, as he had often done in less

desperate circumstances than the present. At last he went up-stairs

to the very room in which he now was, and sat down upon the floor,

just as he was sitting now. He had not even brought his Pilgrim's

Progress with him from his grandmother's room. But, searching about

in all holes and corners, he at length found Klopstock's Messiah

translated into English, and took refuge there till Betty came home.

Nor did he go down till she called him to tea, when, expecting to

join his grandmother and the stranger, he found, on the contrary,

that he was to have his tea with Betty in the kitchen, after which

he again took refuge with Klopstock in the garret, and remained

there till it grew dark, when Betty came in search of him, and put

him to bed in the gable-room, and not in his usual chamber. In the

morning, every trace of the visitor had vanished, even to the thorn

stick which he had set down behind the door as he entered.

All this Robert Falconer saw slowly revive on the palimpsest of his

memory, as he washed it with the vivifying waters of recollection.

CHAPTER II.

A VISITOR.

It was a very bare little room in which the boy sat, but it was his

favourite retreat. Behind the door, in a recess, stood an empty

bedstead, without even a mattress upon it. This was the only piece

of furniture in the room, unless some shelves crowded with papers

tied up in bundles, and a cupboard in the wall, likewise filled with

papers, could be called furniture. There was no carpet on the

floor, no windows in the walls. The only light came from the door,

and from a small skylight in the sloping roof, which showed that it

was a garret-room. Nor did much light come from the open door, for

there was no window on the walled stair to which it opened; only

opposite the door a few steps led up into another garret, larger,

but with a lower roof, unceiled, and perforated with two or three

holes, the panes of glass filling which were no larger than the

small blue slates which covered the roof: from these panes a little

dim brown light tumbled into the room where the boy sat on the

floor, with his head almost between his knees, thinking.

But there was less light than usual in the room now, though it was

only half-past two o'clock, and the sun would not set for more than

half-an-hour yet; for if Robert had lifted his head and looked up,

it would have been at, not through, the skylight. No sky was to be

seen. A thick covering of snow lay over the glass. A partial thaw,

followed by frost, had fixed it there--a mass of imperfect cells and

confused crystals. It was a cold place to sit in, but the boy had

some faculty for enduring cold when it was the price to be paid for

solitude. And besides, when he fell into one of his thinking moods,

he forgot, for a season, cold and everything else but what he was

thinking about--a faculty for which he was to be envied.

If he had gone down the stair, which described half the turn of a

screw in its descent, and had crossed the landing to which it

brought him, he could have entered another bedroom, called the gable

or rather ga'le room, equally at his service for retirement; but,

though carpeted and comfortably furnished, and having two windows at

right angles, commanding two streets, for it was a corner house, the

boy preferred the garret-room--he could not tell why. Possibly,

windows to the streets were not congenial to the meditations in

which, even now, as I have said, the boy indulged.

These meditations, however, though sometimes as abstruse, if not so

continuous, as those of a metaphysician--for boys are not

unfrequently more given to metaphysics than older people are able

or, perhaps, willing to believe--were not by any means confined to

such subjects: castle-building had its full share in the occupation

of those lonely hours; and for this exercise of the constructive

faculty, what he knew, or rather what he did not know, of his own

history gave him scope enough, nor was his brain slow in supplying

him with material corresponding in quantity to the space afforded.

His mother had been dead for so many years that he had only the

vaguest recollections of her tenderness, and none of her person.

All he was told of his father was that he had gone abroad. His

grandmother would never talk about him, although he was her own son.

When the boy ventured to ask a question about where he was, or when

he would return, she always replied--'Bairns suld haud their

tongues.' Nor would she vouchsafe another answer to any question

that seemed to her from the farthest distance to bear down upon that

subject. 'Bairns maun learn to haud their tongues,' was the sole

variation of which the response admitted. And the boy did learn to

hold his tongue. Perhaps he would have thought less about his

father if he had had brothers or sisters, or even if the nature of

his grandmother had been such as to admit of their relationship

being drawn closer--into personal confidence, or some measure of

familiarity. How they stood with regard to each other will soon

appear.

Whether the visions vanished from his brain because of the

thickening of his blood with cold, or he merely acted from one of

those undefined and inexplicable impulses which occasion not a few

of our actions, I cannot tell, but all at once Robert started to his

feet and hurried from the room. At the foot of the garret stair,

between it and the door of the gable-room already mentioned, stood

another door at right angles to both, of the existence of which the

boy was scarcely aware, simply because he had seen it all his life

and had never seen it open. Turning his back on this last door,

which he took for a blind one, he went down a short broad stair, at

the foot of which was a window. He then turned to the left into a

long flagged passage or transe, passed the kitchen door on the one

hand, and the double-leaved street door on the other; but, instead

of going into the parlour, the door of which closed the transe, he

stopped at the passage-window on the right, and there stood looking

out.

What might be seen from this window certainly could not be called a

very pleasant prospect. A broad street with low houses of cold gray

stone is perhaps as uninteresting a form of street as any to be

found in the world, and such was the street Robert looked out upon.

Not a single member of the animal creation was to be seen in it,

not a pair of eyes to be discovered looking out at any of the

windows opposite. The sole motion was the occasional drift of a

vapour-like film of white powder, which the wind would lift like

dust from the snowy carpet that covered the street, and wafting it

along for a few yards, drop again to its repose, till another

stronger gust, prelusive of the wind about to rise at sun-down,--a

wind cold and bitter as death--would rush over the street, and raise

a denser cloud of the white water-dust to sting the face of any

improbable person who might meet it in its passage. It was a keen,

knife-edged frost, even in the house, and what Robert saw to make

him stand at the desolate window, I do not know, and I believe he

could not himself have told. There he did stand, however, for the

space of five minutes or so, with nothing better filling his outer

eyes at least than a bald spot on the crown of the street, whence

the wind had swept away the snow, leaving it brown and bare, a spot

of March in the middle of January.

He heard the town drummer in the distance, and let the sound invade

his passive ears, till it crossed the opening of the street, and

vanished 'down the town.'

'There's Dooble Sanny,' he said to himself--'wi' siccan cauld han's,

'at he's playin' upo' the drum-heid as gin he was loupin' in a bowie

(leaping in a cask).'

Then he stood silent once more, with a look as if anything would be

welcome to break the monotony.

While he stood a gentle timorous tap came to the door, so gentle

indeed that Betty in the kitchen did not hear it, or she, tall and

Roman-nosed as she was, would have answered it before the

long-legged dreamer could have reached the door, though he was not

above three yards from it. In lack of anything better to do, Robert

stalked to the summons. As he opened the door, these words greeted

him:

'Is Robert at--eh! it's Bob himsel'! Bob, I'm byous (exceedingly)

cauld.'

'What for dinna ye gang hame, than?'

'What for wasna ye at the schuil the day?'

'I spier ae queston at you, and ye answer me wi' anither.'

'Weel, I hae nae hame to gang till.'

'Weel, and I had a sair heid (a headache). But whaur's yer hame

gane till than?'

'The hoose is there a' richt, but whaur my mither is I dinna ken.

The door's lockit, an' Jeames Jaup, they tell me 's tane awa' the

key. I doobt my mither's awa' upo' the tramp again, and what's to

come o' me, the Lord kens.'

'What's this o' 't?' interposed a severe but not unmelodious voice,

breaking into the conversation between the two boys; for the parlour

door had opened without Robert's hearing it, and Mrs. Falconer, his

grandmother, had drawn near to the speakers.

'What's this o' 't?' she asked again. 'Wha's that ye're conversin'

wi' at the door, Robert? Gin it be ony decent laddie, tell him to

come in, and no stan' at the door in sic a day 's this.'

As Robert hesitated with his reply, she looked round the open half

of the door, but no sooner saw with whom he was talking than her

tone changed. By this time Betty, wiping her hands in her apron,

had completed the group by taking her stand in the kitchen door.

'Na, na,' said Mrs. Falconer. 'We want nane sic-like here. What

does he want wi' you, Robert? Gie him a piece, Betty, and lat him

gang.--Eh, sirs! the callant hasna a stockin'-fit upo' 'im--and in

sic weather!'

For, before she had finished her speech, the visitor, as if in

terror of her nearer approach, had turned his back, and literally

showed her, if not a clean pair of heels, yet a pair of naked heels

from between the soles and uppers of his shoes: if he had any

stockings at all, they ceased before they reached his ankles.

'What ails him at me?' continued Mrs. Falconer, 'that he rins as gin

I war a boodie? But it's nae wonner he canna bide the sicht o' a

decent body, for he's no used till 't. What does he want wi' you,

Robert?'

But Robert had a reason for not telling his grandmother what the boy

had told him: he thought the news about his mother would only make

her disapprove of him the more. In this he judged wrong. He did

not know his grandmother yet.

'He's in my class at the schuil,' said Robert, evasively.

'Him? What class, noo?'

Robert hesitated one moment, but, compelled to give some answer,

said, with confidence,

'The Bible-class.'

'I thocht as muckle! What gars ye play at hide and seek wi' me? Do

ye think I dinna ken weel eneuch there's no a lad or a lass at the

schuil but 's i' the Bible-class? What wants he here?'

'Ye hardly gae him time to tell me, grannie. Ye frichtit him.'

'Me fricht him! What for suld I fricht him, laddie? I'm no sic

ferlie (wonder) that onybody needs be frichtit at me.'

The old lady turned with visible, though by no means profound

offence upon her calm forehead, and walking back into her parlour,

where Robert could see the fire burning right cheerily, shut the

door, and left him and Betty standing together in the transe. The

latter returned to the kitchen, to resume the washing of the

dinner-dishes; and the former returned to his post at the window.

He had not stood more than half a minute, thinking what was to be

done with his school-fellow deserted of his mother, when the sound

of a coach-horn drew his attention to the right, down the street,

where he could see part of the other street which crossed it at

right angles, and in which the gable of the house stood. A minute

after, the mail came in sight--scarlet, spotted with snow--and

disappeared, going up the hill towards the chief hostelry of the

town, as fast as four horses, tired with the bad footing they had

had through the whole of the stage, could draw it after them. By

this time the twilight was falling; for though the sun had not yet

set, miles of frozen vapour came between him and this part of the

world, and his light was never very powerful so far north at this

season of the year.

Robert turned into the kitchen, and began to put on his shoes. He

had made up his mind what to do.

'Ye're never gaein' oot, Robert?' said Betty, in a hoarse tone of

expostulation.

''Deed am I, Betty. What for no?'

'You 'at's been in a' day wi' a sair heid! I'll jist gang benn the

hoose and tell the mistress, and syne we'll see what she'll please

to say till 't.'

'Ye'll do naething o' the kin', Betty. Are ye gaein' to turn

clash-pyet (tell-tale) at your age?'

'What ken ye aboot my age? There's never a man-body i' the toon

kens aught aboot my age.'

'It's ower muckle for onybody to min' upo' (remember), is 't,

Betty?'

'Dinna be ill-tongued, Robert, or I'll jist gang benn the hoose to

the mistress.'

'Betty, wha began wi' bein' ill-tongued? Gin ye tell my grandmither

that I gaed oot the nicht, I'll gang to the schuilmaister o'

Muckledrum, and get a sicht o' the kirstenin' buik; an' gin yer name

binna there, I'll tell ilkabody I meet 'at oor Betty was never

kirstened; and that'll be a sair affront, Betty.'

'Hoot! was there ever sic a laddie!' said Betty, attempting to laugh

it off. 'Be sure ye be back afore tay-time, 'cause yer grannie 'ill

be speirin' efter ye, and ye wadna hae me lee aboot ye?'

'I wad hae naebody lee about me. Ye jist needna lat on 'at ye hear

her. Ye can be deif eneuch when ye like, Betty. But I s' be back

afore tay-time, or come on the waur.'

Betty, who was in far greater fear of her age being discovered than

of being unchristianized in the search, though the fact was that she

knew nothing certain about the matter, and had no desire to be

enlightened, feeling as if she was thus left at liberty to hint what

she pleased,--Betty, I say, never had any intention of going 'benn

the hoose to the mistress.' For the threat was merely the rod of

terror which she thought it convenient to hold over the back of the

boy, whom she always supposed to be about some mischief except he

were in her own presence and visibly reading a book: if he were

reading aloud, so much the better. But Robert likewise kept a rod

for his defence, and that was Betty's age, which he had discovered

to be such a precious secret that one would have thought her virtue

depended in some cabalistic manner upon the concealment of it. And,

certainly, nature herself seemed to favour Betty's weakness, casting

such a mist about the number of her years as the goddesses of old

were wont to cast about a wounded favourite; for some said Betty was

forty, others said she was sixty-five, and, in fact, almost

everybody who knew her had a different belief on the matter.

By this time Robert had conquered the difficulty of induing boots as

hard as a thorough wetting and as thorough a drying could make them,

and now stood prepared to go. His object in setting out was to find

the boy whom his grandmother had driven from the door with a hastier

and more abject flight than she had in the least intended. But, if

his grandmother should miss him, as Betty suggested, and inquire

where he had been, what was he to say? He did not mind misleading

his grannie, but he had a great objection to telling her a lie. His

grandmother herself delivered him from this difficulty.

'Robert, come here,' she called from the parlour door. And Robert

obeyed.

'Is 't dingin' on, Robert?' she asked.

'No, grannie; it's only a starnie o' drift.'

The meaning of this was that there was no fresh snow falling, or

beating on, only a little surface snow blowing about.

'Weel, jist pit yer shune on, man, and rin up to Miss Naper's upo'

the Squaur, and say to Miss Naper, wi' my compliments, that I wad be

sair obleeged till her gin she wad len' me that fine receipt o' hers

for crappit heids, and I'll sen' 't back safe the morn's mornin'.

Rin, noo.'

This commission fell in admirably with Robert's plans, and he

started at once.

CHAPTER III.

THE BOAR'S HEAD.

Miss Napier was the eldest of three maiden sisters who kept the

principal hostelry of Rothieden, called The Boar's Head; from which,

as Robert reached the square in the dusk, the mail-coach was moving

away with a fresh quaternion of horses. He found a good many boxes

standing upon the pavement close by the archway that led to the

inn-yard, and around them had gathered a group of loungers, not too

cold to be interested. These were looking towards the windows of

the inn, where the owner of the boxes had evidently disappeared.

'Saw ye ever sic a sicht in oor toon afore!' said Dooble Sanny, as

people generally called him, his name being Alexander Alexander,

pronounced, by those who chose to speak of him with the ordinary

respect due from one mortal to another, Sandy Elshender. Double

Sandy was a soutar, or shoemaker, remarkable for his love of sweet

sounds and whisky. He was, besides, the town-crier, who went about

with a drum at certain hours of the morning and evening, like a

perambulating clock, and also made public announcements of sales,

losses, &c.; for the rest--a fierce, fighting fellow when in anger

or in drink, which latter included the former.

'What's the sicht, Sandy?' asked Robert, coming up with his hands in

the pockets of his trowsers.

'Sic a sicht as ye never saw, man,' returned Sandy; 'the bonniest

leddy ever man set his ee upo'. I culd na hae thocht there had been

sic a woman i' this warl'.'

'Hoot, Sandy!' said Robert, 'a body wad think she was tint (lost)

and ye had the cryin' o' her. Speyk laicher, man; she'll maybe hear

ye. Is she i' the inn there?'

'Ay is she,' answered Sandy. 'See sic a warl' o' kists as she's

brocht wi' her,' he continued, pointing towards the pile of luggage.

'Saw ye ever sic a bourach (heap)? It jist blecks (beats) me to

think what ae body can du wi' sae mony kists. For I mayna doobt but

there's something or ither in ilka ane o' them. Naebody wad carry

aboot toom (empty) kists wi' them. I cannot mak' it oot.'

The boxes might well surprise Sandy, if we may draw any conclusions

from the fact that the sole implement of personal adornment which he

possessed was two inches of a broken comb, for which he had to

search when he happened to want it, in the drawer of his stool,

among awls, lumps of rosin for his violin, masses of the same

substance wrought into shoemaker's wax for his ends, and packets of

boar's bristles, commonly called birse, for the same.

'Are thae a' ae body's?' asked Robert.

'Troth are they. They're a' hers, I wat. Ye wad hae thocht she had

been gaein' to The Bothie; but gin she had been that, there wad hae

been a cairriage to meet her,' said Crookit Caumill, the ostler.

The Bothie was the name facetiously given by Alexander, Baron

Rothie, son of the Marquis of Boarshead, to a house he had built in

the neighbourhood, chiefly for the accommodation of his bachelor

friends from London during the shooting-season.

'Haud yer tongue, Caumill,' said the shoemaker. 'She's nae sic

cattle, yon.'

'Haud up the bit bowat (stable-lantern), man, and lat Robert here

see the direction upo' them. Maybe he'll mak' something o't. He's

a fine scholar, ye ken,' said another of the bystanders.

The ostler held the lantern to the card upon one of the boxes, but

Robert found only an M., followed by something not very definite,

and a J., which might have been an I., Rothieden, Driftshire,

Scotland.

As he was not immediate with his answer, Peter Lumley, one of the

group, a lazy ne'er-do-weel, who had known better days, but never

better manners, and was seldom quite drunk, and seldomer still quite

sober, struck in with,

'Ye dinna ken a' thing yet, ye see, Robbie.'

>From Sandy this would have been nothing but a good-humoured attempt

at facetiousness. From Lumley it meant spite, because Robert's

praise was in his ears.

'I dinna preten' to ken ae hair mair than ye do yersel', Mr. Lumley;

and that's nae sayin' muckle, surely,' returned Robert, irritated at

his tone more than at his words.

The bystanders laughed, and Lumley flew into a rage.

'Haud yer ill tongue, ye brat,' he said. 'Wha' are ye to mak' sic

remarks upo' yer betters? A'body kens yer gran'father was naething

but the blin' piper o' Portcloddie.'

This was news to Robert--probably false, considering the quarter

whence it came. But his mother-wit did not forsake him.

'Weel, Mr. Lumley,' he answered, 'didna he pipe weel? Daur ye tell

me 'at he didna pipe weel?--as weel's ye cud hae dune 't yersel',

noo, Mr. Lumley?'

The laugh again rose at Lumley's expense, who was well known to have

tried his hand at most things, and succeeded in nothing. Dooble

Sanny was especially delighted.

'De'il hae ye for a de'il's brat! 'At I suld sweer!' was all

Lumley's reply, as he sought to conceal his mortification by

attempting to join in the laugh against himself. Robert seized the

opportunity of turning away and entering the house.

'That ane's no to be droont or brunt aither,' said Lumley, as he

disappeared.

'He'll no be hang't for closin' your mou', Mr. Lumley,' said the

shoemaker.

Thereupon Lumley turned and followed Robert into the inn.

Robert had delivered his message to Miss Napier, who sat in an

arm-chair by the fire, in a little comfortable parlour, held sacred

by all about the house. She was paralytic, and unable to attend to

her guests further than by giving orders when anything especial was

referred to her decision. She was an old lady--nearly as old as

Mrs. Falconer--and wore glasses, but they could not conceal the

kindness of her kindly eyes. Probably from giving less heed to a

systematic theology, she had nothing of that sternness which first

struck a stranger on seeing Robert's grandmother. But then she did

not know what it was to be contradicted; and if she had been

married, and had had sons, perhaps a sternness not dissimilar might

have shown itself in her nature.

'Noo ye maunna gang awa' till ye get something,' she said, after

taking the receipt in request from a drawer within her reach, and

laying it upon the table. But ere she could ring the bell which

stood by her side, one of her servants came in.

'Please, mem,' she said, 'Miss Letty and Miss Lizzy's seein' efter

the bonny leddy; and sae I maun come to you.'

'Is she a' that bonny, Meg?' asked her mistress.

'Na, na, she's nae sae fearsome bonny; but Miss Letty's unco ta'en

wi' her, ye ken. An' we a' say as Miss Letty says i' this hoose.

But that's no the pint. Mr. Lumley's here, seekin' a gill: is he

to hae't?'

'Has he had eneuch already, do ye think, Meg?'

'I dinna ken aboot eneuch, mem; that's ill to mizzer; but I dinna

think he's had ower muckle.'

'Weel, lat him tak' it. But dinna lat him sit doon.'

'Verra weel, mem,' said Meg, and departed.

'What gars Mr. Lumley say 'at my gran'father was the blin' piper o'

Portcloddie? Can ye tell me, Miss Naper?' asked Robert.

'Whan said he that, Robert?'

'Jist as I cam in.'

Miss Napier rang the bell. Another maid appeared.

'Sen' Meg here direckly.'

Meg came, her eyes full of interrogation.

'Dinna gie Lumley a drap. Set him up to insult a young gentleman at

my door-cheek! He s' no hae a drap here the nicht. He 's had ower

muckle, Meg, already, an' ye oucht to hae seen that.'

''Deed, mem, he 's had mair than ower muckle, than; for there's

anither gill ower the thrapple o' 'm. I div my best, mem, but,

never tastin' mysel', I canna aye tell hoo muckle 's i' the wame o'

a' body 'at comes in.'

'Ye're no fit for the place, Meg; that's a fac'.'

At this charge Meg took no offence, for she had been in the place

for twenty years. And both mistress and maid laughed the moment

they parted company.

'Wha's this 'at's come the nicht, Miss Naper, 'at they're sae ta'en

wi'?' asked Robert.

'Atweel, I dinna ken yet. She's ower bonnie by a' accoonts to be

gaein' about her lane (alone). It's a mercy the baron's no at hame.

I wad hae to lock her up wi' the forks and spunes.'

'What for that?' asked Robert.

But Miss Napier vouchsafed no further explanation. She stuffed his

pockets with sweet biscuits instead, dismissed him in haste, and

rang the bell.

'Meg, whaur hae they putten the stranger-leddy?'

'She's no gaein' to bide at our hoose, mem.'

'What say ye, lass? She's never gaein' ower to Lucky Happit's, is

she?'

'Ow na, mem. She's a leddy, ilka inch o' her. But she's some sib

(relation) to the auld captain, and she's gaein' doon the street as

sune's Caumill's ready to tak her bit boxes i' the barrow. But I

doobt there'll be maist three barrowfu's o' them.'

'Atweel. Ye can gang.'

CHAPTER IV.

SHARGAR.

Robert went out into the thin drift, and again crossing the wide

desolate-looking square, turned down an entry leading to a kind of

court, which had once been inhabited by a well-to-do class of the

townspeople, but had now fallen in estimation. Upon a stone at the

door of what seemed an outhouse he discovered the object of his

search.

'What are ye sittin' there for, Shargar?'

Shargar is a word of Gaelic origin, applied, with some sense of the

ridiculous, to a thin, wasted, dried-up creature. In the present

case it was the nickname by which the boy was known at school; and,

indeed, where he was known at all.

'What are ye sittin' there for, Shargar? Did naebody offer to tak

ye in?'

'Na, nane o' them. I think they maun be a' i' their beds. I'm most

dreidfu' cauld.'

The fact was, that Shargar's character, whether by imputation from

his mother, or derived from his own actions, was none of the best.

The consequence was, that, although scarcely one of the neighbours

would have allowed him to sit there all night, each was willing to

wait yet a while, in the hope that somebody else's humanity would

give in first, and save her from the necessity of offering him a

seat by the fireside, and a share of the oatmeal porridge which

probably would be scanty enough for her own household. For it must

be borne in mind that all the houses in the place were occupied by

poor people, with whom the one virtue, Charity, was, in a measure,

at home, and amidst many sins, cardinal and other, managed to live

in even some degree of comfort.

'Get up, than, Shargar, ye lazy beggar! Or are ye frozen to the

door-stane? I s' awa' for a kettle o' bilin' water to lowse ye.'

'Na, na, Bob. I'm no stucken. I'm only some stiff wi' the cauld;

for wow, but I am cauld!' said Shargar, rising with difficulty. 'Gie

's a haud o' yer han', Bob.'

Robert gave him his hand, and Shargar was straightway upon his feet.

'Come awa' noo, as fest and as quaiet 's ye can.'

'What are ye gaein' to du wi' me, Bob?'

'What's that to you, Shargar?'

'Naything. Only I wad like to ken.'

'Hae patience, and ye will ken. Only mind ye do as I tell ye, and

dinna speik a word.'

Shargar followed in silence.

On the way Robert remembered that Miss Napier had not, after all,

given him the receipt for which his grandmother had sent him. So he

returned to The Boar's Head, and, while he went in, left Shargar in

the archway, to shiver, and try in vain to warm his hands by the

alternate plans of slapping them on the opposite arms, and hiding

them under them.

When Robert came out, he saw a man talking to him under the lamp.

The moment his eyes fell upon the two, he was struck by a

resemblance between them. Shargar was right under the lamp, the man

to the side of it, so that Shargar was shadowed by its frame, and

the man was in its full light. The latter turned away, and passing

Robert, went into the inn.

'Wha's that?' asked Robert.

'I dinna ken,' answered Shargar. 'He spak to me or ever I kent he

was there, and garred my hert gie sic a loup 'at it maist fell into

my breeks.'

'And what said he to ye?'

'He said was the deevil at my lug, that I did naething but caw my

han's to bits upo' my shoothers.'

'And what said ye to that?'

'I said I wissed he was, for he wad aiblins hae some spare heat

aboot him, an' I hadna freely (quite) eneuch.'

'Weel dune, Shargar! What said he to that?'

'He leuch, and speirt gin I wad list, and gae me a shillin'.'

'Ye didna tak it, Shargar?' asked Robert in some alarm.

'Ay did I. Catch me no taking a shillin'!'

'But they'll haud ye till 't.'

'Na, na. I'm ower shochlin' (in-kneed) for a sodger. But that man

was nae sodger.'

'And what mair said he?'

'He speirt what I wad do wi' the shillin'.'

'And what said ye?'

'Ow! syne ye cam' oot, and he gaed awa'.'

'And ye dinna ken wha it was?' repeated Robert.

'It was some like my brither, Lord Sandy; but I dinna ken,' said

Shargar.

By this time they had arrived at Yule the baker's shop.

'Bide ye here,' said Robert, who happened to possess a few coppers,

'till I gang into Eel's.'

Shargar stood again and shivered at the door, till Robert came out

with a penny loaf in one hand, and a twopenny loaf in the other.

'Gie's a bit, Bob,' said Shargar. 'I'm as hungry as I am cauld.'

'Bide ye still,' returned Robert. 'There's a time for a' thing, and

your time 's no come to forgather wi' this loaf yet. Does na it

smell fine? It's new frae the bakehoose no ten minutes ago. I ken

by the fin' (feel) o' 't.'

'Lat me fin' 't,' said Shargar, stretching out one hand, and feeling

his shilling with the other.

'Na. Yer han's canna be clean. And fowk suld aye eat clean, whether

they gang clean or no.'

'I'll awa' in an' buy ane oot o' my ain shillin',' said Shargar, in

a tone of resolute eagerness.

'Ye'll do naething o' the kin',' returned Robert, darting his hand

at his collar. 'Gie me the shillin'. Ye'll want it a' or lang.'

Shargar yielded the coin and slunk behind, while Robert again led

the way till they came to his grandmother's door.

'Gang to the ga'le o' the hoose there, Shargar, and jist keek roon'

the neuk at me; and gin I whustle upo' ye, come up as quaiet 's ye

can. Gin I dinna, bide till I come to ye.'

Robert opened the door cautiously. It was never locked except at

night, or when Betty had gone to the well for water, or to the

butcher's or baker's, or the prayer-meeting, upon which occasions

she put the key in her pocket, and left her mistress a prisoner. He

looked first to the right, along the passage, and saw that his

grandmother's door was shut; then across the passage to the left,

and saw that the kitchen door was likewise shut, because of the

cold, for its normal position was against the wall. Thereupon,

closing the door, but keeping the handle in his hand, and the bolt

drawn back, he turned to the street and whistled soft and low.

Shargar had, in a moment, dragged his heavy feet, ready to part

company with their shoes at any instant, to Robert's side. He bent

his ear to Robert's whisper.

'Gang in there, and creep like a moose to the fit o' the stair. I

maun close the door ahin' 's,' said he, opening the door as he

spoke.

'I'm fleyt (frightened), Robert.'

'Dinna be a fule. Grannie winna bite aff yer heid. She had ane

till her denner, the day, an' it was ill sung (singed).'

'What ane o'?'

'A sheep's heid, ye gowk (fool). Gang in direckly.'

Shargar persisted no longer, but, taking about four steps a minute,

slunk past the kitchen like a thief--not so carefully, however, but

that one of his soles yet looser than the other gave one clap upon

the flagged passage, when Betty straightway stood in the kitchen

door, a fierce picture in a deal frame. By this time Robert had

closed the outer door, and was following at Shargar's heels.

'What's this?' she cried, but not so loud as to reach the ears of

Mrs. Falconer; for, with true Scotch foresight, she would not

willingly call in another power before the situation clearly

demanded it. 'Whaur's Shargar gaein' that gait?'

'Wi' me. Dinna ye see me wi' him? I'm nae a thief, nor yet's

Shargar.'

'There may be twa opingons upo' that, Robert. I s' jist awa' benn

to the mistress. I s' hae nae sic doin's i' my hoose.'

'It's nae your hoose, Betty. Dinna lee.'

'Weel, I s' hae nae sic things gang by my kitchie door. There,

Robert! what 'll ye mak' o' that? There's nae offence, there, I

houp, gin it suldna be a'thegither my ain hoose. Tak Shargar oot o'

that, or I s' awa' benn the hoose, as I tell ye.'

Meantime Shargar was standing on the stones, looking like a

terrified white rabbit, and shaking from head to foot with cold and

fright combined.

'I'll tak him oot o' this, but it's up the stair, Betty. An' gin ye

gang benn the hoose aboot it, I sweir to ye, as sure 's death, I'll

gang doon to Muckledrum upo' Setterday i' the efternune.'

'Gang awa' wi' yer havers. Only gin the mistress speirs onything

aboot it, what am I to say?'

'Bide till she speirs. Auld Spunkie says, "Ready-made answers are

aye to seek." And I say, Betty, hae ye a cauld pitawta (potato)?'

'I'll luik and see. Wadna ye like it het up?'

'Ow ay, gin ye binna lang aboot it.'

Suddenly a bell rang, shrill and peremptory, right above Shargar's

head, causing in him a responsive increase of trembling.

'Haud oot o' my gait. There's the mistress's bell,' said Betty.

'Jist bide till we're roon' the neuk and on to the stair,' said

Robert, now leading the way.

Betty watched them safe round the corner before she made for the

parlour, little thinking to what she had become an unwilling

accomplice, for she never imagined that more than an evening's visit

was intended by Shargar, which in itself seemed to her strange and

improper enough even for such an eccentric boy as Robert to

encourage.

Shargar followed in mortal terror, for, like Christian in The

Pilgrim's Progress, he had no armour to his back. Once round the

corner, two strides of three steps each took them to the top of the

first stair, Shargar knocking his head in the darkness against the

never-opened door. Again three strides brought them to the top of

the second flight; and turning once more, still to the right, Robert

led Shargar up the few steps into the higher of the two garrets.

Here there was just glimmer enough from the sky to discover the

hollow of a close bedstead, built in under the sloping roof, which

served it for a tester, while the two ends and most of the front

were boarded up to the roof. This bedstead fortunately was not so

bare as the one in the other room, although it had not been used for

many years, for an old mattress covered the boards with which it was

bottomed.

'Gang in there, Shargar. Ye'll be warmer there than upo' the

door-step ony gait. Pit aff yer shune.'

Shargar obeyed, full of delight at finding himself in such good

quarters. Robert went to a forsaken press in the room, and brought

out an ancient cloak of tartan, of the same form as what is now

called an Inverness cape, a blue dress-coat, with plain gilt

buttons, which shone even now in the all but darkness, and several

other garments, amongst them a kilt, and heaped them over Shargar as

he lay on the mattress. He then handed him the twopenny and the

penny loaves, which were all his stock had reached to the purchase

of, and left him, saying,--

'I maun awa' to my tay, Shargar. I'll fess ye a cauld tawtie het

again, gin Betty has ony. Lie still, and whatever ye do, dinna come

oot o' that.'

The last injunction was entirely unnecessary.

'Eh, Bob, I'm jist in haven!' said the poor creature, for his skin

began to feel the precious possibility of reviving warmth in the

distance.

Now that he had gained a new burrow, the human animal soon recovered

from his fears as well. It seemed to him, in the novelty of the

place, that he had made so many doublings to reach it, that there

could be no danger of even the mistress of the house finding him

out, for she could hardly be supposed to look after such a remote

corner of her dominions. And then he was boxed in with the bed, and

covered with no end of warm garments, while the friendly darkness

closed him and his shelter all round. Except the faintest blue

gleam from one of the panes in the roof, there was soon no hint of

light anywhere; and this was only sufficient to make the darkness

visible, and thus add artistic effect to the operation of it upon

Shargar's imagination--a faculty certainly uneducated in Shargar,

but far, very far from being therefore non-existent. It was,

indeed, actively operative, although, like that of many a fine lady

and gentleman, only in relation to such primary questions as: 'What

shall we eat? And what shall we drink? And wherewithal shall we be

clothed?' But as he lay and devoured the new 'white breid,' his

satisfaction--the bare delight of his animal existence--reached a

pitch such as even this imagination, stinted with poverty, and

frost-bitten with maternal oppression, had never conceived possible.

The power of enjoying the present without anticipation of the

future or regard of the past, is the especial privilege of the

animal nature, and of the human nature in proportion as it has not

been developed beyond the animal. Herein lies the happiness of cab

horses and of tramps: to them the gift of forgetfulness is of worth

inestimable. Shargar's heaven was for the present gained.

CHAPTER V.

THE SYMPOSIUM.

Robert had scarcely turned out of the square on his way to find

Shargar, when a horseman entered it. His horse and he were both

apparently black on one side and gray on the other, from the

snow-drift settling to windward. The animal looked tired, but the

rider sat as easy as if he were riding to cover. The reins hung

loose, and the horse went in a straight line for The Boar's Head,

stopping under the archway only when his master drew bridle at the

door of the inn.

At that moment Miss Letty was standing at the back of Miss Napier's

chair, leaning her arms upon it as she talked to her. This was her

way of resting as often as occasion arose for a chat with her elder

sister. Miss Letty's hair was gathered in a great knot at the top

of her head, and little ringlets hung like tendrils down the sides

of her face, the benevolence of which was less immediately striking

than that of her sister's, because of the constant play of humour

upon it, especially about the mouth. If a spirit of satire could be

supposed converted into something Christian by an infusion of the

tenderest loving-kindness and humanity, remaining still recognizable

notwithstanding that all its bitterness was gone, such was the

expression of Miss Letty's mouth, It was always half puckered as if

in resistance to a comic smile, which showed itself at the windows

of the keen gray eyes, however the mouth might be able to keep it

within doors. She was neatly dressed in black silk, with a lace

collar. Her hands were small and white.

The moment the traveller stopped at the door, Miss Napier started.

'Letty,' she said, 'wha's that? I could amaist sweir to Black

Geordie's fit.'

'A' four o' them, I think,' returned Miss Letty, as the horse,

notwithstanding, or perhaps in consequence of his fatigue, began to

paw and move about on the stones impatiently.

The rider had not yet spoken.

'He'll be efter some o' 's deevil-ma'-care sculduddery. But jist

rin to the door, Letty, or Lizzy 'll be there afore ye, and maybe

she wadna be ower ceevil. What can he be efter noo?'

'What wad the grew (grayhound) be efter but maukin (hare)?' returned

Miss Letty.

'Hoot! nonsense! He kens naething aboot her. Gang to the door,

lassie.'

Miss Letty obeyed.

'Wha's there?' she asked, somewhat sharply, as she opened it, 'that

neither chaps (knocks) nor ca's?--Preserve 's a'! is't you, my

lord?'

'Hoo ken ye me, Miss Letty withoot seein' my face?'

'A'body at The Boar's Heid kens Black Geordie as weel 's yer

lordship's ain sel'. But whaur comes yer lordship frae in sic a

nicht as this?'

'From Russia. Never dismounted between Moscow and Aberdeen. The

ice is bearing to-night.'

And the baron laughed inside the upturned collar of his cloak, for

he knew that strangely-exaggerated stories were current about his

feats in the saddle.

'That's a lang ride, my lord, and a sliddery. And what's yer

lordship's wull?'

'Muckle ye care aboot my lordship to stand jawin' there in a night

like this! Is nobody going to take my horse?'

'I beg yer lordship's pardon. Caumill!--Yer lordship never said ye

wanted yer lordship's horse ta'en. I thocht ye micht be gaein' on

to The Bothie.--Tak' Black Geordie here, Caumill.--Come in to the

parlour, my lord.'

'How d'ye do, Miss Naper?' said Lord Rothie, as he entered the room.

'Here's this jade of a sister of yours asking me why I don't go home

to The Bothie, when I choose to stop and water here.'

'What'll ye tak', my lord?--Letty, fess the brandy.'

'Oh! damn your brandy! Bring me a gill of good Glendronach.'

'Rin, Letty. His lordship's cauld.--I canna rise to offer ye the

airm-cheir, my lord.'

'I can get one for myself, thank heaven!'

'Lang may yer lordship return sic thanks.'

'For I'm only new begun, ye think, Miss Naper. Well, I don't often

trouble heaven with my affairs. By Jove! I ought to be heard when

I do.'

'Nae doobt ye will, my lord, whan ye seek onything that's fit to be

gien ye.'

'True. Heaven's gifts are seldom much worth the asking.'

'Haud yer tongue, my lord, and dinna bring doon a judgment upo' my

hoose, for it wad be missed oot o' Rothieden,'

'You're right there, Miss Naper. And here comes the whisky to stop

my mouth.'

The Baron of Rothie sat for a few minutes with his feet on the

fender before Miss Letty's blazing fire, without speaking, while he

sipped the whisky neat from a wine-glass. He was a man about the

middle height, rather full-figured, muscular and active, with a

small head, and an eye whose brightness had not yet been dimmed by

the sensuality which might be read in the condition rather than

frame of his countenance. But while he spoke so pleasantly to the

Miss Napiers, and his forehead spread broad and smooth over the

twinkle of his hazel eye, there was a sharp curve on each side of

his upper lip, half-way between the corner and the middle, which

reminded one of the same curves in the lip of his ancestral boar's

head, where it was lifted up by the protruding tusks. These curves

disappeared, of course, when he smiled, and his smile, being a

lord's, was generally pronounced irresistible. He was good-natured,

and nowise inclined to stand upon his rank, so long as he had his

own way.

'Any customers by the mail to-night, Miss Naper?' he asked, in a

careless tone.

'Naebody partic'lar, my lord.'

'I thought ye never let anybody in that wasn't particularly

particular. No foot-passengers--eh?'

'Hoot, my lord! that's twa year ago. Gin I had jaloosed him to be a

fren' o' yer lordship's, forby bein' a lord himsel', ye ken as weel

's I du that I wadna hae sent him ower the gait to Luckie Happit's,

whaur he wadna even be ower sure o' gettin' clean sheets. But gin

lords an' lords' sons will walk afit like ither fowk, wha's to ken

them frae ither fowk?'

'Well, Miss Naper, he was no lord at all. He was nothing but a

factor-body doon frae Glenbucket.'

'There was sma' hairm dune than, my lord. I'm glaid to hear 't.

But what'll yer lordship hae to yer supper?'

'I would like a dish o' your chits and nears (sweetbreads and

kidneys).'

'Noo, think o' that!' returned the landlady, laughing. 'You great

fowk wad hae the verra coorse o' natur' turned upside doon to shuit

yersels. Wha ever heard o' caure (calves) at this time o' the

year?'

'Well, anything you like. Who was it came by the mail, did you

say?'

'I said naebody partic'lar, my lord.'

'Well, I'll just go and have a look at Black Geordie.'

'Verra weel, my lord.--Letty, rin an' luik efter him; and as sune 's

he's roon' the neuk, tell Lizzie no to say a word aboot the leddy.

As sure 's deith he's efter her. Whaur cud he hae heard tell o'

her?'

Lord Rothie came, a moment after, sauntering into the bar-parlour,

where Lizzie, the third Miss Napier, a red-haired, round-eyed,

white-toothed woman of forty, was making entries in a book.

'She's a bonnie lassie that, that came in the coach to-night, they

say, Miss Lizzie.'

'As ugly 's sin, my lord,' answered Lizzie.

'I hae seen some sin 'at was nane sae ugly, Miss Lizzie.'

'She wad hae clean scunnert (disgusted) ye, my lord. It's a mercy

ye didna see her.'

'If she be as ugly as all that, I would just like to see her.'

Miss Lizzie saw she had gone too far.

'Ow, deed! gin yer lordship wants to see her, ye may see her at yer

wull. I s' gang and tell her.'

And she rose as if to go.

'No, no. Nothing of the sort, Miss Lizzie. Only I heard that she

was bonnie, and I wanted to see her. You know I like to look at a

pretty girl.'

'That's ower weel kent, my lord.'

'Well, there's no harm in that, Miss Lizzie.'

'There's no harm in that, my lord, though yer lordship says 't.'

The facts were that his lordship had been to the county-town, some

forty miles off, and Black Geordie had been sent to Hillknow to meet

him; for in any weather that would let him sit, he preferred

horseback to every other mode of travelling, though he seldom would

be followed by a groom. He had posted to Hillknow, and had dined

with a friend at the inn. The coach stopping to change horses, he

had caught a glimpse of a pretty face, as he thought, from its

window, and had hoped to overtake the coach before it reached

Rothieden. But stopping to drink another bottle, he had failed; and

it was on the merest chance of seeing that pretty face that he

stopped at The Boar's Head. In all probability, had the Marquis seen

the lady, he would not have thought her at all such a beauty as she

appeared in the eyes of Dooble Sanny; nor, I venture to think, had

he thought as the shoemaker did, would he yet have dared to address

her in other than the words of such respect as he could still feel

in the presence of that which was more noble than himself.

Whether or not on his visit to the stable he found anything amiss

with Black Geordie, I cannot tell, but he now begged Miss Lizzie to

have a bedroom prepared for him.

It happened to be the evening of Friday, one devoted by some of the

townspeople to a symposium. To this, knowing that the talk will

throw a glimmer on several matters, I will now introduce my reader,

as a spectator through the reversed telescope of my history.

A few of the more influential of the inhabitants had grown, rather

than formed themselves, into a kind of club, which met weekly at The

Boar's Head. Although they had no exclusive right to the room in

which they sat, they generally managed to retain exclusive

possession of it; for if any supposed objectionable person entered,

they always got rid of him, sometimes without his being aware of how

they had contrived to make him so uncomfortable. They began to

gather about seven o'clock, when it was expected that boiling water

would be in readiness for the compound generally called toddy,

sometimes punch. As soon as six were assembled, one was always

voted into the chair.

On the present occasion, Mr. Innes, the school-master, was

unanimously elected to that honour. He was a hard-featured,

sententious, snuffy individual, of some learning, and great

respectability.

I omit the political talk with which their intercommunications

began; for however interesting at the time is the scaffolding by

which existing institutions arise, the poles and beams when gathered

again in the builder's yard are scarcely a subject for the artist.

The first to lead the way towards matters of nearer personality was

William MacGregor, the linen manufacturer, a man who possessed a

score of hand-looms or so--half of which, from the advance of cotton

and the decline of linen-wear, now stood idle--but who had already a

sufficient deposit in the hands of Mr. Thomson the banker--agent,

that is, for the county-bank--to secure him against any necessity

for taking to cotton shirts himself, which were an abomination and

offence unpardonable in his eyes.

'Can ye tell me, Mr. Cocker,' he said, 'what mak's Sandy, Lord

Rothie, or Wrathy, or what suld he be ca'd?--tak' to The Bothie at a

time like this, whan there's neither huntin', nor fishin', nor

shutin', nor onything o' the kin' aboot han' to be playacks till

him, the bonnie bairn--'cep' it be otters an' sic like?'

William was a shrunken old man, with white whiskers and a black wig,

a keen black eye, always in search of the ludicrous in other people,

and a mouth ever on the move, as if masticating something comical.

'You know just as well as I do,' answered Mr. Cocker, the Marquis of

Boarshead's factor for the surrounding estate. 'He never was in the

way of giving a reason for anything, least of all for his own

movements.'

'Somebody was sayin' to me,' resumed MacGregor, who, in all

probability, invented the story at the moment, 'that the prince took

him kissin' ane o' his servan' lasses, and kickit him oot o' Carlton

Hoose into the street, and he canna win' ower the disgrace o' 't.'

''Deed for the kissin',' said Mr. Thomson, a portly,

comfortable-looking man, 'that's neither here nor there, though it

micht hae been a duchess or twa; but for the kickin', my word! but

Lord Sandy was mair likly to kick oot the prince. Do ye min' hoo he

did whan the Markis taxed him wi'--?'

'Haud a quaiet sough,' interposed Mr. Cruickshank, the solicitor;

'there's a drap i' the hoose.'

This was a phrase well understood by the company, indicating the

presence of some one unknown, or unfit to be trusted.

As he spoke he looked towards the farther end of the room, which lay

in obscurity; for it was a large room, lighted only by the four

candles on the table at which the company sat.

'Whaur, Mr. Cruickshank?' asked the dominie in a whisper.

'There,' answered Sampson Peddie, the bookseller, who seized the

opportunity of saying something, and pointed furtively where the

solicitor had only looked.

A dim figure was descried at a table in the farthest corner of the

room, and they proceeded to carry out the plan they generally

adopted to get rid of a stranger.

'Ye made use o' a curious auld Scots phrase this moment, Mr.

Curshank: can ye explain hoo it comes to beir the meanin' that it's

weel kent to beir?' said the manufacturer.

'Not I, Mr. MacGregor,' answered the solicitor. 'I'm no philologist

or antiquarian. Ask the chairman.'

'Gentlemen,' responded Mr. Innes, taking a huge pinch of snuff after

the word, and then, passing the box to Mr. Cocker, a sip from his

glass before he went on: 'the phrase, gentlemen, "a drap i' the

hoose," no doobt refers to an undesirable presence, for ye're weel

awaur that it's a most unpleasin' discovery, in winter especially,

to find a drop o' water hangin' from yer ceiling; a something, in

short, whaur it has no business to be, and is not accordingly looked

for, or prepared against.'

'It seems to me, Mr. Innes,' said MacGregor, 'that ye hae hit the

nail, but no upo' the heid. What mak' ye o' the phrase, no confined

to the Scots tongue, I believe, o' an eaves-drapper? The whilk, no

doobt, represents a body that hings aboot yer winnock, like a drap

hangin' ower abune it frae the eaves--therefore called an eaves

drapper. But the sort of whilk we noo speak, are a waur sort

a'thegither; for they come to the inside o' yer hoose, o' yer verra

chaumer, an' hing oot their lang lugs to hear what ye carena to be

hard save by a dooce frien' or twa ower a het tum'ler.'

At the same moment the door opened, and a man entered, who was

received with unusual welcome.

'Bless my sowl!' said the president, rising; 'it's Mr. Lammie!--Come

awa', Mr. Lammie. Sit doon; sit doon. Whaur hae ye been this mony

a day, like a pelican o' the wilderness?'

Mr. Lammie was a large, mild man, with florid cheeks, no whiskers,

and a prominent black eye. He was characterized by a certain simple

alacrity, a gentle, but outspeaking readiness, which made him a

favourite.

'I dinna richtly mak' oot wha ye are,' he answered. 'Ye hae unco

little licht here! Hoo are ye a', gentlemen? I s' discover ye by

degrees, and pay my respecks accordin'.'

And he drew a chair to the table.

''Deed I wuss ye wad,' returned MacGregor, in a voice pretentiously

hushed, but none the less audible. 'There's a drap in yon en' o' the

hoose, Mr. Lammie.'

'Hoot! never min' the man,' said Lammie, looking round in the

direction indicated. 'I s' warran' he cares as little aboot hiz as

we care aboot him. There's nae treason noo a-days. I carena wha

hears what I say.'

'For my pairt,' said Mr. Peddie, 'I canna help wonnerin' gin it cud

be oor auld frien' Mr. Faukener.'

'Speyk o' the de'il--' said Mr. Lammie.

'Hoot! na,' returned Peddie, interrupting. 'He wasna a'thegither the

de'il.'

'Haud the tongue o' ye,' retorted Lammie. 'Dinna ye ken a proverb

whan ye hear 't? De'il hae ye! ye're as sharpset as a missionar'.

I was only gaun to say that I'm doobtin' Andrew's deid.'

'Ay! ay!' commenced a chorus of questioning.

'Mhm!'

'Aaay!'

'What gars ye think that?'

'And sae he's deid!'

'He was a great favourite, Anerew!'

'Whaur dee'd he?'

'Aye some upsettin' though!'

'Ay. He was aye to be somebody wi' his tale.'

'A gude-hertit crater, but ye cudna lippen till him.'

'Speyk nae ill o' the deid. Maybe they'll hear ye, and turn roon'

i' their coffins, and that'll whumle you i' your beds,' said

MacGregor, with a twinkle in his eye.

'Ring the bell for anither tum'ler, Sampson,' said the chairman.

'What'll be dune wi' that factory place, noo? It'll be i' the

market?'

'It's been i' the market for mony a year. But it's no his ava. It

belangs to the auld leddy, his mither,' said the weaver.

'Why don't you buy it, Mr. MacGregor, and set up a cotton mill?

There's not much doing with the linen now,' said Mr. Cocker.

'Me!' returned MacGregor, with indignation. 'The Lord forgie ye for

mintin' (hinting) at sic a thing, Mr. Cocker! Me tak' to coaton! I

wad as sune spin the hair frae Sawtan's hurdies. Short fushionless

dirt, that canna grow straucht oot o' the halesome yird, like the

bonnie lint-bells, but maun stick itsel' upo' a buss!--set it up!

Coorse vulgar stuff, 'at naebody wad weir but loup-coonter lads

that wad fain luik like gentlemen by means o' the collars and

ruffles--an' a' comin' frae the auld loom! They may weel affoord

se'enteen hunner linen to set it aff wi' 'at has naething but coaton

inside the breeks o' them.'

'But Dr. Wagstaff says it's healthier,' interposed Peddie.

'I'll wag a staff till him. De'il a bit o' 't 's healthier! an'

that he kens. It's nae sae healthy, an' sae it mak's him mair wark

wi' 's poothers an' his drauchts, an' ither stinkin' stuff.

Healthier! What neist?'

'Somebody tellt me,' said the bookseller, inwardly conscious of

offence, ''at hoo Lord Sandy himsel' weirs cotton.'

'Ow 'deed, maybe. And he sets mony a worthy example furbye. Hoo

mony, can ye tell me, Mr. Peddie, has he pulled doon frae honest, if

no frae high estate, and sent oot to seek their livin' as he taucht

them? Hoo mony--?'

'Hoot, hoot! Mr. MacGregor, his lordship hasn't a cotton shirt in

his possession, I'll be bound,' said Mr. Cocker. 'And, besides, you

have not to wash his dirty linen--or cotton either.'

'That's as muckle as to say, accordin' to Cocker, that I'm no to

speik a word against him. But I'll say what I like. He's no my

maister,' said MacGregor, who could drink very little without

suffering in his temper and manners; and who, besides, had a certain

shrewd suspicion as to the person who still sat in the dark end of

the room, possibly because the entrance of Mr. Lammie had

interrupted the exorcism.

The chairman interposed with soothing words; and the whole company,

Cocker included, did its best to pacify the manufacturer; for they

all knew what would be the penalty if they failed.

A good deal of talk followed, and a good deal of whisky was drunk.

They were waited upon by Meg, who, without their being aware of it,

cast a keen parting glance at them every time she left the room. At

length the conversation had turned again to Andrew Falconer's death.

'Whaur said ye he dee'd, Mr. Lammie?'

'I never said he was deid. I said I was feared 'at he was deid.'

'An' what gars ye say that? It micht be o' consequence to hae 't

correck,' said the solicitor.

'I had a letter frae my auld frien' and his, Dr. Anderson. Ye min'

upo' him, Mr. Innes, dunna ye? He's heid o' the medical boord at

Calcutta noo. He says naething but that he doobts he's gane. He

gaed up the country, and he hasna hard o' him for sae lang. We hae

keepit up a correspondence for mony a year noo, Dr. Anderson an' me.

He was a relation o' Anerew's, ye ken--a second cousin, or

something. He'll be hame or lang, I'm thinkin', wi' a fine

pension.'

'He winna weir a cotton sark, I'll be boon',' said MacGregor.

'What's the auld leddy gaein' to du wi' that lang-leggit oye

(grandson) o' hers, Anerew's son?' asked Sampson.

'Ow! he'll be gaein' to the college, I'm thinkin'. He's a fine lad,

and a clever, they tell me,' said Mr. Thomson.

'Indeed, he's all that, and more too,' said the school-master.

'There's naething 'ull du but the college noo!' said MacGregor, whom

nobody heeded, for fear of again rousing his anger.

'Hoo 'ill she manage that, honest woman? She maun hae but little to

spare frae the cleedin' o' 'm.'

'She's a gude manager, Mistress Faukner. And, ye see, she has the

bleachgreen yet.'

'She doesna weir cotton sarks,' growled MacGregor. 'Mony's the wob

o' mine she's bleached and boucht tu!'

Nobody heeding him yet, he began to feel insulted, and broke in upon

the conversation with intent.

'Ye haena telt 's yet, Cocker,' he said, 'what that maister o' yours

is duin' here at this time o' the year. I wad ken that, gin ye

please.'

'How should I know, Mr. MacGregor?' returned the factor, taking no

notice of the offensive manner in which the question was put.

'He's no a hair better nor ane o' thae Algerine pirates 'at Lord

Exmooth's het the hips o'--and that's my opingon.'

'He's nae amo' your feet, MacGregor,' said the banker. 'Ye micht

jist lat him lie.'

'Gin I had him doon, faith gin I wadna lat him lie! I'll jist tell

ye ae thing, gentlemen, that cam' to my knowledge no a hunner year

ago. An' it's a' as true 's gospel, though I hae aye held my tongue

aboot it till this verra nicht. Ay! ye'll a' hearken noo; but it's

no lauchin', though there was sculduddery eneuch, nae doobt, afore

it cam' that len'th. And mony a het drap did the puir lassie greet,

I can tell ye. Faith! it was no lauchin' to her. She was a servan'

o' oors, an' a ticht bonnie lass she was. They ca'd her the

weyver's bonny Mary--that's the name she gaed by. Weel, ye see--'

MacGregor was interrupted by a sound from the further end of the

room. The stranger, whom most of them had by this time forgotten,

had risen, and was approaching the table where they sat.

'Guid guide us!' interrupted several under their breaths, as all

rose, 'it's Lord Sandy himsel'!'

'I thank you, gentleman,' he said, with a mixture of irony and

contempt, 'for the interest you take in my private history. I

should have thought it had been as little to the taste as it is to

the honour of some of you to listen to such a farrago of lies.'

'Lees! my lord,' said MacGregor, starting to his feet. Mr. Cocker

looked dismayed, and Mr. Lammie sheepish--all of them dazed and

dumbfoundered, except the old weaver, who, as his lordship turned to

leave the room, added:

'Lang lugs (ears) suld be made o' leather, my lord, for fear they

grow het wi' what they hear.'

Lord Rothie turned in a rage. He too had been drinking.

'Kick that toad into the street, or, by heaven! it's the last drop

any of you drink in this house!' he cried.

'The taed may tell the poddock (frog) what the rottan (rat) did i'

the taed's hole, my lord,' said MacGregor, whom independence,

honesty, bile, and drink combined to render fearless.

Lord Sandy left the room without another word. His factor took his

hat and followed him. The rest dropped into their seats in silence.

Mr. Lammie was the first to speak.

'There's a pliskie!' he said.

'I cud jist say the word efter auld Simeon,' said MacGregor.

'I never thocht to be sae favoured! Eh! but I hae langed, and noo I

hae spoken!' with which words he sat down, contented.

When Mr. Cocker overtook his master, as MacGregor had not unfitly

styled him, he only got a damning for his pains, and went home

considerably crestfallen.

Lord Rothie returned to the landlady in her parlour.

'What's the maitter wi' ye, my lord? What's vexed ye?' asked Miss

Napier, with a twinkle in her eyes, for she thought, from the

baron's mortification, he must have received some rebuff, and now

that the bonnie leddy was safe at Captain Forsyth's, enjoyed the

idea of it.

'Ye keep an ill-tongued hoose, Miss Naper,' answered his lordship.

Miss Napier guessed at the truth at once--that he had overheard some

free remarks on his well-known licence of behaviour.

'Weel, my lord, I do my best. A body canna keep an inn and speir

the carritchis (catechism) at the door o' 't. But I believe ye're

i' the richt, my lord, for I heard an awfu' aff-gang o' sweirin' i'

the yard, jist afore yer lordship cam' in. An' noo' 'at I think o'

't, it wasna that onlike yer lordship's ain word.'

Lord Sandy broke into a loud laugh. He could enjoy a joke against

himself when it came from a woman, and was founded on such a trifle

as a personal vice.

'I think I'll go to bed,' he said when his laugh was over. 'I

believe it's the only safe place from your tongue, Miss Naper.'

'Letty,' cried Miss Napier, 'fess a can'le, and show his lordship to

the reid room.'

Till Miss Letty appeared, the baron sat and stretched himself. He

then rose and followed her into the archway, and up an outside stair

to a door which opened immediately upon a handsome old-fashioned

room, where a blazing fire lighted up the red hangings. Miss Letty

set down the candle, and bidding his lordship good night, turned and

left the room, shutting the door, and locking it behind her--a

proceeding of which his lordship took no notice, for, however

especially suitable it might be in his case, it was only, from

whatever ancient source derived, the custom of the house in regard

to this particular room and a corresponding chamber on the opposite

side of the archway.

Meantime the consternation amongst the members of the club was not

so great as not to be talked over, or to prevent the call for more

whisky and hot water. All but MacGregor, however, regretted what

had occurred. He was so elevated with his victory and a sense of

courage and prowess, that he became more and more facetious and

overbearing.

'It's all very well for you, Mr. MacGregor,' said the dominie, with

dignity: 'you have nothing to lose.'

'Troth! he canna brak the bank--eh, Mr. Tamson?'

'He may give me a hint to make you withdraw your money, though, Mr.

MacGregor.'

'De'il care gin I do!' returned the weaver. 'I can mak' better o' 't

ony day.'

'But there's yer hoose an' kailyard,' suggested Peddie.

'They're ma ain!--a' ma ain! He canna lay 's finger on onything o'

mine but my servan' lass,' cried the weaver, slapping his

thigh-bone--for there was little else to slap.

Meg, at the moment, was taking her exit-glance. She went straight

to Miss Napier.

'Willie MacGregor's had eneuch, mem, an' a drappy ower.'

'Sen' Caumill doon to Mrs. MacGregor to say wi' my compliments that

she wad do weel to sen' for him,' was the response.

Meantime he grew more than troublesome. Ever on the outlook, when

sober, after the foibles of others, he laid himself open to endless

ridicule when in drink, which, to tell the truth, was a rare

occurrence. He was in the midst of a prophetic denunciation of the

vices of the nobility, and especially of Lord Rothie, when Meg,

entering the room, went quietly behind his chair and whispered:

'Maister MacGregor, there's a lassie come for ye.'

'I'm nae in,' he answered, magnificently.

'But it's the mistress 'at's sent for ye. Somebody's wantin' ye.'

'Somebody maun want me, than.--As I was sayin', Mr. Cheerman and

gentlemen--'

'Mistress MacGregor 'll be efter ye hersel', gin ye dinna gang,'

said Meg.

'Let her come. Duv ye think I'm fleyt at her? De'il a step 'll I

gang till I please. Tell her that, Meg.'

Meg left the room, with a broad grin on her good-humoured face.

'What's the bitch lauchin' at?' exclaimed MacGregor, starting to his

feet.

The whole company rose likewise, using their endeavour to persuade

him to go home.

'Duv ye think I'm drunk, sirs? I'll lat ye ken I'm no drunk. I hae

a wull o' mine ain yet. Am I to gang hame wi' a lassie to haud me

oot o' the gutters? Gin ye daur to alloo that I'm drunk, ye ken hoo

ye'll fare, for de'il a fit 'll I gang oot o' this till I hae

anither tum'ler.'

'I'm thinkin' there's mair o' 's jist want ane mair,' said Peddie.

A confirmatory murmur arose as each looked into the bottom of his

tumbler, and the bell was instantly rung. But it only brought Meg

back with the message that it was time for them all to go home.

Every eye turned upon MacGregor reproachfully.

'Ye needna luik at me that gait, sirs. I'm no fou,' said he.

''Deed no. Naebody taks ye to be,' answered the chairman. 'Meggie,

there's naebody's had ower muckle yet, and twa or three o' 's hasna

had freely eneuch. Jist gang an' fess a mutchkin mair. An'

there'll be a shillin' to yersel', lass.'

Meg retired, but straightway returned.

'Miss Naper says there's no a drap mair drink to be had i' this

hoose the nicht.'

'Here, Meggie,' said the chairman, 'there's yer shillin'; and ye

jist gang to Miss Lettie, and gie her my compliments, and say that

Mr. Lammie's here, and we haena seen him for a lang time. And'--the

rest was spoken in a whisper--'I'll sweir to ye, Meggie, the weyver

body sanna hae ae drap o' 't.'

Meg withdrew once more, and returned.

'Miss Letty's compliments, sir, and Miss Naper has the keys, and

she's gane till her bed, and we maunna disturb her. And it's time

'at a' honest fowk was in their beds tu. And gin Mr. Lammie wants a

bed i' this hoose, he maun gang till 't. An' here's his can'le.

Gude nicht to ye a', gentlemen.'

So saying, Meg set the lighted candle on the sideboard, and finally

vanished. The good-tempered, who formed the greater part of the

company, smiled to each other, and emptied the last drops of their

toddy first into their glasses, and thence into their mouths. The

ill-tempered, numbering but one more than MacGregor, growled and

swore a little, the weaver declaring that he would not go home. But

the rest walked out and left him, and at last, appalled by the

silence, he rose with his wig awry, and trotted--he always trotted

when he was tipsy--home to his wife.

CHAPTER VI.

MRS. FALCONER.

Meantime Robert was seated in the parlour at the little dark

mahogany table, in which the lamp, shaded towards his grandmother's

side, shone brilliantly reflected. Her face being thus hidden both

by the light and the shadow, he could not observe the keen look of

stern benevolence with which, knowing that he could not see her, she

regarded him as he ate his thick oat-cake of Betty's skilled

manufacture, well loaded with the sweetest butter, and drank the tea

which she had poured out and sugared for him with liberal hand. It

was a comfortable little room, though its inlaid mahogany chairs and

ancient sofa, covered with horsehair, had a certain look of

hardness, no doubt. A shepherdess and lamb, worked in silks whose

brilliance had now faded half-way to neutrality, hung in a black

frame, with brass rosettes at the corners, over the

chimney-piece--the sole approach to the luxury of art in the homely

little place. Besides the muslin stretched across the lower part of

the window, it was undefended by curtains. There was no cat in the

room, nor was there one in the kitchen even; for Mrs. Falconer had

such a respect for humanity that she grudged every morsel consumed

by the lower creation. She sat in one of the arm-chairs belonging

to the hairy set, leaning back in contemplation of her grandson, as

she took her tea.

She was a handsome old lady--little, but had once been taller, for

she was more than seventy now. She wore a plain cap of muslin,

lying close to her face, and bordered a little way from the edge

with a broad black ribbon, which went round her face, and then,

turning at right angles, went round the back of her neck. Her gray

hair peeped a little way from under this cap. A clear but

short-sighted eye of a light hazel shone under a smooth thoughtful

forehead; a straight and well-elevated, but rather short nose, which

left the firm upper lip long and capable of expressing a world of

dignified offence, rose over a well-formed mouth, revealing more

moral than temperamental sweetness; while the chin was rather

deficient than otherwise, and took little share in indicating the

remarkable character possessed by the old lady.

After gazing at Robert for some time, she took a piece of oat-cake

from a plate by her side, the only luxury in which she indulged, for

it was made with cream instead of water--it was very little she ate

of anything--and held it out to Robert in a hand white, soft, and

smooth, but with square finger tips, and squat though pearly nails.

'Ha'e, Robert,' she said; and Robert received it with a 'Thank you,

grannie'; but when he thought she did not see him, slipped it under

the table and into his pocket. She saw him well enough, however,

and although she would not condescend to ask him why he put it away

instead of eating it, the endeavour to discover what could have been

his reason for so doing cost her two hours of sleep that night. She

would always be at the bottom of a thing if reflection could reach

it, but she generally declined taking the most ordinary measures to

expedite the process.

When Robert had finished his tea, instead of rising to get his books

and betake himself to his lessons, in regard to which his

grandmother had seldom any cause to complain, although she would

have considered herself guilty of high treason against the boy's

future if she had allowed herself once to acknowledge as much, he

drew his chair towards the fire, and said:

'Grandmamma!'

'He's gaein' to tell me something,' said Mrs. Falconer to herself.

'Will 't be aboot the puir barfut crater they ca' Shargar, or will

't be aboot the piece he pat intil 's pooch?'

'Weel, laddie?' she said aloud, willing to encourage him.

'Is 't true that my gran'father was the blin' piper o' Portcloddie?'

'Ay, laddie; true eneuch. Hoots, na! nae yer grandfather, but yer

father's grandfather, laddie--my husband's father.'

'Hoo cam that aboot?'

'Weel, ye see, he was oot i' the Forty-five; and efter the battle o'

Culloden, he had to rin for 't. He wasna wi' his ain clan at the

battle, for his father had broucht him to the Lawlands whan he was a

lad; but he played the pipes till a reg'ment raised by the Laird o'

Portcloddie. And for ooks (weeks) he had to hide amo' the rocks.

And they tuik a' his property frae him. It wasna muckle--a wheen

hooses, and a kailyard or twa, wi' a bit fairmy on the tap o' a

cauld hill near the sea-shore; but it was eneuch and to spare; and

whan they tuik it frae him, he had naething left i' the warl' but

his sons. Yer grandfather was born the verra day o' the battle, and

the verra day 'at the news cam, the mother deed. But yer great

grandfather wasna lang or he merried anither wife. He was sic a man

as ony woman micht hae been prood to merry. She was the dother

(daughter) o' an episcopalian minister, and she keepit a school in

Portcloddie. I saw him first mysel' whan I was aboot twenty--that

was jist the year afore I was merried. He was a gey (considerably)

auld man than, but as straucht as an ellwand, and jist pooerfu'

beyon' belief. His shackle-bane (wrist) was as thick as baith mine;

and years and years efter that, whan he tuik his son, my husband,

and his grandson, my Anerew--'

'What ails ye, grannie? What for dinna ye gang on wi' the story?'

After a somewhat lengthened pause, Mrs. Falconer resumed as if she

had not stopped at all.

'Ane in ilka han', jist for the fun o' 't, he kneipit their heids

thegither, as gin they hed been twa carldoddies (stalks of

ribgrass). But maybe it was the lauchin' o' the twa lads, for they

thocht it unco fun. They were maist killed wi' lauchin'. But the

last time he did it, the puir auld man hostit (coughed) sair

efterhin, and had to gang and lie doon. He didna live lang efter

that. But it wasna that 'at killed him, ye ken.'

'But hoo cam he to play the pipes?'

'He likit the pipes. And yer grandfather, he tuik to the fiddle.'

'But what for did they ca' him the blin' piper o' Portcloddie?'

'Because he turned blin' lang afore his en' cam, and there was

naething ither he cud do. And he wad aye mak an honest baubee whan

he cud; for siller was fell scarce at that time o' day amo' the

Falconers. Sae he gaed throu the toon at five o'clock ilka mornin'

playin' his pipes, to lat them 'at war up ken they war up in time,

and them 'at warna, that it was time to rise. And syne he played

them again aboot aucht o'clock at nicht, to lat them ken 'at it was

time for dacent fowk to gang to their beds. Ye see, there wasna sae

mony clocks and watches by half than as there is noo.'

'Was he a guid piper, grannie?'

'What for speir ye that?'

'Because I tauld that sunk, Lumley--'

'Ca' naebody names, Robert. But what richt had ye to be speikin' to

a man like that?'

'He spak to me first.'

'Whaur saw ye him?'

'At The Boar's Heid.'

'And what richt had ye to gang stan'in' aboot? Ye oucht to ha' gane

in at ance.'

'There was a half-dizzen o' fowk stan'in' aboot, and I bude

(behoved) to speik whan I was spoken till.'

'But ye budena stop an' mak' ae fule mair.'

'Isna that ca'in' names, grannie?'

''Deed, laddie, I doobt ye hae me there. But what said the fallow

Lumley to ye?'

'He cast up to me that my grandfather was naething but a blin'

piper.'

'And what said ye?'

'I daured him to say 'at he didna pipe weel.'

'Weel dune, laddie! And ye micht say 't wi' a gude conscience, for

he wadna hae been piper till 's regiment at the battle o' Culloden

gin he hadna pipit weel. Yon's his kilt hingin' up i' the press i'

the garret. Ye'll hae to grow, Robert, my man, afore ye fill that.'

'And whase was that blue coat wi' the bonny gowd buttons upo' 't?'

asked Robert, who thought he had discovered a new approach to an

impregnable hold, which he would gladly storm if he could.

'Lat the coat sit. What has that to do wi' the kilt? A blue coat

and a tartan kilt gang na weel thegither.'

'Excep' in an auld press whaur naebody sees them. Ye wadna care,

grannie, wad ye, gin I was to cut aff the bonnie buttons?'

'Dinna lay a finger upo' them. Ye wad be gaein' playin' at pitch

and toss or ither sic ploys wi' them. Na, na, lat them sit.'

'I wad only niffer them for bools (exchange them for marbles).'

'I daur ye to touch the coat or onything 'ither that's i' that

press.'

'Weel, weel, grannie. I s' gang and get my lessons for the morn.'

'It's time, laddie. Ye hae been jabberin' ower muckle. Tell Betty

to come and tak' awa' the tay-things.'

Robert went to the kitchen, got a couple of hot potatoes and a

candle, and carried them up-stairs to Shargar, who was fast asleep.

But the moment the light shone upon his face, he started up, with

his eyes, if not his senses, wide awake.

'It wasna me, mither! I tell ye it wasna me!'

And he covered his head with both arms, as if to defend it from a

shower of blows.

'Haud yer tongue, Shargar. It's me.'

But before Shargar could come to his senses, the light of the candle

falling upon the blue coat made the buttons flash confused

suspicions into his mind.

'Mither, mither,' he said, 'ye hae gane ower far this time. There's

ower mony o' them, and they're no the safe colour. We'll be baith

hangt, as sure's there's a deevil in hell.'

As he said thus, he went on trying to pick the buttons from the

coat, taking them for sovereigns, though how he could have seen a

sovereign at that time in Scotland I can only conjecture. But

Robert caught him by the shoulders, and shook him awake with no

gentle hands, upon which he began to rub his eyes, and mutter

sleepily:

'Is that you, Bob? I hae been dreamin', I doobt.'

'Gin ye dinna learn to dream quaieter, ye'll get you and me tu into

mair trouble nor I care to hae aboot ye, ye rascal. Haud the tongue

o' ye, and eat this tawtie, gin ye want onything mair. And here's a

bit o' reamy cakes tu ye. Ye winna get that in ilka hoose i' the

toon. It's my grannie's especial.'

Robert felt relieved after this, for he had eaten all the cakes Miss

Napier had given him, and had had a pain in his conscience ever

since.

'Hoo got ye a haud o' 't?' asked Shargar, evidently supposing he had

stolen it.

'She gies me a bit noo and than.'

'And ye didna eat it yersel'? Eh, Bob!'

Shargar was somewhat overpowered at this fresh proof of Robert's

friendship. But Robert was still more ashamed of what he had not

done.

He took the blue coat carefully from the bed, and hung it in its

place again, satisfied now, from the way his grannie had spoken, or,

rather, declined to speak, about it, that it had belonged to his

father.

'Am I to rise?' asked Shargar, not understanding the action.

'Na, na, lie still. Ye'll be warm eneuch wantin' thae sovereigns.

I'll lat ye oot i' the mornin' afore grannie's up. And ye maun

mak' the best o't efter that till it's dark again. We'll sattle a'

aboot it at the schuil the morn. Only we maun be circumspec', ye

ken.'

'Ye cudna lay yer han's upo' a drap o' whusky, cud ye, Bob?'

Robert stared in horror. A boy like that asking for whisky! and in

his grandmother's house, too!

'Shargar,' he said solemnly, 'there's no a drap o' whusky i' this

hoose. It's awfu' to hear ye mention sic a thing. My grannie wad

smell the verra name o' 't a mile awa'. I doobt that's her fit upo'

the stair a'ready.'

Robert crept to the door, and Shargar sat staring with horror, his

eyes looking from the gloom of the bed like those of a

half-strangled dog. But it was a false alarm, as Robert presently

returned to announce.

'Gin ever ye sae muckle as mention whusky again, no to say drink ae

drap o' 't, you and me pairt company, and that I tell you, Shargar,'

said he, emphatically.

'I'll never luik at it; I'll never mint at dreamin' o' 't,' answered

Shargar, coweringly. 'Gin she pits 't intil my moo', I'll spit it

oot. But gin ye strive wi' me, Bob, I'll cut my throat--I will; an'

that'll be seen and heard tell o'.'

All this time, save during the alarm of Mrs. Falconer's approach,

when he sat with a mouthful of hot potato, unable to move his jaws

for terror, and the remnant arrested half-way in its progress from

his mouth after the bite--all this time Shargar had been devouring

the provisions Robert had brought him, as if he had not seen food

that day. As soon as they were finished, he begged for a drink of

water, which Robert managed to procure for him. He then left him

for the night, for his longer absence might have brought his

grandmother after him, who had perhaps only too good reasons for

being doubtful, if not suspicious, about boys in general, though

certainly not about Robert in particular. He carried with him his

books from the other garret-room where he kept them, and sat down at

the table by his grandmother, preparing his Latin and geography by

her lamp, while she sat knitting a white stocking with fingers as

rapid as thought, never looking at her work, but staring into the

fire, and seeing visions there which Robert would have given

everything he could call his own to see, and then would have given

his life to blot out of the world if he had seen them. Quietly the

evening passed, by the peaceful lamp and the cheerful fire, with the

Latin on the one side of the table, and the stocking on the other,

as if ripe and purified old age and hopeful unstained youth had been

the only extremes of humanity known to the world. But the bitter

wind was howling by fits in the chimney, and the offspring of a

nobleman and a gipsy lay asleep in the garret, covered with the

cloak of an old Highland rebel.

At nine o'clock, Mrs. Falconer rang the bell for Betty, and they had

worship. Robert read a chapter, and his grandmother prayed an

extempore prayer, in which they that looked at the wine when it was

red in the cup, and they that worshipped the woman clothed in

scarlet and seated upon the seven hills, came in for a strange

mixture, in which the vengeance yielded only to the pity.

'Lord, lead them to see the error of their ways,' she cried. 'Let

the rod of thy wrath awake the worm of their conscience that they

may know verily that there is a God that ruleth in the earth. Dinna

lat them gang to hell, O Lord, we beseech thee.'

As soon as prayers were over, Robert had a tumbler of milk and some

more oat-cake, and was sent to bed; after which it was impossible

for him to hold any further communication with Shargar. For his

grandmother, little as one might suspect it who entered the parlour

in the daytime, always slept in that same room, in a bed closed in

with doors like those of a large press in the wall, while Robert

slept in a little closet, looking into a garden at the back of the

house, the door of which opened from the parlour close to the head

of his grandmother's bed. It was just large enough to hold a

good-sized bed with curtains, a chest of drawers, a bureau, a large

eight-day clock, and one chair, leaving in the centre about five

feet square for him to move about in. There was more room as well

as more comfort in the bed. He was never allowed a candle, for

light enough came through from the parlour, his grandmother thought;

so he was soon extended between the whitest of cold sheets, with his

knees up to his chin, and his thoughts following his lost father

over all spaces of the earth with which his geography-book had made

him acquainted.

He was in the habit of leaving his closet and creeping through his

grandmother's room before she was awake--or at least before she had

given any signs to the small household that she was restored to

consciousness, and that the life of the house must proceed. He

therefore found no difficulty in liberating Shargar from his prison,

except what arose from the boy's own unwillingness to forsake his

comfortable quarters for the fierce encounter of the January blast

which awaited him. But Robert did not turn him out before the last

moment of safety had arrived; for, by the aid of signs known to

himself, he watched the progress of his grandmother's dressing--an

operation which did not consume much of the morning, scrupulous as

she was with regard to neatness and cleanliness--until Betty was

called in to give her careful assistance to the final disposition of

the mutch, when Shargar's exit could be delayed no longer. Then he

mounted to the foot of the second stair, and called in a keen

whisper,

'Noo, Shargar, cut for the life o' ye.'

And down came the poor fellow, with long gliding steps, ragged and

reluctant, and, without a word or a look, launched himself out into

the cold, and sped away he knew not whither. As he left the door,

the only suspicion of light was the dull and doubtful shimmer of the

snow that covered the street, keen particles of which were blown in

his face by the wind, which, having been up all night, had grown

very cold, and seemed delighted to find one unprotected human being

whom it might badger at its own bitter will. Outcast Shargar!

Where he spent the interval between Mrs. Falconer's door and that

of the school, I do not know. There was a report amongst his

school-fellows that he had been found by Scroggie, the fish-cadger,

lying at full length upon the back of his old horse, which, either

from compassion or indifference, had not cared to rise up under the

burden. They said likewise that, when accused by Scroggie of

housebreaking, though nothing had to be broken to get in, only a

string with a peculiar knot, on the invention of which the cadger

prided himself, to be undone, all that Shargar had to say in his

self-defence was, that he had a terrible sair wame, and that the

horse was warmer nor the stanes i' the yard; and he had dune him nae

ill, nae even drawn a hair frae his tail--which would have been a

difficult feat, seeing the horse's tail was as bare as his hoof.

CHAPTER VII.

ROBERT TO THE RESCUE!

That Shargar was a parish scholar--which means that the parish paid

his fees, although, indeed, they were hardly worth paying--made very

little difference to his position amongst his school-fellows. Nor

did the fact of his being ragged and dirty affect his social

reception to his discomfort. But the accumulated facts of the

oddity of his personal appearance, his supposed imbecility, and the

bad character borne by his mother, placed him in a very unenviable

relation to the tyrannical and vulgar-minded amongst them.

Concerning his person, he was long, and, as his name implied, lean,

with pale-red hair, reddish eyes, no visible eyebrows or eyelashes,

and very pale face--in fact, he was half-way to an Albino. His arms

and legs seemed of equal length, both exceedingly long. The

handsomeness of his mother appeared only in his nose and mouth,

which were regular and good, though expressionless; and the birth of

his father only in his small delicate hands and feet, of which any

girl who cared only for smallness, and heeded neither character nor

strength, might have been proud. His feet, however, were supposed

to be enormous, from the difficulty with which he dragged after him

the huge shoes in which in winter they were generally encased.

The imbecility, like the large feet, was only imputed. He certainly

was not brilliant, but neither did he make a fool of himself in any

of the few branches of learning of which the parish-scholar came in

for a share. That which gained him the imputation was the fact that

his nature was without a particle of the aggressive, and all its

defensive of as purely negative a character as was possible. Had he

been a dog, he would never have thought of doing anything for his

own protection beyond turning up his four legs in silent appeal to

the mercy of the heavens. He was an absolute sepulchre in the

swallowing of oppression and ill-usage. It vanished in him. There

was no echo of complaint, no murmur of resentment from the hollows

of that soul. The blows that fell upon him resounded not, and no

one but God remembered them.

His mother made her living as she herself best knew, with occasional

well-begrudged assistance from the parish. Her chief resource was

no doubt begging from house to house for the handful of oatmeal

which was the recognized, and, in the court of custom-taught

conscience, the legalized dole upon which every beggar had a claim;

and if she picked up at the same time a chicken, or a boy's rabbit,

or any other stray luxury, she was only following the general rule

of society, that your first duty is to take care of yourself. She

was generally regarded as a gipsy, but I doubt if she had any gipsy

blood in her veins. She was simply a tramper, with occasional fits

of localization. Her worst fault was the way she treated her son,

whom she starved apparently that she might continue able to beat

him.

The particular occasion which led to the recognition of the growing

relation between Robert and Shargar was the following. Upon a

certain Saturday--some sidereal power inimical to boys must have

been in the ascendant--a Saturday of brilliant but intermittent

sunshine, the white clouds seen from the school windows indicating

by their rapid transit across those fields of vision that fresh

breezes friendly to kites, or draigons, as they were called at

Rothieden, were frolicking in the upper regions--nearly a dozen boys

were kept in for not being able to pay down from memory the usual

instalment of Shorter Catechism always due at the close of the week.

Amongst these boys were Robert and Shargar. Sky-revealing windows

and locked door were too painful; and in proportion as the feeling

of having nothing to do increased, the more uneasy did the active

element in the boys become, and the more ready to break out into

some abnormal manifestation. Everything--sun, wind, clouds--was

busy out of doors, and calling to them to come and join the fun; and

activity at the same moment excited and restrained naturally turns

to mischief. Most of them had already learned the obnoxious

task--one quarter of an hour was enough for that--and now what

should they do next? The eyes of three or four of the eldest of

them fell simultaneously upon Shargar.

Robert was sitting plunged in one of his day-dreams, for he, too,

had learned his catechism, when he was roused from his reverie by a

question from a pale-faced little boy, who looked up to him as a

great authority.

'What for 's 't ca'd the Shorter Carritchis, Bob?'

''Cause it's no fully sae lang's the Bible,' answered Robert,

without giving the question the consideration due to it, and was

proceeding to turn the matter over in his mind, when the mental

process was arrested by a shout of laughter. The other boys had

tied Shargar's feet to the desk at which he sat--likewise his hands,

at full stretch; then, having attached about a dozen strings to as

many elf-locks of his pale-red hair, which was never cut or trimmed,

had tied them to various pegs in the wall behind him, so that the

poor fellow could not stir. They were now crushing up pieces of

waste-paper, not a few leaves of stray school-books being regarded

in that light, into bullets, dipping them in ink and aiming then at

Shargar's face.

For some time Shargar did not utter a word; and Robert, although

somewhat indignant at the treatment he was receiving, felt as yet no

impulse to interfere, for success was doubtful. But, indeed, he was

not very easily roused to action of any kind; for he was as yet

mostly in the larva-condition of character, when everything is

transacted inside. But the fun grew more furious, and spot after

spot of ink gloomed upon Shargar's white face. Still Robert took no

notice, for they did not seem to be hurting him much. But when he

saw the tears stealing down his patient cheeks, making channels

through the ink which now nearly covered them, he could bear it no

longer. He took out his knife, and under pretence of joining in the

sport, drew near to Shargar, and with rapid hand cut the cords--all

but those that bound his feet, which were less easy to reach without

exposing himself defenceless.

The boys of course turned upon Robert. But ere they came to more

than abusive words a diversion took place.

Mrs. Innes, the school-master's wife--a stout, kind-hearted woman,

the fine condition of whose temperament was clearly the result of

her physical prosperity--appeared at the door which led to the

dwelling-house above, bearing in her hands a huge tureen of

potato-soup, for her motherly heart could not longer endure the

thought of dinnerless boys. Her husband being engaged at a parish

meeting, she had a chance of interfering with success.

But ere Nancy, the servant, could follow with the spoons and plates,

Wattie Morrison had taken the tureen, and out of spite at Robert,

had emptied its contents on the head of Shargar, who was still tied

by the feet, with the words: 'Shargar, I anoint thee king over us,

and here is thy crown,' giving the tureen, as he said so, a push on

to his head, where it remained.

Shargar did not move, and for one moment could not speak, but the

next he gave a shriek that made Robert think he was far worse

scalded than turned out to be the case. He darted to him in rage,

took the tureen from his head, and, his blood being fairly up now,

flung it with all his force at Morrison, and felled him to the

earth. At the same moment the master entered by the street door and

his wife by the house door, which was directly opposite. In the

middle of the room the prisoners surrounded the fallen

tyrant--Robert, with the red face of wrath, and Shargar, with a

complexion the mingled result of tears, ink, and soup, which latter

clothed him from head to foot besides, standing on the outskirts of

the group. I need not follow the story farther. Both Robert and

Morrison got a lickin'; and if Mr. Innes had been like some

school-masters of those times, Shargar would not have escaped his

share of the evil things going.

>From that day Robert assumed the acknowledged position of Shargar's

defender. And if there was pride and a sense of propriety mingled

with his advocacy of Shargar's rights, nay, even if the relation was

not altogether free from some amount of show-off on Robert's part, I

cannot yet help thinking that it had its share in that development

of the character of Falconer which has chiefly attracted me to the

office of his biographer. There may have been in it the exercise of

some patronage; probably it was not pure from the pride of

beneficence; but at least it was a loving patronage and a vigorous

beneficence; and, under the reaction of these, the good which in

Robert's nature was as yet only in a state of solution, began to

crystallize into character.

But the effect of the new relation was far more remarkable on

Shargar. As incapable of self-defence as ever, he was yet in a

moment roused to fury by any attack upon the person or the dignity

of Robert: so that, indeed, it became a new and favourite mode of

teasing Shargar to heap abuse, real or pretended, upon his friend.

>From the day when Robert thus espoused his part, Shargar was

Robert's dog. That very evening, when she went to take a parting

peep at the external before locking the door for the night, Betty

found him sitting upon the door-step, only, however, to send him

off, as she described it, 'wi' a flech1 in 's lug (a flea in his

ear).' For the character of the mother was always associated with

the boy, and avenged upon him. I must, however, allow that those

delicate, dirty fingers of his could not with safety be warranted

from occasional picking and stealing.

At this period of my story, Robert himself was rather a

grotesque-looking animal, very tall and lanky, with especially long

arms, which excess of length they retained after he was full-grown.

In this respect Shargar and he were alike; but the long legs of

Shargar were unmatched in Robert, for at this time his body was

peculiarly long. He had large black eyes, deep sunk even then, and

a Roman nose, the size of which in a boy of his years looked

portentous. For the rest, he was dark-complexioned, with dark hair,

destined to grow darker still, with hands and feet well modelled,

but which would have made four feet and four hands such as

Shargar's.

When his mind was not oppressed with the consideration of any

important metaphysical question, he learned his lessons well; when

such was present, the Latin grammar, with all its attendant

servilities, was driven from the presence of the lordly need. That

once satisfied in spite of pandies and imprisonments, he returned

with fresh zest, and, indeed, with some ephemeral ardour, to the

rules of syntax or prosody, though the latter, in the mode in which

it was then and there taught, was almost as useless as the task set

himself by a worthy lay-preacher in the neighbourhood--of learning

the first nine chapters of the first Book of the Chronicles, in

atonement for having, in an evil hour of freedom of spirit, ventured

to suggest that such lists of names, even although forming a portion

of Holy Writ, could scarcely be reckoned of equally divine authority

with St. Paul's Epistle to the Romans.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE ANGEL UNAWARES.

Although Betty seemed to hold little communication with the outer

world, she yet contrived somehow or other to bring home what gossip

was going to the ears of her mistress, who had very few visitors;

for, while her neighbours held Mrs. Falconer in great and evident

respect, she was not the sort of person to sit down and have a news

with. There was a certain sedate self-contained dignity about her

which the common mind felt to be chilling and repellant; and from

any gossip of a personal nature--what Betty brought her always

excepted--she would turn away, generally with the words, 'Hoots! I

canna bide clashes.'

On the evening following that of Shargar's introduction to Mrs.

Falconer's house, Betty came home from the butcher's--for it was

Saturday night, and she had gone to fetch the beef for their

Sunday's broth--with the news that the people next door, that is,

round the corner in the next street, had a visitor.

The house in question had been built by Robert's father, and was,

compared with Mrs. Falconer's one-storey house, large and handsome.

Robert had been born, and had spent a few years of his life in it,

but could recall nothing of the facts of those early days. Some

time before the period at which my history commences it had passed

into other hands, and it was now quite strange to him. It had been

bought by a retired naval officer, who lived in it with his

wife--the only Englishwoman in the place, until the arrival, at The

Boar's Head, of the lady so much admired by Dooble Sanny.

Robert was up-stairs when Betty emptied her news-bag, and so heard

nothing of this bit of gossip. He had just assured Shargar that as

soon as his grandmother was asleep he would look about for what he

could find, and carry it up to him in the garret. As yet he had

confined the expenditure out of Shargar's shilling to twopence.

The household always retired early--earlier on Saturday night in

preparation for the Sabbath--and by ten o'clock grannie and Betty

were in bed. Robert, indeed, was in bed too; but he had lain down

in his clothes, waiting for such time as might afford reasonable

hope of his grandmother being asleep, when he might both ease

Shargar's hunger and get to sleep himself. Several times he got up,

resolved to make his attempt; but as often his courage failed and he

lay down again, sure that grannie could not be asleep yet. When the

clock beside him struck eleven, he could bear it no longer, and

finally rose to do his endeavour.

Opening the door of the closet slowly and softly, he crept upon his

hands and knees into the middle of the parlour, feeling very much

like a thief, as, indeed, in a measure he was, though from a

blameless motive. But just as he had accomplished half the distance

to the door, he was arrested and fixed with terror; for a deep sigh

came from grannie's bed, followed by the voice of words. He thought

at first that she had heard him, but he soon found that he was

mistaken. Still, the fear of discovery held him there on all fours,

like a chained animal. A dull red gleam, faint and dull, from the

embers of the fire, was the sole light in the room. Everything so

common to his eyes in the daylight seemed now strange and eerie in

the dying coals, and at what was to the boy the unearthly hour of

the night.

He felt that he ought not to listen to grannie, but terror made him

unable to move.

'Och hone! och hone!' said grannie from the bed. 'I've a sair, sair

hert. I've a sair hert i' my breist, O Lord! thoo knowest. My ain

Anerew! To think o' my bairnie that I cairriet i' my ain body, that

sookit my breists, and leuch i' my face--to think o' 'im bein' a

reprobate! O Lord! cudna he be eleckit yet? Is there nae turnin'

o' thy decrees? Na, na; that wadna do at a'. But while there's

life there's houp. But wha kens whether he be alive or no? Naebody

can tell. Glaidly wad I luik upon 's deid face gin I cud believe

that his sowl wasna amang the lost. But eh! the torments o' that

place! and the reik that gangs up for ever an' ever, smorin'

(smothering) the stars! And my Anerew doon i' the hert o' 't

cryin'! And me no able to win till him! O Lord! I canna say thy

will be done. But dinna lay 't to my chairge; for gin ye was a

mither yersel' ye wadna pit him there. O Lord! I'm verra

ill-fashioned. I beg yer pardon. I'm near oot o' my min'. Forgie

me, O Lord! for I hardly ken what I'm sayin'. He was my ain babe,

my ain Anerew, and ye gae him to me yersel'. And noo he's for the

finger o' scorn to pint at; an ootcast an' a wan'erer frae his ain

country, an' daurna come within sicht o' 't for them 'at wad tak'

the law o' 'm. An' it's a' drink--drink an' ill company! He wad

hae dune weel eneuch gin they wad only hae latten him be. What for

maun men be aye drink-drinkin' at something or ither? I never want

it. Eh! gin I war as young as whan he was born, I wad be up an'

awa' this verra nicht to luik for him. But it's no use me tryin'

't. O God! ance mair I pray thee to turn him frae the error o' 's

ways afore he goes hence an' isna more. And O dinna lat Robert gang

efter him, as he's like eneuch to do. Gie me grace to haud him

ticht, that he may be to the praise o' thy glory for ever an' ever.

Amen.'

Whether it was that the weary woman here fell asleep, or that she

was too exhausted for further speech, Robert heard no more, though

he remained there frozen with horror for some minutes after his

grandmother had ceased. This, then, was the reason why she would

never speak about his father! She kept all her thoughts about him

for the silence of the night, and loneliness with the God who never

sleeps, but watches the wicked all through the dark. And his father

was one of the wicked! And God was against him! And when he died

he would go to hell! But he was not dead yet: Robert was sure of

that. And when he grew a man, he would go and seek him, and beg him

on his knees to repent and come back to God, who would forgive him

then, and take him to heaven when he died. And there he would be

good, and good people would love him.

Something like this passed through the boy's mind ere he moved to

creep from the room, for his was one of those natures which are

active in the generation of hope. He had almost forgotten what he

came there for; and had it not been that he had promised Shargar, he

would have crept back to his bed and left him to bear his hunger as

best he could. But now, first his right hand, then his left knee,

like any other quadruped, he crawled to the door, rose only to his

knees to open it, took almost a minute to the operation, then

dropped and crawled again, till he had passed out, turned, and drawn

the door to, leaving it slightly ajar. Then it struck him awfully

that the same terrible passage must be gone through again. But he

rose to his feet, for he had no shoes on, and there was little

danger of making any noise, although it was pitch dark--he knew the

house so well. With gathering courage, he felt his way to the

kitchen, and there groped about; but he could find nothing beyond a

few quarters of oat-cake, which, with a mug of water, he proceeded

to carry up to Shargar in the garret.

When he reached the kitchen door, he was struck with amazement and

for a moment with fresh fear. A light was shining into the transe

from the stair which went up at right angles from the end of it. He

knew it could not be grannie, and he heard Betty snoring in her own

den, which opened from the kitchen. He thought it must be Shargar

who had grown impatient; but how he had got hold of a light he could

not think. As soon as he turned the corner, however, the doubt was

changed into mystery. At the top of the broad low stair stood a

woman-form with a candle in her hand, gazing about her as if

wondering which way to go. The light fell full upon her face, the

beauty of which was such that, with her dress, which was

white--being, in fact, a nightgown--and her hair, which was hanging

loose about her shoulders and down to her waist, it led Robert at

once to the conclusion (his reasoning faculties already shaken by

the events of the night) that she was an angel come down to comfort

his grannie; and he kneeled involuntarily at the foot of the stair,

and gazed up at her, with the cakes in one hand, and the mug of

water in the other, like a meat-and-drink offering. Whether he had

closed his eyes or bowed his head, he could not say; but he became

suddenly aware that the angel had vanished--he knew not when, how,

or whither. This for a time confirmed his assurance that it was an

angel. And although he was undeceived before long, the impression

made upon him that night was never effaced. But, indeed, whatever

Falconer heard or saw was something more to him than it would have

been to anybody else.

Elated, though awed, by the vision, he felt his way up the stair in

the new darkness, as if walking in a holy dream, trod as if upon

sacred ground as he crossed the landing where the angel had

stood--went up and up, and found Shargar wide awake with expectant

hunger. He, too, had caught a glimmer of the light. But Robert did

not tell him what he had seen. That was too sacred a subject to

enter upon with Shargar, and he was intent enough upon his supper

not to be inquisitive.

Robert left him to finish it at his leisure, and returned to cross

his grandmother's room once more, half expecting to find the angel

standing by her bedside. But all was dark and still. Creeping back

as he had come, he heard her quiet, though deep, breathing, and his

mind was at ease about her for the night. What if the angel he had

surprised had only come to appear to grannie in her sleep? Why not?

There were such stories in the Bible, and grannie was certainly as

good as some of the people in the Bible that saw angels--Sarah, for

instance. And if the angels came to see grannie, why should they

not have some care over his father as well? It might be--who could

tell?

It is perhaps necessary to explain Robert's vision. The angel was

the owner of the boxes he had seen at The Bear's Head. Looking

around her room before going to bed, she had seen a trap in the

floor near the wall, and raising it, had discovered a few steps of a

stair leading down to a door. Curiosity naturally led her to

examine it. The key was in the lock. It opened outwards, and there

she found herself, to her surprise, in the heart of another

dwelling, of lowlier aspect. She never saw Robert; for while he

approached with shoeless feet, she had been glancing through the

open door of the gable-room, and when he knelt, the light which she

held in her hand had, I presume, hidden him from her. He, on his

part, had not observed that the moveless door stood open at last.

I have already said that the house adjoining had been built by

Robert's father. The lady's room was that which he had occupied

with his wife, and in it Robert had been born. The door, with its

trap-stair, was a natural invention for uniting the levels of the

two houses, and a desirable one in not a few of the forms which the

weather assumed in that region. When the larger house passed into

other hands, it had never entered the minds of the simple people who

occupied the contiguous dwellings, to build up the doorway between.

CHAPTER IX.

A DISCOVERY.

The friendship of Robert had gained Shargar the favourable notice of

others of the school-public. These were chiefly of those who came

from the country, ready to follow an example set them by a town boy.

When his desertion was known, moved both by their compassion for

him, and their respect for Robert, they began to give him some

portion of the dinner they brought with them; and never in his life

had Shargar fared so well as for the first week after he had been

cast upon the world. But in proportion as their interest faded with

the novelty, so their appetites reasserted former claims of use and

wont, and Shargar began once more to feel the pangs of hunger. For

all that Robert could manage to procure for him without attracting

the attention he was so anxious to avoid, was little more than

sufficient to keep his hunger alive, Shargar being gifted with a

great appetite, and Robert having no allowance of pocket-money from

his grandmother. The threepence he had been able to spend on him

were what remained of sixpence Mr. Innes had given him for an

exercise which he wrote in blank verse instead of in prose--an

achievement of which the school-master was proud, both from his

reverence for Milton, and from his inability to compose a metrical

line himself. And how and when he should ever possess another penny

was even unimaginable. Shargar's shilling was likewise spent. So

Robert could but go on pocketing instead of eating all that he

dared, watching anxiously for opportunity of evading the eyes of his

grandmother. On her dimness of sight, however, he depended too

confidently after all; for either she was not so blind as he thought

she was, or she made up for the defect of her vision by the keenness

of her observation. She saw enough to cause her considerable

annoyance, though it suggested nothing inconsistent with rectitude

on the part of the boy, further than that there was something

underhand going on. One supposition after another arose in the old

lady's brain, and one after another was dismissed as improbable.

First, she tried to persuade herself that he wanted to take the

provisions to school with him, and eat them there--a proceeding of

which she certainly did not approve, but for the reproof of which

she was unwilling to betray the loopholes of her eyes. Next she

concluded, for half a day, that he must have a pair of rabbits

hidden away in some nook or other--possibly in the little strip of

garden belonging to the house. And so conjecture followed

conjecture for a whole week, during which, strange to say, not even

Betty knew that Shargar slept in the house. For so careful and

watchful were the two boys, that although she could not help

suspecting something from the expression and behaviour of Robert,

what that something might be she could not imagine; nor had she and

her mistress as yet exchanged confidences on the subject. Her

observation coincided with that of her mistress as to the

disappearance of odds and ends of eatables--potatoes, cold porridge,

bits of oat-cake; and even, on one occasion, when Shargar happened

to be especially ravenous, a yellow, or cured and half-dried,

haddock, which the lad devoured raw, vanished from her domain. He

went to school in the morning smelling so strong in consequence,

that they told him he must have been passing the night in Scroggie's

cart, and not on his horse's back this time.

The boys kept their secret well.

One evening, towards the end of the week, Robert, after seeing

Shargar disposed of for the night, proceeded to carry out a project

which had grown in his brain within the last two days in consequence

of an occurrence with which his relation to Shargar had had

something to do. It was this:

The housing of Shargar in the garret had led Robert to make a close

acquaintance with the place. He was familiar with all the outs and

ins of the little room which he considered his own, for that was a

civilized, being a plastered, ceiled, and comparatively well-lighted

little room, but not with the other, which was three times its size,

very badly lighted, and showing the naked couples from roof-tree to

floor. Besides, it contained no end of dark corners, with which his

childish imagination had associated undefined horrors, assuming now

one shape, now another. Also there were several closets in it,

constructed in the angles of the place, and several chests--two of

which he had ventured to peep into. But although he had found them

filled, not with bones, as he had expected, but one with papers, and

one with garments, he had yet dared to carry his researches no

further. One evening, however, when Betty was out, and he had got

hold of her candle, and gone up to keep Shargar company for a few

minutes, a sudden impulse seized him to have a peep into all the

closets. One of them he knew a little about, as containing, amongst

other things, his father's coat with the gilt buttons, and his

great-grandfather's kilt, as well as other garments useful to

Shargar: now he would see what was in the rest. He did not find

anything very interesting, however, till he arrived at the last.

Out of it he drew a long queer-shaped box into the light of Betty's

dip.

'Luik here, Shargar!' he said under his breath, for they never dared

to speak aloud in these precincts--'luik here! What can there be in

this box? Is't a bairnie's coffin, duv ye think? Luik at it.'

In this case Shargar, having roamed the country a good deal more

than Robert, and having been present at some merry-makings with his

mother, of which there were comparatively few in that country-side,

was better informed than his friend.

'Eh! Bob, duvna ye ken what that is? I thocht ye kent a' thing.

That's a fiddle.'

'That's buff an' styte (stuff and nonsense), Shargar. Do ye think I

dinna ken a fiddle whan I see ane, wi' its guts ootside o' 'ts wame,

an' the thoomacks to screw them up wi' an' gar't skirl?'

'Buff an' styte yersel'!' cried Shargar, in indignation, from the

bed. 'Gie's a haud o' 't.'

Robert handed him the case. Shargar undid the hooks in a moment,

and revealed the creature lying in its shell like a boiled bivalve.

'I tellt ye sae!' he exclaimed triumphantly. 'Maybe ye'll lippen to

me (trust me) neist time.'

'An' I tellt you,' retorted Robert, with an equivocation altogether

unworthy of his growing honesty. 'I was cocksure that cudna be a

fiddle. There's the fiddle i' the hert o' 't! Losh! I min' noo.

It maun be my grandfather's fiddle 'at I hae heard tell o'.'

'No to ken a fiddle-case!' reflected Shargar, with as much of

contempt as it was possible for him to show.

'I tell ye what, Shargar,' returned Robert, indignantly; 'ye may ken

the box o' a fiddle better nor I do, but de'il hae me gin I dinna

ken the fiddle itsel' raither better nor ye do in a fortnicht frae

this time. I s' tak' it to Dooble Sanny; he can play the fiddle

fine. An' I'll play 't too, or the de'il s' be in't.'

'Eh, man, that 'll be gran'!' cried Shargar, incapable of jealousy.

'We can gang to a' the markets thegither and gaither baubees

(halfpence).'

To this anticipation Robert returned no reply, for, hearing Betty

come in, he judged it time to restore the violin to its case, and

Betty's candle to the kitchen, lest she should invade the upper

regions in search of it. But that very night he managed to have an

interview with Dooble Sanny, the shoemaker, and it was arranged

between them that Robert should bring his violin on the evening at

which my story has now arrived.

Whatever motive he had for seeking to commence the study of music,

it holds even in more important matters that, if the thing pursued

be good, there is a hope of the pursuit purifying the motive. And

Robert no sooner heard the fiddle utter a few mournful sounds in the

hands of the soutar, who was no contemptible performer, than he

longed to establish such a relation between himself and the strange

instrument, that, dumb and deaf as it had been to him hitherto, it

would respond to his touch also, and tell him the secrets of its

queerly-twisted skull, full of sweet sounds instead of brains. From

that moment he would be a musician for music's own sake, and forgot

utterly what had appeared to him, though I doubt if it was, the sole

motive of his desire to learn--namely, the necessity of retaining

his superiority over Shargar.

What added considerably to the excitement of his feelings on the

occasion, was the expression of reverence, almost of awe, with which

the shoemaker took the instrument from its case, and the tenderness

with which he handled it. The fact was that he had not had a violin

in his hands for nearly a year, having been compelled to pawn his

own in order to alleviate the sickness brought on his wife by his

own ill-treatment of her, once that he came home drunk from a

wedding. It was strange to think that such dirty hands should be

able to bring such sounds out of the instrument the moment he got it

safely cuddled under his cheek. So dirty were they, that it was

said Dooble Sanny never required to carry any rosin with him for

fiddler's need, his own fingers having always enough upon them for

one bow at least. Yet the points of those fingers never lost the

delicacy of their touch. Some people thought this was in virtue of

their being washed only once a week--a custom Alexander justified on

the ground that, in a trade like his, it was of no use to wash

oftener, for he would be just as dirty again before night.

The moment he began to play, the face of the soutar grew ecstatic.

He stopped at the very first note, notwithstanding, let fall his

arms, the one with the bow, the other with the violin, at his sides,

and said, with a deep-drawn respiration and lengthened utterance:

'Eh!'

Then after a pause, during which he stood motionless:

'The crater maun be a Cry Moany! Hear till her!' he added, drawing

another long note.

Then, after another pause:

'She's a Straddle Vawrious at least! Hear till her. I never had

sic a combination o' timmer and catgut atween my cleuks (claws)

afore.'

As to its being a Stradivarius, or even a Cremona at all, the

testimony of Dooble Sanny was not worth much on the point. But the

shoemaker's admiration roused in the boy's mind a reverence for the

individual instrument which he never lost.

>From that day the two were friends.

Suddenly the soutar started off at full speed in a strathspey, which

was soon lost in the wail of a Highland psalm-tune, giving place in

its turn to 'Sic a wife as Willie had!' And on he went without

pause, till Robert dared not stop any longer. The fiddle had

bewitched the fiddler.

'Come as aften 's ye like, Robert, gin ye fess this leddy wi' ye,'

said the soutar.

And he stroked the back of the violin tenderly with his open palm.

'But wad ye hae ony objection to lat it lie aside ye, and lat me

come whan I can?'

'Objection, laddie? I wad as sune objeck to lattin' my ain wife lie

aside me.'

'Ay,' said Robert, seized with some anxiety about the violin as he

remembered the fate of the wife, 'but ye ken Elspet comes aff a' the

waur sometimes.'

Softened by the proximity of the wonderful violin, and stung afresh

by the boy's words as his conscience had often stung him before, for

he loved his wife dearly save when the demon of drink possessed him,

the tears rose in Elshender's eyes. He held out the violin to

Robert, saying, with unsteady voice:

'Hae, tak her awa'. I dinna deserve to hae sic a thing i' my hoose.

But hear me, Robert, and lat hearin' be believin'. I never was sae

drunk but I cud tune my fiddle. Mair by token, ance they fand me

lyin' o' my back i' the Corrie, an' the watter, they say, was ower

a' but the mou' o' me; but I was haudin' my fiddle up abune my heid,

and de'il a spark o' watter was upo' her.'

'It's a pity yer wife wasna yer fiddle, than, Sanny,' said Robert,

with more presumption than wit.

''Deed ye're i' the richt, there, Robert. Hae, tak' yer fiddle.'

''Deed no,' returned Robert. 'I maun jist lippen (trust) to ye,

Sanders. I canna bide langer the nicht; but maybe ye'll tell me hoo

to haud her the neist time 'at I come--will ye?'

'That I wull, Robert, come whan ye like. An' gin ye come o' ane 'at

cud play this fiddle as this fiddle deserves to be playt, ye'll do

me credit.'

'Ye min' what that sumph Lumley said to me the ither nicht, Sanders,

aboot my grandfather?'

'Ay, weel eneuch. A dish o' drucken havers!'

'It was true eneuch aboot my great-grandfather, though.'

'No! Was't railly?'

'Ay. He was the best piper in 's regiment at Culloden. Gin they had

a' fouchten as he pipit, there wad hae been anither tale to tell.

And he was toon-piper forby, jist like you, Sanders, efter they

took frae him a' 'at he had.'

'Na! heard ye ever the like o' that! Weel, wha wad hae thocht it?

Faith! we maun hae you fiddle as weel as yer lucky-daiddy

pipit.--But here's the King o' Bashan comin' efter his butes, an'

them no half dune yet!' exclaimed Dooble Sanny, settling in haste to

his awl and his lingel (Fr. ligneul). 'He'll be roarin' mair like a

bull o' the country than the king o' 't.'

As Robert departed, Peter Ogg came in, and as he passed the window,

he heard the shoemaker averring:

'I haena risen frae my stule sin' ane o'clock; but there's a sicht

to be dune to them, Mr. Ogg.'

Indeed, Alexander ab Alexandro, as Mr. Innes facetiously styled him,

was in more ways than one worthy of the name of Dooble. There

seemed to be two natures in the man, which all his music had not yet

been able to blend.

CHAPTER X.

ANOTHER DISCOVERY IN THE GARRET.

Little did Robert dream of the reception that awaited him at home.

Almost as soon as he had left the house, the following events began

to take place.

The mistress's bell rang, and Betty 'gaed benn the hoose to see what

she cud be wantin',' whereupon a conversation ensued.

'Wha was that at the door, Betty?' asked Mrs. Falconer; for Robert

had not shut the door so carefully as he ought, seeing that the

deafness of his grandmother was of much the same faculty as her

blindness.

Had Robert not had a hold of Betty by the forelock of her years, he

would have been unable to steal any liberty at all. Still Betty had

a conscience, and although she would not offend Robert if she could

help it, yet she would not lie.

''Deed, mem, I canna jist distinckly say 'at I heard the door,' she

answered.

'Whaur's Robert?' was her next question.

'He's generally up the stair aboot this hoor, mem--that is, whan

he's no i' the parlour at 's lessons.'

'What gangs he sae muckle up the stair for, Betty, do ye ken? It's

something by ordinar' wi' 'm.'

''Deed I dinna ken, mem. I never tuik it into my heid to gang

considerin' aboot it. He'll hae some ploy o' 's ain, nae doobt.

Laddies will be laddies, ye ken, mem.'

'I doobt, Betty, ye'll be aidin' an' abettin'. An' it disna become

yer years, Betty.'

'My years are no to fin' faut wi', mem. They're weel eneuch.'

'That's naething to the pint, Betty. What's the laddie aboot?'

'Do ye mean whan he gangs up the stair, mem?'

'Ay. Ye ken weel eneuch what I mean.'

'Weel, mem, I tell ye I dinna ken. An' ye never heard me tell ye a

lee sin' ever I was i' yer service, mem.'

'Na, nae doonricht. Ye gang aboot it an' aboot it, an' at last ye

come sae near leein' that gin ye spak anither word, ye wad be at it;

and it jist fleys (frights) me frae speirin' ae ither question at

ye. An' that's hoo ye win oot o' 't. But noo 'at it's aboot my ain

oye (grandson), I'm no gaein' to tyne (lose) him to save a woman o'

your years, wha oucht to ken better; an sae I'll speir at ye, though

ye suld be driven to lee like Sawtan himsel'.--What's he aboot whan

he gangs up the stair? Noo!'

'Weel, as sure's deith, I dinna ken. Ye drive me to sweirin', mem,

an' no to leein'.'

'I carena. Hae ye no idea aboot it, than, Betty?'

'Weel, mem, I think sometimes he canna be weel, and maun hae a tod

(fox) in 's stamack, or something o' that nater. For what he eats

is awfu'. An' I think whiles he jist gangs up the stair to eat at

's ain wull.'

'That jumps wi' my ain observations, Betty. Do ye think he micht

hae a rabbit, or maybe a pair o' them, in some boxie i' the garret,

noo?'

'And what for no, gin he had, mem?'

'What for no? Nesty stinkin' things! But that's no the pint. I

aye hae to haud ye to the pint, Betty. The pint is, whether he has

rabbits or no?'

'Or guinea-pigs,' suggested Betty.

'Weel.'

'Or maybe a pup or twa. Or I kent a laddie ance 'at keepit a haill

faimily o' kittlins. Or maybe he micht hae a bit lammie. There was

an uncle o' min' ain--'

'Haud yer tongue, Betty! Ye hae ower muckle to say for a' the sense

there's intil 't.'

'Weel, mem, ye speirt questions at me.'

'Weel, I hae had eneuch o' yer answers, Betty. Gang and tell Robert

to come here direckly.'

Betty went, knowing perfectly that Robert had gone out, and returned

with the information. Her mistress searched her face with a keen

eye.

'That maun hae been himsel' efter a' whan ye thocht ye hard the door

gang,' said Betty.

'It's a strange thing that I suld hear him benn here wi' the door

steekit, an' your door open at the verra door-cheek o' the ither,

an' you no hear him, Betty. And me sae deif as weel!'

''Deed, mem,' retorted Betty, losing her temper a little, 'I can be

as deif 's ither fowk mysel' whiles.'

When Betty grew angry, Mrs. Falconer invariably grew calm, or, at

least, put her temper out of sight. She was silent now, and

continued silent till Betty moved to return to her kitchen, when she

said, in a tone of one who had just arrived at an important

resolution:

'Betty, we'll jist awa' up the stair an' luik.'

'Weel, mem, I hae nae objections.'

'Nae objections! What for suld you or ony ither body hae ony

objections to me gaein' whaur I like i' my ain hoose? Umph!'

exclaimed Mrs. Falconer, turning and facing her maid.

'In coorse, mem. I only meant I had nae objections to gang wi' ye.'

'And what for suld you or ony ither woman that I paid twa pun' five

i' the half-year till, daur to hae objections to gaein' whaur I

wantit ye to gang i' my ain hoose?'

'Hoot, mem! it was but a slip o' the tongue--naething mair.'

'Slip me nae sic slips, or ye'll come by a fa' at last, I doobt,

Betty,' concluded Mrs. Falconer, in a mollified tone, as she turned

and led the way from the room.

They got a candle in the kitchen and proceeded up-stairs, Mrs.

Falconer still leading, and Betty following. They did not even look

into the ga'le-room, not doubting that the dignity of the best

bed-room was in no danger of being violated even by Robert, but took

their way upwards to the room in which he kept his

school-books--almost the only articles of property which the boy

possessed. Here they found nothing suspicious. All was even in the

best possible order--not a very wonderful fact, seeing a few books

and a slate were the only things there besides the papers on the

shelves.

What the feelings of Shargar must have been when he heard the steps

and voices, and saw the light approaching his place of refuge, we

will not change our point of view to inquire. He certainly was as

little to be envied at that moment as at any moment during the whole

of his existence.

The first sense Mrs. Falconer made use of in the search after

possible animals lay in her nose. She kept snuffing constantly,

but, beyond the usual musty smell of neglected apartments, had as

yet discovered nothing. The moment she entered the upper garret,

however--

'There's an ill-faured smell here, Betty,' she said, believing that

they had at last found the trail of the mystery; 'but it's no like

the smell o' rabbits. Jist luik i' the nuik there ahin' the door.'

'There's naething here,' responded Betty.

'Roon the en' o' that kist there. I s' luik into the press.'

As Betty rose from her search behind the chest and turned towards

her mistress, her eyes crossed the cavernous opening of the bed.

There, to her horror, she beheld a face like that of a galvanised

corpse staring at her from the darkness. Shargar was in a sitting

posture, paralysed with terror, waiting, like a fascinated bird,

till Mrs. Falconer and Betty should make the final spring upon him,

and do whatever was equivalent to devouring him upon the spot. He

had sat up to listen to the noise of their ascending footsteps, and

fear had so overmastered him, that he either could not, or forgot

that he could lie down and cover his head with some of the many

garments scattered around him.

'I didna say whusky, did I?' he kept repeating to himself, in utter

imbecility of fear.

'The Lord preserve 's!' exclaimed Betty, the moment she could speak;

for during the first few seconds, having caught the infection of

Shargar's expression, she stood equally paralysed. 'The Lord

preserve 's!' she repeated.

'Ance is eneuch,' said Mrs. Falconer, sharply, turning round to see

what the cause of Betty's ejaculation might be.

I have said that she was dim-sighted. The candle they had was

little better than a penny dip. The bed was darker than the rest of

the room. Shargar's face had none of the more distinctive

characteristics of manhood upon it.

'Gude preserve 's!' exclaimed Mrs. Falconer in her turn: 'it's a

wumman.'

Poor deluded Shargar, thinking himself safer under any form than

that which he actually bore, attempted no protest against the

mistake. But, indeed, he was incapable of speech. The two women

flew upon him to drag him out of bed. Then first recovering his

powers of motion, he sprung up in an agony of terror, and darted out

between them, overturning Betty in his course.

'Ye rouch limmer!' cried Betty, from the floor. 'Ye lang-leggit

jaud!' she added, as she rose--and at the same moment Shargar banged

the street-door behind him in his terror--'I wat ye dinna carry yer

coats ower syde (too long)!'

For Shargar, having discovered that the way to get the most warmth

from Robert's great-grandfather's kilt was to wear it in the manner

for which it had been fabricated, was in the habit of fastening it

round his waist before he got into bed; and the eye of Betty, as she

fell, had caught the swing of this portion of his attire.

But poor Mrs. Falconer, with sunken head, walked out of the garret

in the silence of despair. She went slowly down the steep stair,

supporting herself against the wall, her round-toed shoes creaking

solemnly as she went, took refuge in the ga'le-room, and burst into

a violent fit of weeping. For such depravity she was not prepared.

What a terrible curse hung over her family! Surely they were all

reprobate from the womb, not one elected for salvation from the

guilt of Adam's fall, and therefore abandoned to Satan as his

natural prey, to be led captive of him at his will. She threw

herself on her knees at the side of the bed, and prayed

heart-brokenly. Betty heard her as she limped past the door on her

way back to her kitchen.

Meantime Shargar had rushed across the next street on his bare feet

into the Crookit Wynd, terrifying poor old Kirstan Peerie, the

divisions betwixt the compartments of whose memory had broken down,

into the exclamation to her next neighbour, Tam Rhin, with whom she

was trying to gossip:

'Eh, Tammas! that'll be ane o' the slauchtert at Culloden.'

He never stopped till he reached his mother's deserted

abode--strange instinct! There he ran to earth like a hunted fox.

Rushing at the door, forgetful of everything but refuge, he found

it unlocked, and closing it behind him, stood panting like the hart

that has found the water-brooks. The owner had looked in one day to

see whether the place was worth repairing, for it was a mere

outhouse, and had forgotten to turn the key when he left it. Poor

Shargar! Was it more or less of a refuge that the mother that bore

him was not there either to curse or welcome his return? Less--if

we may judge from a remark he once made in my hearing many long

years after:

'For, ye see,' he said, 'a mither's a mither, be she the verra

de'il.'

Searching about in the dark, he found the one article unsold by the

landlord, a stool, with but two of its natural three legs. On this

he balanced himself and waited--simply for what Robert would do; for

his faith in Robert was unbounded, and he had no other hope on

earth. But Shargar was not miserable. In that wretched hovel, his

bare feet clasping the clay floor in constant search of a wavering

equilibrium, with pitch darkness around him, and incapable of the

simplest philosophical or religious reflection, he yet found life

good. For it had interest. Nay, more, it had hope. I doubt,

however, whether there is any interest at all without hope.

While he sat there, Robert, thinking him snug in the garret, was

walking quietly home from the shoemaker's; and his first impulse on

entering was to run up and recount the particulars of his interview

with Alexander. Arrived in the dark garret, he called Shargar, as

usual, in a whisper--received no reply--thought he was

asleep--called louder (for he had had a penny from his grandmother

that day for bringing home two pails of water for Betty, and had

just spent it upon a loaf for him)--but no Shargar replied.

Thereupon he went to the bed to lay hold of him and shake him. But

his searching hands found no Shargar. Becoming alarmed, he ran

down-stairs to beg a light from Betty.

When he reached the kitchen, he found Betty's nose as much in the

air as its construction would permit. For a hook-nosed animal, she

certainly was the most harmless and ovine creature in the world, but

this was a case in which feminine modesty was both concerned and

aggrieved. She showed her resentment no further, however, than by

simply returning no answer in syllable, or sound, or motion, to

Robert's request. She was washing up the tea-things, and went on

with her work as if she had been in absolute solitude, saving that

her countenance could hardly have kept up that expression of injured

dignity had such been the case. Robert plainly saw, to his great

concern, that his secret had been discovered in his absence, and

that Shargar had been expelled with contumely. But, with an

instinct of facing the worst at once which accompanied him through

life, he went straight to his grandmother's parlour.

'Well, grandmamma,' he said, trying to speak as cheerfully as he

could.

Grannie's prayers had softened her a little, else she would have

been as silent as Betty; for it was from her mistress that Betty had

learned this mode of torturing a criminal. So she was just able to

return his greeting in the words, 'Weel, Robert,' pronounced in a

finality of tone that indicated she had done her utmost, and had

nothing to add.

'Here's a browst (brewage)!' thought Robert to himself; and, still

on the principle of flying at the first of mischief he saw--the best

mode of meeting it, no doubt--addressed his grandmother at once.

The effort necessary gave a tone of defiance to his words.

'What for willna ye speik to me, grannie?' he said. 'I'm no a

haithen, nor yet a papist.'

'Ye're waur nor baith in ane, Robert.'

'Hoots! ye winna say baith, grannie,' returned Robert, who, even at

the age of fourteen, when once compelled to assert himself, assumed

a modest superiority.

'Nane o' sic impidence!' retorted Mrs. Falconer. 'I wonner whaur ye

learn that. But it's nae wonner. Evil communications corrupt gude

mainners. Ye're a lost prodigal, Robert, like yer father afore ye.

I hae jist been sittin' here thinkin' wi' mysel' whether it wadna

be better for baith o' 's to lat ye gang an' reap the fruit o' yer

doin's at ance; for the hard ways is the best road for

transgressors. I'm no bund to keep ye.'

'Weel, weel, I s' awa' to Shargar. Him and me 'ill haud on

thegither better nor you an' me, grannie. He's a puir cratur, but

he can stick till a body.'

'What are ye haverin' aboot Shargar for, ye heepocreet loon? Ye'll

no gang to Shargar, I s' warran'! Ye'll be efter that vile limmer

that's turnt my honest hoose intil a sty this last fortnicht.'

'Grannie, I dinna ken what ye mean.'

'She kens, than. I sent her aff like ane o' Samson's foxes, wi' a

firebrand at her tail. It's a pity it wasna tied atween the twa o'

ye.'

'Preserve 's, grannie! Is't possible ye hae ta'en Shargar for ane

o' wumman-kin'?'

'I ken naething aboot Shargar, I tell ye. I ken that Betty an' me

tuik an ill-faured dame i' the bed i' the garret.'

'Cud it be his mither?' thought Robert in bewilderment; but he

recovered himself in a moment, and answered,

'Shargar may be a quean efter a', for onything 'at I ken to the

contrairy; but I aye tuik him for a loon. Faith, sic a quean as

he'd mak!'

And careless to resist the ludicrousness of the idea, he burst into

a loud fit of laughter, which did more to reassure his grannie than

any amount of protestation could have done, however she pretended to

take offence at his ill-timed merriment.

Seeing his grandmother staggered, Robert gathered courage to assume

the offensive.

'But, granny! hoo ever Betty, no to say you, cud hae driven oot a

puir half-stervit cratur like Shargar, even supposin' he oucht to

hae been in coaties, and no in troosers--and the mither o' him run

awa' an' left him--it's mair nor I can unnerstan.' I misdoobt me

sair but he's gane and droont himsel'.'

Robert knew well enough that Shargar would not drown himself without

at least bidding him good-bye; but he knew too that his grandmother

could be wrought upon. Her conscience was more tender than her

feelings; and this peculiarity occasioned part of the mutual

non-understanding rather than misunderstanding between her grandson

and herself. The first relation she bore to most that came near her

was one of severity and rebuke; but underneath her cold outside lay

a warm heart, to which conscience acted the part of a somewhat

capricious stoker, now quenching its heat with the cold water of

duty, now stirring it up with the poker of reproach, and ever

treating it as an inferior and a slave. But her conscience was, on

the whole, a better friend to her race than her heart; and, indeed,

the conscience is always a better friend than a heart whose motions

are undirected by it. From Falconer's account of her, however, I

cannot help thinking that she not unfrequently took refuge in

severity of tone and manner from the threatened ebullition of a

feeling which she could not otherwise control, and which she was

ashamed to manifest. Possibly conscience had spoken more and more

gently as its behests were more and more readily obeyed, until the

heart began to gather courage, and at last, as in many old people,

took the upper hand, which was outwardly inconvenient to one of Mrs.

Falconer's temperament. Hence, in doing the kindest thing in the

world, she would speak in a tone of command, even of rebuke, as if

she were compelling the performance of the most unpleasant duty in

the person who received the kindness. But the human heart is hard

to analyze, and, indeed, will not submit quietly to the operation,

however gently performed. Nor is the result at all easy to put into

words. It is best shown in actions.

Again, it may appear rather strange that Robert should be able to

talk in such an easy manner to his grandmother, seeing he had been

guilty of concealment, if not of deception. But she had never been

so actively severe towards Robert as she had been towards her own

children. To him she was wonderfully gentle for her nature, and

sought to exercise the saving harshness which she still believed

necessary, solely in keeping from him every enjoyment of life which

the narrowest theories as to the rule and will of God could set down

as worldly. Frivolity, of which there was little in this sober boy,

was in her eyes a vice; loud laughter almost a crime; cards, and

novelles, as she called them, were such in her estimation, as to be

beyond my powers of characterization. Her commonest injunction was,

'Noo be douce,'--that is sober--uttered to the soberest boy she

could ever have known. But Robert was a large-hearted boy, else

this life would never have had to be written; and so, through all

this, his deepest nature came into unconscious contact with that of

his noble old grandmother. There was nothing small about either of

them. Hence Robert was not afraid of her. He had got more of her

nature in him than of her son's. She and his own mother had more

share in him than his father, though from him he inherited good

qualities likewise.

He had concealed his doings with Shargar simply because he believed

they could not be done if his grandmother knew of his plans. Herein

he did her less than justice. But so unpleasant was concealment to

his nature, and so much did the dread of discovery press upon him,

that the moment he saw the thing had come out into the daylight of

her knowledge, such a reaction of relief took place as, operating

along with his deep natural humour and the comical circumstance of

the case, gave him an ease and freedom of communication which he had

never before enjoyed with her. Likewise there was a certain courage

in the boy which, if his own natural disposition had not been so

quiet that he felt the negations of her rule the less, might have

resulted in underhand doings of a very different kind, possibly,

from those of benevolence.

He must have been a strange being to look at, I always think, at

this point of his development, with his huge nose, his black eyes,

his lanky figure, and his sober countenance, on which a smile was

rarely visible, but from which burst occasional guffaws of laughter.

At the words 'droont himsel',' Mrs. Falconer started.

'Rin, laddie, rin,' she said, 'an' fess him back direckly! Betty!

Betty! gang wi' Robert and help him to luik for Shargar. Ye auld,

blin', doited body, 'at says ye can see, and canna tell a lad frae a

lass!'

'Na, na, grannie. I'm no gaein' oot wi' a dame like her trailin' at

my fut. She wad be a sair hinnerance to me. Gin Shargar be to be

gotten--that is, gin he be in life--I s' get him wantin' Betty. And

gin ye dinna ken him for the crater ye fand i' the garret, he maun

be sair changed sin' I left him there.'

'Weel, weel, Robert, gang yer wa's. But gin ye be deceivin' me, may

the Lord--forgie ye, Robert, for sair ye'll need it.'

'Nae fear o' that, grannie,' returned Robert, from the street door,

and vanished.

Mrs. Falconer stalked--No, I will not use that word of the gait of a

woman like my friend's grandmother. 'Stately stept she butt the

hoose' to Betty. She felt strangely soft at the heart, Robert not

being yet proved a reprobate; but she was not therefore prepared to

drop one atom of the dignity of her relation to her servant.

'Betty,' she said, 'ye hae made a mistak.'

'What's that, mem?' returned Betty.

'It wasna a lass ava; it was that crater Shargar.'

'Ye said it was a lass yersel' first, mem.'

'Ye ken weel eneuch that I'm short sichtit, an' hae been frae the

day o' my birth.'

'I'm no auld eneuch to min' upo' that, mem,' returned Betty

revengefully, but in an undertone, as if she did not intend her

mistress to hear, And although she heard well enough, her mistress

adopted the subterfuge. 'But I'll sweir the crater I saw was in

cwytes (petticoats).'

'Sweir not at all, Betty. Ye hae made a mistak ony gait.'

'Wha says that, mem?'

'Robert.'

'Aweel, gin he be tellin' the trowth--'

'Daur ye mint (insinuate) to me that a son o' mine wad tell onything

but the trowth?'

'Na, na, mem. But gin that wasna a quean, ye canna deny but she

luikit unco like ane, and no a blate (bashful) ane eyther.'

'Gin he was a loon, he wadna luik like a blate lass, ony gait,

Betty. And there ye're wrang.'

'Weel, weel, mem, hae 't yer ain gait,' muttered Betty.

'I wull hae 't my ain gait,' retorted her mistress, 'because it's

the richt gait, Betty. An' noo ye maun jist gang up the stair, an'

get the place cleant oot an' put in order.'

'I wull do that, mem.'

'Ay wull ye. An' luik weel aboot, Betty, you that can see sae weel,

in case there suld be ony cattle aboot; for he's nane o' the

cleanest, yon dame!'

'I wull do that, mem.'

'An' gang direckly, afore he comes back.'

'Wha comes back?'

'Robert, of course.'

'What for that?'

''Cause he's comin' wi' 'im.'

'What he 's comin' wi' 'im?'

'Ca' 't she, gin ye like. It's Shargar.'

'Wha says that?' exclaimed Betty, sniffing and starting at once.

'I say that. An' ye gang an' du what I tell ye, this minute.'

Betty obeyed instantly; for the tone in which the last words were

spoken was one she was not accustomed to dispute. She only muttered

as she went, 'It 'll a' come upo' me as usual.'

Betty's job was long ended before Robert returned. Never dreaming

that Shargar could have gone back to the old haunt, he had looked

for him everywhere before that occurred to him as a last chance.

Nor would he have found him even then, for he would not have

thought of his being inside the deserted house, had not Shargar

heard his footsteps in the street.

He started up from his stool saying, 'That's Bob!' but was not sure

enough to go to the door: he might be mistaken; it might be the

landlord! He heard the feet stop and did not move; but when he

heard them begin to go away again, he rushed to the door, and bawled

on the chance at the top of his voice, 'Bob! Bob!'

'Eh! ye crater!' said Robert, 'ir ye there efter a'?

'Eh! Bob,' exclaimed Shargar, and burst into tears. 'I thocht ye

wad come efter me.'

'Of coorse,' answered Robert, coolly. 'Come awa' hame.'

'Whaur til?' asked Shargar in dismay.

'Hame to yer ain bed at my grannie's.'

'Na, na,' said Shargar, hurriedly, retreating within the door of the

hovel. 'Na, na, Bob, lad, I s' no du that. She's an awfu' wuman,

that grannie o' yours. I canna think hoo ye can bide wi' her. I'm

weel oot o' her grups, I can tell ye.'

It required a good deal of persuasion, but at last Robert prevailed

upon Shargar to return. For was not Robert his tower of strength?

And if Robert was not frightened at his grannie, or at Betty, why

should he be? At length they entered Mrs. Falconer's parlour,

Robert dragging in Shargar after him, having failed altogether in

encouraging him to enter after a more dignified fashion.

It must be remembered that although Shargar was still kilted, he was

not the less trowsered, such as the trowsers were. It makes my

heart ache to think of those trowsers--not believing trowsers

essential to blessedness either, but knowing the superiority of the

old Roman costume of the kilt.

No sooner had Mrs. Falconer cast her eyes upon him than she could

not but be convinced of the truth of Robert's averment.

'Here he is, grannie; and gin ye bena saitisfeed yet--'

'Haud yer tongue, laddie. Ye hae gi'en me nae cause to doobt yer

word.'

Indeed, during Robert's absence, his grandmother had had leisure to

perceive of what an absurd folly she had been guilty. She had also

had time to make up her mind as to her duty with regard to Shargar;

and the more she thought about it, the more she admired the conduct

of her grandson, and the better she saw that it would be right to

follow his example. No doubt she was the more inclined to this

benevolence that she had as it were received her grandson back from

the jaws of death.

When the two lads entered, from her arm-chair Mrs. Falconer examined

Shargar from head to foot with the eye of a queen on her throne, and

a countenance immovable in stern gentleness, till Shargar would

gladly have sunk into the shelter of the voluminous kilt from the

gaze of those quiet hazel eyes.

At length she spoke:

'Robert, tak him awa'.'

'Whaur'll I tak him till, grannie?'

'Tak him up to the garret. Betty 'ill ha' ta'en a tub o' het water

up there 'gen this time, and ye maun see that he washes himsel' frae

heid to fut, or he s' no bide an 'oor i' my hoose. Gang awa' an'

see till 't this minute.'

But she detained them yet awhile with various directions in regard

of cleansing, for the carrying out of which Robert was only too glad

to give his word. She dismissed them at last, and Shargar by and by

found himself in bed, clean, and, for the first time in his life,

between a pair of linen sheets--not altogether to his satisfaction,

for mere order and comfort were substituted for adventure and

success.

But greater trials awaited him. In the morning he was visited by

Brodie, the tailor, and Elshender, the shoemaker, both of whom he

held in awe as his superiors in the social scale, and by them

handled and measured from head to feet, the latter included; after

which he had to lie in bed for three days, till his clothes came

home; for Betty had carefully committed every article of his former

dress to the kitchen fire, not without a sense of pollution to the

bottom of her kettle. Nor would he have got them for double the

time, had not Robert haunted the tailor, as well as the soutar, like

an evil conscience, till they had finished them. Thus grievous was

Shargar's introduction to the comforts of respectability. Nor did

he like it much better when he was dressed, and able to go about;

for not only was he uncomfortable in his new clothes, which, after

the very easy fit of the old ones, felt like a suit of plate-armour,

but he was liable to be sent for at any moment by the awful

sovereignty in whose dominions he found himself, and which, of

course, proceeded to instruct him not merely in his own religious

duties, but in the religious theories of his ancestors, if, indeed,

Shargar's ancestors ever had any. And now the Shorter Catechism

seemed likely to be changed into the Longer Catechism; for he had it

Sundays as we'll as Saturdays, besides Alleine's Alarm to the

Unconverted, Baxter's Saint's Rest, Erskine's Gospel Sonnets, and

other books of a like kind. Nor was it any relief to Shargar that

the gloom was broken by the incomparable Pilgrim's Progress and the

Holy War, for he cared for none of these things. Indeed, so dreary

did he find it all, that his love to Robert was never put to such a

severe test. But for that, he would have run for it. Twenty times

a day was he so tempted.

At school, though it was better, yet it was bad. For he was ten

times as much laughed at for his new clothes, though they were of

the plainest, as he had been for his old rags. Still he bore all

the pangs of unwelcome advancement without a grumble, for the sake

of his friend alone, whose dog he remained as much as ever. But his

past life of cold and neglect, and hunger and blows, and

homelessness and rags, began to glimmer as in the distance of a

vaporous sunset, and the loveless freedom he had then enjoyed gave

it a bloom as of summer-roses.

I wonder whether there may not have been in some unknown corner of

the old lady's mind this lingering remnant of paganism, that, in

reclaiming the outcast from the error of his ways, she was making an

offering acceptable to that God whom her mere prayers could not move

to look with favour upon her prodigal son Andrew. Nor from her own

acknowledged religious belief as a background would it have stuck so

fiery off either. Indeed, it might have been a partial corrective

of some yet more dreadful articles of her creed,--which she held, be

it remembered, because she could not help it.

CHAPTER XI.

PRIVATE INTERVIEWS.

The winter passed slowly away. Robert and Shargar went to school

together, and learned their lessons together at Mrs. Falconer's

table. Shargar soon learned to behave with tolerable propriety; was

obedient, as far as eye-service went; looked as queer as ever; did

what he pleased, which was nowise very wicked, the moment he was out

of the old lady's sight; was well fed and well cared for; and when

he was asked how he was, gave the invariable answer: 'Middlin'.' He

was not very happy.

There was little communication in words between the two boys, for

the one had not much to say, and the pondering fits of the other

grew rather than relaxed in frequency and intensity. Yet amongst

chance acquaintances in the town Robert had the character of a wag,

of which he was totally unaware himself. Indeed, although he had

more than the ordinary share of humour, I suspect it was not so much

his fun as his earnest that got him the character; for he would say

such altogether unheard-of and strange things, that the only way

they were capable of accounting for him was as a humorist.

'Eh!' he said once to Elshender, during a pause common to a

thunder-storm and a lesson on the violin 'eh! wadna ye like to be up

in that clood wi' a spaud, turnin' ower the divots and catchin' the

flashes lyin' aneath them like lang reid fiery worms?'

'Ay, man, but gin ye luik up to the cloods that gait, ye'll never be

muckle o' a fiddler.'

This was merely an outbreak of that insolence of advice so often

shown to the young from no vantage-ground but that of age and

faithlessness, reminding one of the 'jigging fool' who interfered

between Brutus and Cassius on the sole ground that he had seen more

years than they. As if ever a fiddler that did not look up to the

clouds would be anything but a catgut-scraper! Even Elshender's

fiddle was the one angel that held back the heavy curtain of his

gross nature, and let the sky shine through. He ought to have been

set fiddling every Sunday morning, and from his fiddling dragged

straight to church. It was the only thing man could have done for

his conversion, for then his heart was open, But I fear the prayers

would have closed it before the sermon came. He should rather have

been compelled to take his fiddle to church with him, and have a

gentle scrape at it in the pauses of the service; only there are no

such pauses in the service, alas! And Dooble Sanny, though not too

religious to get drunk occasionally, was a great deal too religious

to play his fiddle on the Sabbath: he would not willingly anger the

powers above; but it was sometimes a sore temptation, especially

after he got possession of old Mr. Falconer's wonderful instrument.

'Hoots, man!' he would say to Robert; 'dinna han'le, her as gin she

war an egg-box. Tak haud o' her as gin she war a leevin' crater.

Ye maun jist straik her canny, an' wile the music oot o' her; for

she's like ither women: gin ye be rouch wi' her, ye winna get a word

oot o' her. An' dinna han'le her that gait. She canna bide to be

contred an' pu'd this gait and that gait.--Come to me, my bonny

leddy. Ye'll tell me yer story, winna ye, my dauty (pet)?'

And with every gesture as if he were humouring a shy and invalid

girl, he would, as he said, wile the music out of her in sobs and

wailing, till the instrument, gathering courage in his embrace, grew

gently merry in its confidence, and broke at last into airy

laughter. He always spoke, and apparently thought, of his violin as

a woman, just as a sailor does of his craft. But there was nothing

about him, except his love for music and its instruments, to suggest

other than a most uncivilized nature. That which was fine in him

was constantly checked and held down by the gross; the merely animal

overpowered the spiritual; and it was only upon occasion that his

heavenly companion, the violin, could raise him a few feet above the

mire and the clay. She never succeeded in setting his feet on a

rock; while, on the contrary, he often dragged her with him into the

mire of questionable company and circumstances. Worthy Mr. Falconer

would have been horrified to see his umquhile modest companion in

such society as that into which she was now introduced at times.

But nevertheless the soutar was a good and patient teacher; and

although it took Robert rather more than a fortnight to redeem his

pledge to Shargar, he did make progress. It could not, however, be

rapid, seeing that an hour at a time, two evenings in the week, was

all that he could give to the violin. Even with this moderation,

the risk of his absence exciting his grandmother's suspicion and

inquiry was far from small.

And now, were those really faded old memories of his grandfather and

his merry kindness, all so different from the solemn benevolence of

his grandmother, which seemed to revive in his bosom with the

revivification of the violin? The instrument had surely laid up a

story in its hollow breast, had been dreaming over it all the time

it lay hidden away in the closet, and was now telling out its dreams

about the old times in the ear of the listening boy. To him also it

began to assume something of that mystery and life which had such a

softening, and, for the moment at least, elevating influence on his

master.

At length the love of the violin had grown upon him so, that he

could not but cast about how he might enjoy more of its company. It

would not do, for many reasons, to go oftener to the shoemaker's,

especially now that the days were getting longer. Nor was that what

he wanted. He wanted opportunity for practice. He wanted to be

alone with the creature, to see if she would not say something more

to him than she had ever said yet. Wafts and odours of melodies

began to steal upon him ere he was aware in the half lights between

sleeping and waking: if he could only entice them to creep out of

the violin, and once 'bless his humble ears' with the bodily hearing

of them! Perhaps he might--who could tell? But how? But where?

There was a building in Rothieden not old, yet so deserted that its

very history seemed to have come to a standstill, and the dust that

filled it to have fallen from the plumes of passing centuries. It

was the property of Mrs. Falconer, left her by her husband. Trade

had gradually ebbed away from the town till the thread-factory stood

unoccupied, with all its machinery rusting and mouldering, just as

the work-people had risen and left it one hot, midsummer day, when

they were told that their services were no longer required. Some of

the thread even remained upon the spools, and in the hollows of some

of the sockets the oil had as yet dried only into a paste; although

to Robert the desertion of the place appeared immemorial. It stood

at a furlong's distance from the house, on the outskirt of the town.

There was a large, neglected garden behind it, with some good

fruit-trees, and plenty of the bushes which boys love for the sake

of their berries. After grannie's jam-pots were properly filled,

the remnant of these, a gleaning far greater than the gathering, was

at the disposal of Robert, and, philosopher although in some measure

he was already, he appreciated the privilege. Haunting this garden

in the previous summer, he had for the first time made acquaintance

with the interior of the deserted factory. The door to the road was

always kept locked, and the key of it lay in one of grannie's

drawers; but he had then discovered a back entrance less securely

fastened, and with a strange mingling of fear and curiosity had from

time to time extended his rambles over what seemed to him the huge

desolation of the place. Half of it was well built of stone and

lime, but of the other half the upper part was built of wood, which

now showed signs of considerable decay. One room opened into

another through the length of the place, revealing a vista of

machines, standing with an air of the last folding of the wings of

silence over them, and the sense of a deeper and deeper sinking into

the soundless abyss. But their activity was not so far vanished but

that by degrees Robert came to fancy that he had some time or other

seen a woman seated at each of those silent powers, whose single

hand set the whole frame in motion, with its numberless spindles and

spools rapidly revolving--a vague mystery of endless threads in

orderly complication, out of which came some desired, to him

unknown, result, so that the whole place was full of a bewildering

tumult of work, every little reel contributing its share, as the

water-drops clashing together make the roar of a tempest. Now all

was still as the church on a week-day, still as the school on a

Saturday afternoon. Nay, the silence seemed to have settled down

like the dust, and grown old and thick, so dead and old that the

ghost of the ancient noise had arisen to haunt the place.

Thither would Robert carry his violin, and there would he woo her.

'I'm thinkin' I maun tak her wi' me the nicht, Sanders,' he said,

holding the fiddle lovingly to his bosom, after he had finished his

next lesson.

The shoemaker looked blank.

'Ye're no gaein' to desert me, are ye?'

'Na, weel I wat!' returned Robert. 'But I want to try her at hame.

I maun get used till her a bittie, ye ken, afore I can du onything

wi' her.'

'I wiss ye had na brought her here ava. What I am to du wantin'

her!'

'What for dinna ye get yer ain back?'

'I haena the siller, man. And, forbye, I doobt I wadna be that sair

content wi' her noo gin I had her. I used to think her gran'. But

I'm clean oot o' conceit o' her. That bonnie leddy's ta'en 't clean

oot o' me.'

'But ye canna hae her aye, ye ken, Sanders. She's no mine. She's

my grannie's, ye ken.'

'What's the use o' her to her? She pits nae vailue upon her. Eh,

man, gin she wad gie her to me, I wad haud her i' the best o' shune

a' the lave o' her days.'

'That wadna be muckle, Sanders, for she hasna had a new pair sin'

ever I mind.'

'But I wad haud Betty in shune as weel.'

'Betty pays for her ain shune, I reckon.'

'Weel, I wad haud you in shune, and yer bairns, and yer bairns'

bairns,' cried the soutar, with enthusiasm.

'Hoot, toot, man! Lang or that ye'll be fiddlin' i' the new

Jeroozlem.'

'Eh, man!' said Alexander, looking up--he had just cracked the

roset-ends off his hands, for he had the upper leather of a boot in

the grasp of the clams, and his right hand hung arrested on its

blind way to the awl--'duv ye think there'll be fiddles there? I

thocht they war a' hairps, a thing 'at I never saw, but it canna be

up till a fiddle.'

'I dinna ken,' answered Robert; 'but ye suld mak a pint o' seein'

for yersel'.'

'Gin I thoucht there wad be fiddles there, faith I wad hae a try.

It wadna be muckle o' a Jeroozlem to me wantin' my fiddle. But gin

there be fiddles, I daursay they'll be gran' anes. I daursay they

wad gi' me a new ane--I mean ane as auld as Noah's 'at he played i'

the ark whan the de'il cam' in by to hearken. I wad fain hae a try.

Ye ken a' aboot it wi' that grannie o' yours: hoo's a body to

begin?'

'By giein' up the drink, man.'

'Ay--ay--ay--I reckon ye're richt. Weel, I'll think aboot it whan

ance I'm throu wi' this job. That'll be neist ook, or thereabouts,

or aiblins twa days efter. I'll hae some leiser than.'

Before he had finished speaking he had caught up his awl and begun

to work vigorously, boring his holes as if the nerves of feeling

were continued to the point of the tool, inserting the bristles that

served him for needles with a delicacy worthy of soft-skinned

fingers, drawing through the rosined threads with a whisk, and

untwining them with a crack from the leather that guarded his hands.

'Gude nicht to ye,' said Robert, with the fiddle-case under his arm.

The shoemaker looked up, with his hands bound in his threads.

'Ye're no gaein' to tak her frae me the nicht?'

'Ay am I, but I'll fess her back again. I'm no gaein' to Jericho

wi' her.'

'Gang to Hecklebirnie wi' her, and that's three mile ayont hell.'

'Na; we maun win farther nor that. There canna, be muckle fiddlin'

there.'

'Weel, tak her to the new Jeroozlem. I s' gang doon to Lucky

Leary's, and fill mysel' roarin' fou, an' it'll be a' your wyte

(blame).'

'I doobt ye'll get the straiks (blows) though. Or maybe ye think

Bell 'ill tak them for ye.'

Dooble Sanny caught up a huge boot, the sole of which was filled

with broad-headed nails as thick as they could be driven, and, in a

rage, threw it at Robert as he darted out. Through its clang

against the door-cheek, the shoemaker heard a cry from the

instrument. He cast everything from him and sprang after Robert.

But Robert was down the wynd like a long-legged grayhound, and

Elshender could only follow like a fierce mastiff. It was love and

grief, though, and apprehension and remorse, not vengeance, that

winged his heels. He soon saw that pursuit was vain.

'Robert! Robert!' he cried; 'I canna win up wi' ye. Stop, for

God's sake! Is she hurtit?'

Robert stopped at once.

'Ye hae made a bonny leddy o' her--a lameter (cripple) I doobt, like

yer wife,' he answered, with indignation.

'Dinna be aye flingin' a man's fau'ts in 's face. It jist maks him

'at he canna, bide himsel' or you eyther. Lat's see the bonny

crater.'

Robert complied, for he too was anxious. They were now standing in

the space in front of Shargar's old abode, and there was no one to

be seen. Elshender took the box, opened it carefully, and peeped in

with a face of great apprehension.

'I thocht that was a'!' he said with some satisfaction. 'I kent the

string whan I heard it. But we'll sune get a new thairm till her,'

he added, in a tone of sorrowful commiseration and condolence, as he

took the violin from the case, tenderly as if it had been a hurt

child.

One touch of the bow, drawing out a goul of grief, satisfied him

that she was uninjured. Next a hurried inspection showed him that

there was enough of the catgut twisted round the peg to make up for

the part that was broken off. In a moment he had fastened it to the

tail-piece, tightened and tuned it. Forthwith he took the bow from

the case-lid, and in jubilant guise he expatiated upon the wrong he

had done his bonny leddy, till the doors and windows around were

crowded with heads peering through the dark to see whence the sounds

came, and a little child toddled across from one of the lowliest

houses with a ha'penny for the fiddler. Gladly would Robert have

restored it with interest, but, alas! there was no interest in his

bank, for not a ha'penny had he in the world. The incident recalled

Sandy to Rothieden and its cares. He restored the violin to its

case, and while Robert was fearing he would take it under his arm

and walk away with it, handed it back with a humble sigh and a

'Praise be thankit;' then, without another word, turned and went to

his lonely stool and home 'untreasured of its mistress.' Robert

went home too, and stole like a thief to his room.

The next day was a Saturday, which, indeed, was the real old

Sabbath, or at least the half of it, to the schoolboys of Rothieden.

Even Robert's grannie was Jew enough, or rather Christian enough,

to respect this remnant of the fourth commandment--divine antidote

to the rest of the godless money-making and soul-saving week--and he

had the half-day to himself. So as soon as he had had his dinner,

he managed to give Shargar the slip, left him to the inroads of a

desolate despondency, and stole away to the old factory-garden. The

key of that he had managed to purloin from the kitchen where it

hung; nor was there much danger of its absence being discovered,

seeing that in winter no one thought of the garden. The smuggling

of the violin out of the house was the 'dearest danger'--the more so

that he would not run the risk of carrying her out unprotected, and

it was altogether a bulky venture with the case. But by spying and

speeding he managed it, and soon found himself safe within the high

walls of the garden.

It was early spring. There had been a heavy fall of sleet in the

morning, and now the wind blew gustfully about the place. The

neglected trees shook showers upon him as he passed under them,

trampling down the rank growth of the grass-walks. The long twigs

of the wall-trees, which had never been nailed up, or had been torn

down by the snow and the blasts of winter, went trailing away in the

moan of the fitful wind, and swung back as it sunk to a sigh. The

currant and gooseberry bushes, bare and leafless, and 'shivering all

for cold,' neither reminded him of the feasts of the past summer,

nor gave him any hope for the next. He strode careless through it

all to gain the door at the bottom. It yielded to a push, and the

long grass streamed in over the threshold as he entered. He mounted

by a broad stair in the main part of the house, passing the silent

clock in one of its corners, now expiating in motionlessness the

false accusations it had brought against the work-people, and turned

into the chaos of machinery.

I fear that my readers will expect, from the minuteness with which I

recount these particulars, that, after all, I am going to describe a

rendezvous with a lady, or a ghost at least. I will not plead in

excuse that I, too, have been infected with Sandy's mode of

regarding her, but I plead that in the mind of Robert the proceeding

was involved in something of that awe and mystery with which a youth

approaches the woman he loves. He had not yet arrived at the period

when the feminine assumes its paramount influence, combining in

itself all that music, colour, form, odour, can suggest, with

something infinitely higher and more divine; but he had begun to be

haunted with some vague aspirations towards the infinite, of which

his attempts on the violin were the outcome. And now that he was to

be alone, for the first time, with this wonderful realizer of dreams

and awakener of visions, to do with her as he would, to hint by

gentle touches at the thoughts that were fluttering in his soul, and

listen for her voice that by the echoes in which she strove to

respond he might know that she understood him, it was no wonder if

he felt an ethereal foretaste of the expectation that haunts the

approach of souls.

But I am not even going to describe his first t te- -t te with his? ? ?

violin. Perhaps he returned from it somewhat disappointed.

Probably he found her coy, unready to acknowledge his demands on

her attention. But not the less willingly did he return with her to

the solitude of the ruinous factory. On every safe occasion,

becoming more and more frequent as the days grew longer, he repaired

thither, and every time returned more capable of drawing the

coherence of melody from that matrix of sweet sounds.

At length the people about began to say that the factory was

haunted; that the ghost of old Mr. Falconer, unable to repose while

neglect was ruining the precious results of his industry, visited

the place night after night, and solaced his disappointment by

renewing on his favourite violin strains not yet forgotten by him in

his grave, and remembered well by those who had been in his service,

not a few of whom lived in the neighbourhood of the forsaken

building.

One gusty afternoon, like the first, but late in the spring, Robert

repaired as usual to this his secret haunt. He had played for some

time, and now, from a sudden pause of impulse, had ceased, and begun

to look around him. The only light came from two long pale cracks

in the rain-clouds of the west. The wind was blowing through the

broken windows, which stretched away on either hand. A dreary,

windy gloom, therefore, pervaded the desolate place; and in the

dusk, and their settled order, the machines looked multitudinous.

An eerie sense of discomfort came over him as he gazed, and he

lifted his violin to dispel the strange unpleasant feeling that grew

upon him. But at the first long stroke across the strings, an awful

sound arose in the further room; a sound that made him all but drop

the bow, and cling to his violin. It went on. It was the old, all

but forgotten whirr of bobbins, mingled with the gentle groans of

the revolving horizontal wheel, but magnified in the silence of the

place, and the echoing imagination of the boy, into something

preternaturally awful. Yielding for a moment to the growth of

goose-skin, and the insurrection of hair, he recovered himself by a

violent effort, and walked to the door that connected the two

compartments. Was it more or less fearful that the jenny was not

going of itself? that the figure of an old woman sat solemnly

turning and turning the hand-wheel? Not without calling in the jury

of his senses, however, would he yield to the special plea of his

imagination, but went nearer, half expecting to find that the mutch,

with its big flapping borders, glimmering white in the gloom across

many a machine, surrounded the face of a skull. But he was soon

satisfied that it was only a blind woman everybody knew--so old that

she had become childish. She had heard the reports of the factory

being haunted, and groping about with her half-withered brain full

of them, had found the garden and the back door open, and had

climbed to the first-floor by a farther stair, well known to her

when she used to work that very machine. She had seated herself

instinctively, according to ancient wont, and had set it in motion

once more.

Yielding to an impulse of experiment, Robert began to play again.

Thereupon her disordered ideas broke out in words. And Robert soon

began to feel that it could hardly be more ghastly to look upon a

ghost than to be taken for one.

'Ay, ay, sir,' said the old woman, in a tone of commiseration, 'it

maun be sair to bide. I dinna wonner 'at ye canna lie still. But

what gars ye gang daunerin' aboot this place? It's no yours ony

langer. Ye ken whan fowk's deid, they tyne the grip (loose hold).

Ye suld gang hame to yer wife. She micht say a word to quaiet yer

auld banes, for she's a douce an' a wice woman--the mistress.'

Then followed a pause. There was a horror about the old woman's

voice, already half dissolved by death, in the desolate place, that

almost took from Robert the power of motion. But his violin sent

forth an accidental twang, and that set her going again.

'Ye was aye a douce honest gentleman yersel', an' I dinna wonner ye

canna bide it. But I wad hae thoucht glory micht hae hauden ye in.

But yer ain son! Eh ay! And a braw lad and a bonnie! It's a sod

thing he bude to gang the wrang gait; and it's no wonner, as I say,

that ye lea' the worms to come an' luik efter him. I doobt--I doobt

it winna be to you he'll gang at the lang last. There winna be room

for him aside ye in Awbrahawm's boasom. And syne to behave sae ill

to that winsome wife o' his! I dinna wonner 'at ye maun be up! Eh

na! But, sir, sin ye are up, I wish ye wad speyk to John Thamson no

to tak aff the day 'at I was awa' last ook, for 'deed I was verra

unweel, and bude to keep my bed.'

Robert was beginning to feel uneasy as to how he should get rid of

her, when she rose, and saying, 'Ay, ay, I ken it's sax o'clock,'

went out as she had come in. Robert followed, and saw her safe out

of the garden, but did not return to the factory.

So his father had behaved ill to his mother too!

'But what for hearken to the havers o' a dottled auld wife?' he said

to himself, pondering as he walked home.

Old Janet told a strange story of how she had seen the ghost, and

had had a long talk with him, and of what he said, and of how he

groaned and played the fiddle between. And finding that the report

had reached his grandmother's ears, Robert thought it prudent, much

to his discontent, to intermit his visits to the factory. Mrs.

Falconer, of course, received the rumour with indignant scorn, and

peremptorily refused to allow any examination of the premises.

But how have the violin by him and not hear her speak? One evening

the longing after her voice grow upon him till he could resist it no

longer. He shut the door of his garret-room, and, with Shargar by

him, took her out and began to play softly, gently--oh so softly, so

gently! Shargar was enraptured. Robert went on playing.

Suddenly the door opened, and his grannie stood awfully revealed

before them. Betty had heard the violin, and had flown to the

parlour in the belief that, unable to get any one to heed him at the

factory, the ghost had taken Janet's advice, and come home. But his

wife smiled a smile of contempt, went with Betty to the

kitchen--over which Robert's room lay--heard the sounds, put off her

creaking shoes, stole up-stairs on her soft white lambswool

stockings, and caught the pair. The violin was seized, put in its

case, and carried off; and Mrs. Falconer rejoiced to think she had

broken a gin set by Satan for the unwary feet of her poor Robert.

Little she knew the wonder of that violin--how it had kept the soul

of her husband alive! Little she knew how dangerous it is to shut

an open door, with ever so narrow a peep into the eternal, in the

face of a son of Adam! And little she knew how determinedly and

restlessly a nature like Robert's would search for another, to open

one possibly which she might consider ten times more dangerous than

that which she had closed.

When Alexander heard of the affair, he was at first overwhelmed with

the misfortune; but gathering a little heart at last, he set to

'working,' as he said himself, 'like a verra deevil'; and as he was

the best shoemaker in the town, and for the time abstained utterly

from whisky, and all sorts of drink but well-water, he soon managed

to save the money necessary, and redeem the old fiddle. But whether

it was from fancy, or habit, or what, even Robert's inexperienced

ear could not accommodate itself, save under protest, to the

instrument which once his teacher had considered all but perfect;

and it needed the master's finest touch to make its tone other than

painful to the sense of the neophyte.

No one can estimate too highly the value of such a resource to a man

like the shoemaker, or a boy like Robert. Whatever it be that keeps

the finer faculties of the mind awake, wonder alive, and the

interest above mere eating and drinking, money-making and

money-saving; whatever it be that gives gladness, or sorrow, or

hope--this, be it violin, pencil, pen, or, highest of all, the love

of woman, is simply a divine gift of holy influence for the

salvation of that being to whom it comes, for the lifting of him out

of the mire and up on the rock. For it keeps a way open for the

entrance of deeper, holier, grander influences, emanating from the

same riches of the Godhead. And though many have genius that have

no grace, they will only be so much the worse, so much the nearer to

the brute, if you take from them that which corresponds to Dooble

Sanny's fiddle.

CHAPTER XII.

ROBERT'S PLAN OF SALVATION.

For some time after the loss of his friend, Robert went loitering

and mooning about, quite neglecting the lessons to which he had not,

it must be confessed, paid much attention for many weeks. Even when

seated at his grannie's table, he could do no more than fix his eyes

on his book: to learn was impossible; it was even disgusting to him.

But his was a nature which, foiled in one direction, must,

absolutely helpless against its own vitality, straightway send out

its searching roots in another. Of all forces, that of growth is

the one irresistible, for it is the creating power of God, the law

of life and of being. Therefore no accumulation of refusals, and

checks, and turnings, and forbiddings, from all the good old

grannies in the world, could have prevented Robert from striking

root downward, and bearing fruit upward, though, as in all higher

natures, the fruit was a long way off yet. But his soul was only

sad and hungry. He was not unhappy, for he had been guilty of

nothing that weighed on his conscience. He had been doing many

things of late, it is true, without asking leave of his grandmother,

but wherever prayer is felt to be of no avail, there cannot be the

sense of obligation save on compulsion. Even direct disobedience in

such case will generally leave little soreness, except the thing

forbidden should be in its own nature wrong, and then, indeed, 'Don

Worm, the conscience,' may begin to bite. But Robert felt nothing

immoral in playing upon his grandfather's violin, nor even in taking

liberties with a piece of lumber for which nobody cared but possibly

the dead; therefore he was not unhappy, only much disappointed, very

empty, and somewhat gloomy. There was nothing to look forward to

now, no secret full of riches and endless in hope--in short, no

violin.

To feel the full force of his loss, my reader must remember that

around the childhood of Robert, which he was fast leaving behind

him, there had gathered no tenderness--none at least by him

recognizable as such. All the women he came in contact with were

his grandmother and Betty. He had no recollection of having ever

been kissed. From the darkness and negation of such an

embryo-existence, his nature had been unconsciously striving to

escape--struggling to get from below ground into the sunlit

air--sighing after a freedom he could not have defined, the freedom

that comes, not of independence, but of love--not of lawlessness,

but of the perfection of law. Of this beauty of life, with its

wonder and its deepness, this unknown glory, his fiddle had been the

type. It had been the ark that held, if not the tables of the

covenant, yet the golden pot of angel's food, and the rod that

budded in death. And now that it was gone, the gloomier aspect of

things began to lay hold upon him; his soul turned itself away from

the sun, and entered into the shadow of the under-world. Like the

white-horsed twins of lake Regillus, like Phoebe, the queen of skyey

plain and earthly forest, every boy and girl, every man and woman,

that lives at all, has to divide many a year between Tartarus and

Olympus.

For now arose within him, not without ultimate good, the evil

phantasms of a theology which would explain all God's doings by low

conceptions, low I mean for humanity even, of right, and law, and

justice, then only taking refuge in the fact of the incapacity of

the human understanding when its own inventions are impugned as

undivine. In such a system, hell is invariably the deepest truth,

and the love of God is not so deep as hell. Hence, as foundations

must be laid in the deepest, the system is founded in hell, and the

first article in the creed that Robert Falconer learned was, 'I

believe in hell.' Practically, I mean, it was so; else how should

it be that as often as a thought of religious duty arose in his

mind, it appeared in the form of escaping hell, of fleeing from the

wrath to come? For his very nature was hell, being not born in sin

and brought forth in iniquity, but born sin and brought forth

iniquity. And yet God made him. He must believe that. And he must

believe, too, that God was just, awfully just, punishing with

fearful pains those who did not go through a certain process of mind

which it was utterly impossible they should go through without a

help which he would give to some, and withhold from others, the

reason of the difference not being such, to say the least of it, as

to come within the reach of the persons concerned. And this God

they said was love. It was logically absurd, of course, yet, thank

God, they did say that God was love; and many of them succeeded in

believing it, too, and in ordering their ways as if the first

article of their creed had been 'I believe in God'; whence, in

truth, we are bound to say it was the first in power and reality, if

not in order; for what are we to say a man believes, if not what he

acts upon? Still the former article was the one they brought

chiefly to bear upon their children. This mortar, probably they

thought, threw the shell straighter than any of the other

field-pieces of the church-militant. Hence it was even in

justification of God himself that a party arose to say that a man

could believe without the help of God at all, and after believing

only began to receive God's help--a heresy all but as dreary and

barren as the former. No one dreamed of saying--at least such a

glad word of prophecy never reached Rothieden--that, while nobody

can do without the help of the Father any more than a new-born babe

could of itself live and grow to a man, yet that in the giving of

that help the very fatherhood of the Father finds its one gladsome

labour; that for that the Lord came; for that the world was made;

for that we were born into it; for that God lives and loves like the

most loving man or woman on earth, only infinitely more, and in

other ways and kinds besides, which we cannot understand; and that

therefore to be a man is the soul of eternal jubilation.

Robert consequently began to take fits of soul-saving, a most

rational exercise, worldly wise and prudent--right too on the

principles he had received, but not in the least Christian in its

nature, or even God-fearing. His imagination began to busy itself

in representing the dire consequences of not entering into the one

refuge of faith. He made many frantic efforts to believe that he

believed; took to keeping the Sabbath very carefully--that is, by

going to church three times, and to Sunday-school as well; by never

walking a step save to or from church; by never saying a word upon

any subject unconnected with religion, chiefly theoretical; by never

reading any but religious books; by never whistling; by never

thinking of his lost fiddle, and so on--all the time feeling that

God was ready to pounce upon him if he failed once; till again and

again the intensity of his efforts utterly defeated their object by

destroying for the time the desire to prosecute them with the power

to will them. But through the horrible vapours of these vain

endeavours, which denied God altogether as the maker of the world,

and the former of his soul and heart and brain, and sought to

worship him as a capricious demon, there broke a little light, a

little soothing, soft twilight, from the dim windows of such

literature as came in his way. Besides The Pilgrim's Progress there

were several books which shone moon-like on his darkness, and lifted

something of the weight of that Egyptian gloom off his spirit. One

of these, strange to say, was Defoe's Religious Courtship, and one,

Young's Night Thoughts. But there was another which deserves

particular notice, inasmuch as it did far more than merely interest

or amuse him, raising a deep question in his mind, and one worthy to

be asked. This book was the translation of Klopstock's Messiah, to

which I have already referred. It was not one of his grandmother's

books, but had probably belonged to his father: he had found it in

his little garret-room. But as often as she saw him reading it, she

seemed rather pleased, he thought. As to the book itself, its

florid expatiation could neither offend nor injure a boy like

Robert, while its representation of our Lord was to him a wonderful

relief from that given in the pulpit, and in all the religious books

he knew. But the point for the sake of which I refer to it in

particular is this: Amongst the rebel angels who are of the actors

in the story, one of the principal is a cherub who repents of making

his choice with Satan, mourns over his apostasy, haunts unseen the

steps of our Saviour, wheels lamenting about the cross, and would

gladly return to his lost duties in heaven, if only he might--a

doubt which I believe is left unsolved in the volume, and naturally

enough remained unsolved in Robert's mind:--Would poor Abaddon be

forgiven and taken home again? For although naturally, that is, to

judge by his own instincts, there could be no question of his

forgiveness, according to what he had been taught there could be no

question of his perdition. Having no one to talk to, he divided

himself and went to buffets on the subject, siding, of course, with

the better half of himself which supported the merciful view of the

matter; for all his efforts at keeping the Sabbath, had in his own

honest judgment failed so entirely, that he had no ground for

believing himself one of the elect. Had he succeeded in persuading

himself that he was, there is no saying to what lengths of

indifference about others the chosen prig might have advanced by

this time.

He made one attempt to open the subject with Shargar.

'Shargar, what think ye?' he said suddenly, one day. 'Gin a de'il

war to repent, wad God forgie him?'

'There's no sayin' what fowk wad du till ance they're tried,'

returned Shargar, cautiously.

Robert did not care to resume the question with one who so

circumspectly refused to take a metaphysical or a priori view of the

matter.

He made an attempt with his grandmother.

One Sunday, his thoughts, after trying for a time to revolve in due

orbit around the mind of the Rev. Hugh Maccleary, as projected in a

sermon which he had botched up out of a commentary, failed at last

and flew off into what the said gentleman would have pronounced

'very dangerous speculation, seeing no man is to go beyond what is

written in the Bible, which contains not only the truth, but the

whole truth, and nothing but the truth, for this time and for all

future time--both here and in the world to come.' Some such

sentence, at least, was in his sermon that day, and the preacher no

doubt supposed St. Matthew, not St. Matthew Henry, accountable for

its origination. In the Limbo into which Robert's then spirit flew,

it had been sorely exercised about the substitution of the

sufferings of Christ for those which humanity must else have endured

while ages rolled on--mere ripples on the ocean of eternity.

'Noo, be douce,' said Mrs. Falconer, solemnly, as Robert, a trifle

lighter at heart from the result of his cogitations than usual, sat

down to dinner: he had happened to smile across the table to

Shargar. And he was douce, and smiled no more.

They ate their broth, or, more properly, supped it, with horn

spoons, in absolute silence; after which Mrs. Falconer put a large

piece of meat on the plate of each, with the same formula:

'Hae. Ye s' get nae mair.'

The allowance was ample in the extreme, bearing a relation to her

words similar to that which her practice bore to her theology. A

piece of cheese, because it was the Sabbath, followed, and dinner

was over.

When the table had been cleared by Betty, they drew their chairs to

the fire, and Robert had to read to his grandmother, while Shargar

sat listening. He had not read long, however, before he looked up

from his Bible and began the following conversation:--

'Wasna it an ill trick o' Joseph, gran'mither, to put that cup, an'

a siller ane tu, into the mou' o' Benjamin's seck?'

'What for that, laddie? He wanted to gar them come back again, ye

ken.'

'But he needna hae gane aboot it in sic a playactor-like gait. He

needna hae latten them awa' ohn tellt (without telling) them that he

was their brither.'

'They had behaved verra ill till him.'

'He used to clype (tell tales) upo' them, though.'

'Laddie, tak ye care what ye say aboot Joseph, for he was a teep o'

Christ.'

'Hoo was that, gran'mither?'

'They sellt him to the Ishmeleets for siller, as Judas did him.'

'Did he beir the sins o' them 'at sellt him?'

'Ye may say, in a mainner, 'at he did; for he was sair afflickit

afore he wan up to be the King's richt han'; an' syne he keepit a

hantle o' ill aff o' 's brithren.'

'Sae, gran'mither, ither fowk nor Christ micht suffer for the sins

o' their neebors?'

'Ay, laddie, mony a ane has to do that. But no to mak atonement, ye

ken. Naething but the sufferin' o' the spotless cud du that. The

Lord wadna be saitisfeet wi' less nor that. It maun be the innocent

to suffer for the guilty.'

'I unnerstan' that,' said Robert, who had heard it so often that he

had not yet thought of trying to understand it. 'But gin we gang to

the gude place, we'll be a' innocent, willna we, grannie?'

'Ay, that we will--washed spotless, and pure, and clean, and dressed

i' the weddin' garment, and set doon at the table wi' him and wi'

his Father. That's them 'at believes in him, ye ken.'

'Of coorse, grannie.--Weel, ye see, I hae been thinkin' o' a plan

for maist han' toomin' (almost emptying) hell.'

'What's i' the bairn's heid noo? Troth, ye're no blate, meddlin'

wi' sic subjecks, laddie!'

'I didna want to say onything to vex ye, grannie. I s' gang on wi'

the chapter.'

'Ow, say awa'. Ye sanna say muckle 'at's wrang afore I cry haud,'

said Mrs. Falconer, curious to know what had been moving in the

boy's mind, but watching him like a cat, ready to spring upon the

first visible hair of the old Adam.

And Robert, recalling the outbreak of terrible grief which he had

heard on that memorable night, really thought that his project would

bring comfort to a mind burdened with such care, and went on with

the exposition of his plan.

'A' them 'at sits doon to the supper o' the Lamb 'll sit there

because Christ suffert the punishment due to their sins--winna they,

grannie?'

'Doobtless, laddie.'

'But it'll he some sair upo' them to sit there aitin' an' drinkin'

an' talkin' awa', an' enjoyin' themsel's, whan ilka noo an' than

there'll come a sough o' wailin' up frae the ill place, an' a smell

o' burnin' ill to bide.'

'What put that i' yer heid, laddie? There's no rizzon to think 'at

hell's sae near haven as a' that. The Lord forbid it!'

'Weel, but, grannie, they'll ken 't a' the same, whether they smell

't or no. An' I canna help thinkin' that the farrer awa' I thoucht

they war, the waur I wad like to think upo' them. 'Deed it wad be

waur.'

'What are ye drivin' at, laddie? I canna unnerstan' ye,' said Mrs.

Falconer, feeling very uncomfortable, and yet curious, almost

anxious, to hear what would come next. 'I trust we winna hae to

think muckle--'

But here, I presume, the thought of the added desolation of her

Andrew if she, too, were to forget him, as well as his Father in

heaven, checked the flow of her words. She paused, and Robert took

up his parable and went on, first with yet another question.

'Duv ye think, grannie, that a body wad be allooed to speik a word

i' public, like, there--at the lang table, like, I mean?'

'What for no, gin it was dune wi' moedesty, and for a guid rizzon?

But railly, laddie, I doobt ye're haverin' a'thegither. Ye hard

naething like that, I'm sure, the day, frae Mr. Maccleary.'

'Na, na; he said naething aboot it. But maybe I'll gang and speir

at him, though.'

'What aboot?'

'What I'm gaein' to tell ye, grannie.'

'Weel, tell awa', and hae dune wi' 't. I'm growin' tired o' 't.'

It was something else than tired she was growing.

'Weel, I'm gaein' to try a' that I can to win in there.'

'I houp ye will. Strive and pray. Resist the deevil. Walk in the

licht. Lippen not to yersel', but trust in Christ and his

salvation.'

'Ay, ay, grannie.--Weel--'

'Are ye no dune yet?'

'Na. I'm but jist beginnin'.'

'Beginnin', are ye? Humph!'

'Weel, gin I win in there, the verra first nicht I sit doon wi' the

lave o' them, I'm gaein' to rise up an' say--that is, gin the

Maister, at the heid o' the table, disna bid me sit doon--an' say:

"Brithers an' sisters, the haill o' ye, hearken to me for ae minute;

an', O Lord! gin I say wrang, jist tak the speech frae me, and I'll

sit doon dumb an' rebukit. We're a' here by grace and no by merit,

save his, as ye a' ken better nor I can tell ye, for ye hae been

langer here nor me. But it's jist ruggin' an' rivin' at my hert to

think o' them 'at's doon there. Maybe ye can hear them. I canna.

Noo, we hae nae merit, an' they hae nae merit, an' what for are we

here and them there? But we're washed clean and innocent noo; and

noo, whan there's no wyte lying upo' oursel's, it seems to me that

we micht beir some o' the sins o' them 'at hae ower mony. I call

upo' ilk ane o' ye 'at has a frien' or a neebor down yonner, to rise

up an' taste nor bite nor sup mair till we gang up a'thegither to

the fut o' the throne, and pray the Lord to lat's gang and du as the

Maister did afore 's, and beir their griefs, and cairry their

sorrows doon in hell there; gin it maybe that they may repent and

get remission o' their sins, an' come up here wi' us at the lang

last, and sit doon wi' 's at this table, a' throuw the merits o' oor

Saviour Jesus Christ, at the heid o' the table there. Amen."'

Half ashamed of his long speech, half overcome by the feelings

fighting within him, and altogether bewildered, Robert burst out

crying like a baby, and ran out of the room--up to his own place of

meditation, where he threw himself on the floor. Shargar, who had

made neither head nor tail of it all, as he said afterwards, sat

staring at Mrs. Falconer. She rose, and going into Robert's little

bedroom, closed the door, and what she did there is not far to seek.

When she came out, she rang the bell for tea, and sent Shargar to

look for Robert. When he appeared, she was so gentle to him that it

woke quite a new sensation in him. But after tea was over, she

said:

'Noo, Robert, lat's hae nae mair o' this. Ye ken as weel 's I du

that them 'at gangs there their doom is fixed, and noething can

alter 't. An' we're not to alloo oor ain fancies to cairry 's ayont

the Scripter. We hae oor ain salvation to work oot wi' fear an'

trimlin'. We hae naething to do wi' what's hidden. Luik ye till 't

'at ye win in yersel'. That's eneuch for you to min'.--Shargar, ye

can gang to the kirk. Robert's to bide wi' me the nicht.'

Mrs. Falconer very rarely went to church, for she could not hear a

word, and found it irksome.

When Robert and she were alone together,

'Laddie,' she said, 'be ye waure o' judgin' the Almichty. What

luiks to you a' wrang may be a' richt. But it's true eneuch 'at we

dinna ken a'thing; an' he's no deid yet--I dinna believe 'at he

is--and he'll maybe win in yet.'

Here her voice failed her. And Robert had nothing to say now. He

had said all his say before.

'Pray, Robert, pray for yer father, laddie,' she resumed; 'for we

hae muckle rizzon to be anxious aboot 'im. Pray while there's life

an' houp. Gie the Lord no rist. Pray till 'im day an' nicht, as I

du, that he wad lead 'im to see the error o' his ways, an' turn to

the Lord, wha's ready to pardon. Gin yer mother had lived, I wad

hae had mair houp, I confess, for she was a braw leddy and a bonny,

and that sweet-tongued! She cud hae wiled a maukin frae its lair

wi' her bonnie Hielan' speech. I never likit to hear nane o' them

speyk the Erse (Irish, that is, Gaelic), it was aye sae gloggie and

baneless; and I cudna unnerstan' ae word o' 't. Nae mair cud yer

father--hoot! yer gran'father, I mean--though his father cud speyk

it weel. But to hear yer mother--mamma, as ye used to ca' her aye,

efter the new fashion--to hear her speyk English, that was sweet to

the ear; for the braid Scotch she kent as little o' as I do o' the

Erse. It was hert's care aboot him that shortent her days. And a'

that'll be laid upo' him. He'll hae 't a' to beir an' accoont for.

Och hone! Och hone! Eh! Robert, my man, be a guid lad, an' serve

the Lord wi' a' yer hert, an' sowl, an' stren'th, an' min'; for gin

ye gang wrang, yer ain father 'll hae to beir naebody kens hoo

muckle o' the wyte o' 't, for he's dune naething to bring ye up i'

the way ye suld gang, an' haud ye oot o' the ill gait. For the sake

o' yer puir father, haud ye to the richt road. It may spare him a

pang or twa i' the ill place. Eh, gin the Lord wad only tak me, and

lat him gang!'

Involuntarily and unconsciously the mother's love was adopting the

hope which she had denounced in her grandson. And Robert saw it,

but he was never the man when I knew him to push a victory. He said

nothing. Only a tear or two at the memory of the wayworn man, his

recollection of whose visit I have already recorded, rolled down his

cheeks. He was at such a distance from him!--such an impassable

gulf yawned between them!--that was the grief! Not the gulf of

death, nor the gulf that divides hell from heaven, but the gulf of

abjuration by the good because of his evil ways. His grandmother,

herself weeping fast and silently, with scarce altered countenance,

took her neatly-folded handkerchief from her pocket, and wiped her

grandson's fresh cheeks, then wiped her own withered face; and from

that moment Robert knew that he loved her.

Then followed the Sabbath-evening prayer that she always offered

with the boy, whichever he was, who kept her company. They knelt

down together, side by side, in a certain corner of the room, the

same, I doubt not, in which she knelt at her private devotions,

before going to bed. There she uttered a long extempore prayer,

rapid in speech, full of divinity and Scripture-phrases, but not the

less earnest and simple, for it flowed from a heart of faith. Then

Robert had to pray after her, loud in her ear, that she might hear

him thoroughly, so that he often felt as if he were praying to her,

and not to God at all.

She had begun to teach him to pray so early that the custom reached

beyond the confines of his memory. At first he had had to repeat

the words after her; but soon she made him construct his own

utterances, now and then giving him a suggestion in the form of a

petition when he seemed likely to break down, or putting a phrase

into what she considered more suitable language. But all such

assistance she had given up long ago.

On the present occasion, after she had ended her petitions with

those for Jews and pagans, and especially for the 'Pop' o' Rom',' in

whom with a rare liberality she took the kindest interest, always

praying God to give him a good wife, though she knew perfectly well

the marriage-creed of the priesthood, for her faith in the hearer of

prayer scorned every theory but that in which she had herself been

born and bred, she turned to Robert with the usual 'Noo, Robert!'

and Robert began. But after he had gone on for some time with the

ordinary phrases, he turned all at once into a new track, and

instead of praying in general terms for 'those that would not walk

in the right way,' said,

'O Lord! save my father,' and there paused.

'If it be thy will,' suggested his grandmother.

But Robert continued silent. His grandmother repeated the

subjunctive clause.

'I'm tryin', grandmother,' said Robert, 'but I canna say 't. I

daurna say an if aboot it. It wad be like giein' in till 's

damnation. We maun hae him saved, grannie!'

'Laddie! laddie! haud yer tongue!' said Mrs. Falconer, in a tone of

distressed awe. 'O Lord, forgie 'im. He's young and disna ken

better yet. He canna unnerstan' thy ways, nor, for that maitter,

can I preten' to unnerstan' them mysel'. But thoo art a' licht, and

in thee is no darkness at all. And thy licht comes into oor blin'

een, and mak's them blinner yet. But, O Lord, gin it wad please

thee to hear oor prayer...eh! hoo we wad praise thee! And my Andrew

wad praise thee mair nor ninety and nine o' them 'at need nae

repentance.'

A long pause followed. And then the only words that would come

were: 'For Christ's sake. Amen.'

When she said that God was light, instead of concluding therefrom

that he could not do the deeds of darkness, she was driven, from a

faith in the teaching of Jonathan Edwards as implicit as that of

'any lay papist of Loretto,' to doubt whether the deeds of darkness

were not after all deeds of light, or at least to conclude that

their character depended not on their own nature, but on who did

them.

They rose from their knees, and Mrs. Falconer sat down by her fire,

with her feet on her little wooden stool, and began, as was her wont

in that household twilight, ere the lamp was lighted, to review her

past life, and follow her lost son through all conditions and

circumstances to her imaginable. And when the world to come arose

before her, clad in all the glories which her fancy, chilled by

education and years, could supply, it was but to vanish in the gloom

of the remembrance of him with whom she dared not hope to share its

blessedness. This at least was how Falconer afterwards interpreted

the sudden changes from gladness to gloom which he saw at such times

on her countenance.

But while such a small portion of the universe of thought was

enlightened by the glowworm lamp of the theories she had been

taught, she was not limited for light to that feeble source. While

she walked on her way, the moon, unseen herself behind the clouds,

was illuminating the whole landscape so gently and evenly, that the

glowworm being the only visible point of radiance, to it she

attributed all the light. But she felt bound to go on believing as

she had been taught; for sometimes the most original mind has the

strongest sense of law upon it, and will, in default of a better,

obey a beggarly one--only till the higher law that swallows it up

manifests itself. Obedience was as essential an element of her

creed as of that of any purest-minded monk; neither being

sufficiently impressed with this: that, while obedience is the law

of the kingdom, it is of considerable importance that that which is

obeyed should be in very truth the will of God. It is one thing, and

a good thing, to do for God's sake that which is not his will: it is

another thing, and altogether a better thing--how much better, no

words can tell--to do for God's sake that which is his will. Mrs.

Falconer's submission and obedience led her to accept as the will of

God, lest she should be guilty of opposition to him, that which it

was anything but giving him honour to accept as such. Therefore her

love to God was too like the love of the slave or the dog; too

little like the love of the child, with whose obedience the Father

cannot be satisfied until he cares for his reason as the highest

form of his will. True, the child who most faithfully desires to

know the inward will or reason of the Father, will be the most ready

to obey without it; only for this obedience it is essential that the

apparent command at least be such as he can suppose attributable to

the Father. Of his own self he is bound to judge what is right, as

the Lord said. Had Abraham doubted whether it was in any case right

to slay his son, he would have been justified in doubting whether

God really required it of him, and would have been bound to delay

action until the arrival of more light. True, the will of God can

never be other than good; but I doubt if any man can ever be sure

that a thing is the will of God, save by seeing into its nature and

character, and beholding its goodness. Whatever God does must be

right, but are we sure that we know what he does? That which men

say he does may be very wrong indeed.

This burden she in her turn laid upon Robert--not unkindly, but as

needful for his training towards well-being. Her way with him was

shaped after that which she recognized as God's way with her. 'Speir

nae questons, but gang an' du as ye're tellt.' And it was anything

but a bad lesson for the boy. It was one of the best he could have

had--that of authority. It is a grand thing to obey without asking

questions, so long as there is nothing evil in what is commanded.

Only grannie concealed her reasons without reason; and God makes no

secrets. Hence she seemed more stern and less sympathetic than she

really was.

She sat with her feet on the little wooden stool, and Robert sat

beside her staring into the fire, till they heard the outer door

open, and Shargar and Betty come in from church.

CHAPTER XIII.

ROBERT'S MOTHER.

Early on the following morning, while Mrs. Falconer, Robert, and

Shargar were at breakfast, Mr. Lammie came. He had delayed

communicating the intelligence he had received till he should be

more certain of its truth. Older than Andrew, he had been a great

friend of his father, and likewise of some of Mrs. Falconer's own

family. Therefore he was received with a kindly welcome. But there

was a cloud on his brow which in a moment revealed that his errand

was not a pleasant one.

'I haena seen ye for a lang time, Mr. Lammie. Gae butt the hoose,

lads. Or I'm thinkin' it maun be schule-time. Sit ye doon, Mr.

Lammie, and lat's hear yer news.'

'I cam frae Aberdeen last nicht, Mistress Faukner,' he began.

'Ye haena been hame sin' syne?' she rejoined.

'Na. I sleepit at The Boar's Heid.'

'What for did ye that? What gart ye be at that expense, whan ye

kent I had a bed i' the ga'le-room?'

'Weel, ye see, they're auld frien's o' mine, and I like to gang to

them whan I'm i' the gait o' 't.'

'Weel, they're a fine faimily, the Miss Napers. And, I wat, sin'

they maun sell drink, they du 't wi' discretion. That's weel kent.'

Possibly Mr. Lammie, remembering what then occurred, may have

thought the discretion a little in excess of the drink, but he had

other matters to occupy him now. For a few moments both were

silent.

'There's been some ill news, they tell me, Mrs. Faukner,' he said at

length, when the silence had grown painful.

'Humph!' returned the old lady, her face becoming stony with the

effort to suppress all emotion. 'Nae aboot Anerew?'

''Deed is 't, mem. An' ill news, I'm sorry to say.'

'Is he ta'en?'

'Ay is he--by a jyler that winna tyne the grup.'

'He's no deid, John Lammie? Dinna say 't.'

'I maun say 't, Mrs. Faukner. I had it frae Dr. Anderson, yer ain

cousin. He hintit at it afore, but his last letter leaves nae room

to doobt upo' the subjeck. I'm unco sorry to be the beirer o' sic

ill news, Mrs. Faukner, but I had nae chice.'

'Ohone! Ohone! the day o' grace is by at last! My puir Anerew!'

exclaimed Mrs. Falconer, and sat dumb thereafter.

Mr. Lammie tried to comfort her with some of the usual comfortless

commonplaces. She neither wept nor replied, but sat with stony face

staring into her lap, till, seeing that she was as one that heareth

not, he rose and left her alone with her grief. A few minutes after

he was gone, she rang the bell, and told Betty in her usual voice to

send Robert to her.

'He's gane to the schule, mem.'

'Rin efter him, an' tell him to come hame.'

When Robert appeared, wondering what his grandmother could want with

him, she said:

'Close the door, Robert. I canna lat ye gang to the schule the day.

We maun lea' him oot noo.'

'Lea' wha oot, grannie?'

'Him, him--Anerew. Yer father, laddie. I think my hert 'll brak.'

'Lea' him oot o' what, grannie? I dinna unnerstan' ye.'

'Lea' him oot o' oor prayers, laddie, and I canna bide it.'

'What for that?'

'He's deid.'

'Are ye sure?'

'Ay, ower sure--ower sure, laddie.'

'Weel, I dinna believe 't.'

'What for that?'

''Cause I winna believe 't. I'm no bund to believe 't, am I?'

'What's the gude o' that? What for no believe 't? Dr. Anderson's

sent hame word o' 't to John Lammie. Och hone! och hone!'

'I tell ye I winna believe 't, grannie, 'cep' God himsel' tells me.

As lang 's I dinna believe 'at he's deid, I can keep him i' my

prayers. I'm no gaein' to lea' him oot, I tell ye, grannie.'

'Weel, laddie, I canna argue wi' ye. I hae nae hert til 't. I

doobt I maun greit! Come awa'.'

She took him by the hand and rose, then let him go again, saying,

'Sneck the door, laddie.'

Robert bolted the door, and his grandmother again taking his hand,

led him to the usual corner. There they knelt down together, and

the old woman's prayer was one great and bitter cry for submission

to the divine will. She rose a little strengthened, if not

comforted, saying,

'Ye maun pray yer lane, laddie. But oh be a guid lad, for ye're a'

that I hae left; and gin ye gang wrang tu, ye'll bring doon my gray

hairs wi' sorrow to the grave. They're gray eneuch, and they're

near eneuch to the grave, but gin ye turn oot weel, I'll maybe haud

up my heid a bit yet. But O Anerew! my son! my son! Would God I

had died for thee!'

And the words of her brother in grief, the king of Israel, opened

the floodgates of her heart, and she wept. Robert left her weeping,

and closed the door quietly as if his dead father had been lying in

the room.

He took his way up to his own garret, closed that door too, and sat

down upon the floor, with his back against the empty bedstead.

There were no more castles to build now. It was all very well to

say that he would not believe the news and would pray for his

father, but he did believe them--enough at least to spoil the

praying. His favourite employment, seated there, had hitherto been

to imagine how he would grow a great man, and set out to seek his

father, and find him, and stand by him, and be his son and servant.

Oh! to have the man stroke his head and pat his cheek, and love

him! One moment he imagined himself his indignant defender, the

next he would be climbing on his knee, as if he were still a little

child, and laying his head on his shoulder. For he had had no

fondling his life long, and his heart yearned for it. But all this

was gone now. A dreary time lay before him, with nobody to please,

nobody to serve; with nobody to praise him. Grannie never praised

him. She must have thought praise something wicked. And his father

was in misery, for ever and ever! Only somehow that thought was not

quite thinkable. It was more the vanishing of hope from his own

life than a sense of his father's fate that oppressed him.

He cast his eyes, as in a hungry despair, around the empty room--or,

rather, I should have said, in that faintness which makes food at

once essential and loathsome; for despair has no proper hunger in

it. The room seemed as empty as his life. There was nothing for

his eyes to rest upon but those bundles and bundles of dust-browned

papers on the shelves before him. What were they all about? He

understood that they were his father's: now that he was dead, it

would be no sacrilege to look at them. Nobody cared about them. He

would see at least what they were. It would be something to do in

this dreariness.

Bills and receipts, and everything ephemeral--to feel the interest

of which, a man must be a poet indeed--was all that met his view.

Bundle after bundle he tried, with no better success. But as he

drew near the middle of the second shelf, upon which they lay

several rows deep, he saw something dark behind, hurriedly displaced

the packets between, and drew forth a small workbox. His heart beat

like that of the prince in the fairy-tale, when he comes to the door

of the Sleeping Beauty. This at least must have been hers. It was

a common little thing, probably a childish possession, and kept to

hold trifles worth more than they looked to be. He opened it with

bated breath. The first thing he saw was a half-finished reel of

cotton--a pirn, he called it. Beside it was a gold thimble. He

lifted the tray. A lovely face in miniature, with dark hair and

blue eyes, lay looking earnestly upward. At the lid of this coffin

those eyes had looked for so many years! The picture was set all

round with pearls in an oval ring. How Robert knew them to be

pearls he could not tell, for he did not know that he had ever seen

any pearls before, but he knew they were pearls, and that pearls had

something to do with the New Jerusalem. But the sadness of it all

at length overpowered him, and he burst out crying. For it was

awfully sad that his mother's portrait should be in his own mother's

box.

He took a bit of red tape off a bundle of the papers, put it through

the eye of the setting, and hung the picture round his neck, inside

his clothes, for grannie must not see it. She would take that away

as she had taken his fiddle. He had a nameless something now for

which he had been longing for years.

Looking again in the box, he found a little bit of paper,

discoloured with antiquity, as it seemed to him, though it was not

so old as himself. Unfolding it he found written upon it a

well-known hymn, and at the bottom of the hymn, the words: 'O Lord!

my heart is very sore.'--The treasure upon Robert's bosom was no

longer the symbol of a mother's love, but of a woman's sadness,

which he could not reach to comfort. In that hour, the boy made a

great stride towards manhood. Doubtless his mother's grief had been

the same as grannie's--the fear that she would lose her husband for

ever. The hourly fresh griefs from neglect and wrong did not occur

to him; only the never never more. He looked no farther, took the

portrait from his neck and replaced it with the paper, put the box

back, and walled it up in solitude once more with the dusty bundles.

Then he went down to his grandmother, sadder and more desolate than

ever.

He found her seated in her usual place. Her New Testament, a

large-print octavo, lay on the table beside her unopened; for where

within those boards could she find comfort for a grief like hers?

That it was the will of God might well comfort any suffering of her

own, but would it comfort Andrew? and if there was no comfort for

Andrew, how was Andrew's mother to be comforted?

Yet God had given his first-born to save his brethren: how could he

be pleased that she should dry her tears and be comforted? True,

some awful unknown force of a necessity with which God could not

cope came in to explain it; but this did not make God more kind, for

he knew it all every time he made a man; nor man less sorrowful, for

God would have his very mother forget him, or, worse still, remember

him and be happy.

'Read a chapter till me, laddie,' she said.

Robert opened and read till he came to the words: 'I pray not for

the world.'

'He was o' the world,' said the old woman; 'and gin Christ wadna

pray for him, what for suld I?'

Already, so soon after her son's death, would her theology begin to

harden her heart. The strife which results from believing that the

higher love demands the suppression of the lower, is the most

fearful of all discords, the absolute love slaying love--the house

divided against itself; one moment all given up for the will of Him,

the next the human tenderness rushing back in a flood. Mrs.

Falconer burst into a very agony of weeping. From that day, for

many years, the name of her lost Andrew never passed her lips in the

hearing of her grandson, and certainly in that of no one else.

But in a few weeks she was more cheerful. It is one of the

mysteries of humanity that mothers in her circumstances, and holding

her creed, do regain not merely the faculty of going on with the

business of life, but, in most cases, even cheerfulness. The

infinite Truth, the Love of the universe, supports them beyond their

consciousness, coming to them like sleep from the roots of their

being, and having nothing to do with their opinions or beliefs. And

hence spring those comforting subterfuges of hope to which they all

fly. Not being able to trust the Father entirely, they yet say:

'Who can tell what took place at the last moment? Who can tell

whether God did not please to grant them saving faith at the

eleventh hour?'--that so they might pass from the very gates of

hell, the only place for which their life had fitted them, into the

bosom of love and purity! This God could do for all: this for the

son beloved of his mother perhaps he might do!

O rebellious mother heart! dearer to God than that which beats

laboriously solemn under Genevan gown or Lutheran surplice! if thou

wouldst read by thine own large light, instead of the glimmer from

the phosphorescent brains of theologians, thou mightst even be able

to understand such a simple word as that of the Saviour, when,

wishing his disciples to know that he had a nearer regard for them

as his brethren in holier danger, than those who had not yet

partaken of his light, and therefore praying for them not merely as

human beings, but as the human beings they were, he said to his

Father in their hearing: 'I pray not for the world, but for

them,'--not for the world now, but for them--a meaningless

utterance, if he never prayed for the world; a word of small

meaning, if it was not his very wont and custom to pray for the

world--for men as men. Lord Christ! not alone from the pains of

hell, or of conscience--not alone from the outer darkness of self

and all that is mean and poor and low, do we fly to thee; but from

the anger that arises within us at the wretched words spoken in thy

name, at the degradation of thee and of thy Father in the mouths of

those that claim especially to have found thee, do we seek thy feet.

Pray thou for them also, for they know not what they do.

CHAPTER XIV.

MARY ST. JOHN.

After this, day followed day in calm, dull progress. Robert did not

care for the games through which his school-fellows forgot the

little they had to forget, and had therefore few in any sense his

companions. So he passed his time out of school in the society of

his grandmother and Shargar, except that spent in the garret, and

the few hours a week occupied by the lessons of the shoemaker. For

he went on, though half-heartedly, with those lessons, given now

upon Sandy's redeemed violin which he called his old wife, and made

a little progress even, as we sometimes do when we least think it.

He took more and more to brooding in the garret; and as more

questions presented themselves for solution, he became more anxious

to arrive at the solution, and more uneasy as he failed in

satisfying himself that he had arrived at it; so that his brain,

which needed quiet for the true formation of its substance, as a

cooling liquefaction or an evaporating solution for the just

formation of its crystals, became in danger of settling into an

abnormal arrangement of the cellular deposits.

I believe that even the new-born infant is, in some of his moods,

already grappling with the deepest metaphysical problems, in forms

infinitely too rudimental for the understanding of the grown

philosopher--as far, in fact, removed from his ken on the one side,

that of intelligential beginning, the germinal subjective, as his

abstrusest speculations are from the final solutions of absolute

entity on the other. If this be the case, it is no wonder that at

Robert's age the deepest questions of his coming manhood should be

in active operation, although so surrounded with the yoke of common

belief and the shell of accredited authority, that the embryo faith,

which in minds like his always takes the form of doubt, could not be

defined any more than its existence could be disproved. I have

given a hint at the tendency of his mind already, in the fact that

one of the most definite inquiries to which he had yet turned his

thoughts was, whether God would have mercy upon a repentant devil.

An ordinary puzzle had been--if his father were to marry again, and

it should turn out after all that his mother was not dead, what was

his father to do? But this was over now. A third was, why, when he

came out of church, sunshine always made him miserable, and he felt

better able to be good when it rained or snowed hard. I might

mention the inquiry whether it was not possible somehow to elude the

omniscience of God; but that is a common question with thoughtful

children, and indicates little that is characteristic of the

individual. That he puzzled himself about the perpetual motion may

pass for little likewise; but one thing which is worth mentioning,

for indeed it caused him considerable distress, was, that in reading

the Paradise Lost he could not help sympathizing with Satan, and

feeling--I do not say thinking--that the Almighty was pompous,

scarcely reasonable, and somewhat revengeful.

He was recognized amongst his school-fellows as remarkable for his

love of fair-play; so much so, that he was their constant referee.

Add to this that, notwithstanding his sympathy with Satan, he

almost invariably sided with his master, in regard of any angry

reflection or seditious movement, and even when unjustly punished

himself, the occasional result of a certain backwardness in

self-defence, never showed any resentment--a most improbable

statement, I admit, but nevertheless true--and I think the rest of

his character may be left to the gradual dawn of its historical

manifestation.

He had long ere this discovered who the angel was that had appeared

to him at the top of the stair upon that memorable night; but he

could hardly yet say that he had seen her; for, except one dim

glimpse he had had of her at the window as he passed in the street,

she had not appeared to him save in the vision of that night.

During the whole winter she scarcely left the house, partly from

the state of her health, affected by the sudden change to a northern

climate, partly from the attention required by her aunt, to aid in

nursing whom she had left the warmer south. Indeed, it was only to

return the visits of a few of Mrs. Forsyth's chosen, that she had

crossed the threshold at all; and those visits were paid at a time

when all such half-grown inhabitants as Robert were gathered under

the leathery wing of Mr. Innes.

But long before the winter was over, Rothieden had discovered that

the stranger, the English lady, Mary St. John, outlandish, almost

heathenish as her lovely name sounded in its ears, had a power as

altogether strange and new as her name. For she was not only an

admirable performer on the pianoforte, but such a simple enthusiast

in music, that the man must have had no music or little heart in him

in whom her playing did not move all that there was of the deepest.

Occasionally there would be quite a small crowd gathered at night by

the window of Mrs. Forsyth's drawing-room, which was on the

ground-floor, listening to music such as had never before been heard

in Rothieden. More than once, when Robert had not found Sandy

Elshender at home on the lesson-night, and had gone to seek him, he

had discovered him lying in wait, like a fowler, to catch the sweet

sounds that flew from the opened cage of her instrument. He leaned

against the wall with his ear laid over the edge, and as near the

window as he dared to put it, his rough face, gnarled and blotched,

and hirsute with the stubble of neglected beard--his whole ursine

face transfigured by the passage of the sweet sounds through his

chaotic brain, which they swept like the wind of God, when of old it

moved on the face of the waters that clothed the void and formless

world.

'Haud yer tongue!' he would say in a hoarse whisper, when Robert

sought to attract his attention; 'haud yer tongue, man, and hearken.

Gin yon bonny leddy 'at yer grannie keeps lockit up i' the aumry

war to tak to the piano, that's jist hoo she wad play. Lord, man!

pit yer sowl i' yer lugs, an' hearken.'

The soutar was all wrong in this; for if old Mr. Falconer's violin

had taken woman-shape, it would have been that of a slight, worn,

swarthy creature, with wild black eyes, great and restless, a voice

like a bird's, and thin fingers that clawed the music out of the

wires like the quills of the old harpsichord; not that of Mary St.

John, who was tall, and could not help being stately, was large and

well-fashioned, as full of repose as Handel's music, with a

contralto voice to make you weep, and eyes that would have seemed

but for their maidenliness to be always ready to fold you in their

lucid gray depths.

Robert stared at the soutar, doubting at first whether he had not

been drinking. But the intoxication of music produces such a

different expression from that of drink, that Robert saw at once

that if he had indeed been drinking, at least the music had got

above the drink. As long as the playing went on, Elshender was not

to be moved from the window.

But to many of the people of Rothieden the music did not recommend

the musician; for every sort of music, except the most unmusical of

psalm-singing, was in their minds of a piece with 'dancin' an'

play-actin', an' ither warldly vainities an' abominations.' And

Robert, being as yet more capable of melody than harmony, grudged to

lose a lesson on Sandy's 'auld wife o' a fiddle' for any amount of

Miss St. John's playing.

CHAPTER XV.

ERIC ERICSON.

One gusty evening--it was of the last day in March--Robert well

remembered both the date and the day--a bleak wind was driving up

the long street of the town, and Robert was standing looking out of

one of the windows in the gable-room. The evening was closing into

night. He hardly knew how he came to he there, but when he thought

about it he found it was play-Wednesday, and that he had been all

the half-holiday trying one thing after another to interest himself

withhal, but in vain. He knew nothing about east winds; but not the

less did this dreary wind of the dreary March world prove itself

upon his soul. For such a wind has a shadow wind along with it,

that blows in the minds of men. There was nothing genial, no growth

in it. It killed, and killed most dogmatically. But it is an ill

wind that blows nobody good. Even an east wind must bear some

blessing on its ugly wings. And as Robert looked down from the

gable, the wind was blowing up the street before it half-a-dozen

footfaring students from Aberdeen, on their way home at the close of

the session, probably to the farm-labours of the spring.

This was a glad sight, as that of the returning storks in Denmark.

Robert knew where they would put up, sought his cap, and went out.

His grandmother never objected to his going to see Miss Napier; it

was in her house that the weary men would this night rest.

It was not without reason that Lord Rothie had teased his hostess

about receiving foot-passengers, for to such it was her invariable

custom to make some civil excuse, sending Meg or Peggy to show them

over the way to the hostelry next in rank, a proceeding recognized

by the inferior hostess as both just and friendly, for the good

woman never thought of measuring The Star against The Boar's Head.

More than one comical story had been the result of this law of The

Boar's Head, unalterable almost as that of the Medes and Persians.

I say almost, for to one class of the footfaring community the

official ice about the hearts of the three women did thaw, yielding

passage to a full river of hospitality and generosity; and that was

the class to which these wayfarers belonged.

Well may Scotland rejoice in her universities, for whatever may be

said against their system--I have no complaint to make--they are

divine in their freedom: men who follow the plough in the spring and

reap the harvest in the autumn, may, and often do, frequent their

sacred precincts when the winter comes--so fierce, yet so

welcome--so severe, yet so blessed--opening for them the doors to

yet harder toil and yet poorer fare. I fear, however, that of such

there will be fewer and fewer, seeing one class which supplied a

portion of them has almost vanished from the country--that class

which was its truest, simplest, and noblest strength--that class

which at one time rendered it something far other than ridicule to

say that Scotland was pre-eminently a God-fearing nation--I mean the

class of cottars.

Of this class were some of the footfaring company. But there were

others of more means than the men of this lowly origin, who either

could not afford to travel by the expensive coaches, or could find

none to accommodate them. Possibly some preferred to walk. However

this may have been, the various groups which at the beginning and

close of the session passed through Rothieden weary and footsore,

were sure of a hearty welcome at The Boar's Head. And much the men

needed it. Some of them would have walked between one and two

hundred miles before completing their journey.

Robert made a circuit, and, fleet of foot, was in Miss Napier's

parlour before the travellers made their appearance on the square.

When they knocked at the door, Miss Letty herself went and opened

it.

'Can ye tak 's in, mem?' was on the lips of their spokesman, but

Miss Letty had the first word.

'Come in, come in, gentlemen. This is the first o' ye, and ye're

the mair welcome. It's like seein' the first o' the swallows. An'

sic a day as ye hae had for yer lang traivel!' she went on, leading

the way to her sister's parlour, and followed by all the students,

of whom the one that came hindmost was the most remarkable of the

group--at the same time the most weary and downcast.

Miss Napier gave them a similar welcome, shaking hands with every

one of them. She knew them all but the last. To him she

involuntarily showed a more formal respect, partly from his

appearance, and partly that she had never seen him before. The

whisky-bottle was brought out, and all partook, save still the last.

Miss Lizzie went to order their supper.

'Noo, gentlemen,' said Miss Letty, 'wad ony o' ye like to gang an'

change yer hose, and pit on a pair o' slippers?'

Several declined, saying they would wait until they had had their

supper; the roads had been quite dry, &c., &c. One said he would,

and another said his feet were blistered.

'Hoot awa'!'2 exclaimed Miss Letty.--'Here, Peggy!' she cried, going

to the door; 'tak a pail o' het watter up to the chackit room. Jist

ye gang up, Mr. Cameron, and Peggy 'll see to yer feet.--Noo, sir,

will ye gang to yer room an' mak yersel' comfortable?--jist as gin

ye war at hame, for sae ye are.'

She addressed the stranger thus. He replied in a low indifferent

tone,

'No, thank you; I must be off again directly.'

He was from Caithness, and talked no Scotch.

''Deed, sir, ye'll do naething o' the kin'. Here ye s' bide, tho' I

suld lock the door.'

'Come, come, Ericson, none o' your nonsense!' said one of his

fellows. 'Ye ken yer feet are sae blistered ye can hardly put ane by

the ither.--It was a' we cud du, mem, to get him alang the last

mile.'

'That s' be my business, than,' concluded Miss Letty.

She left the room, and returning in a few minutes, said, as a matter

of course, but with authority,

'Mr. Ericson, ye maun come wi' me.'

Then she hesitated a little. Was it maidenliness in the waning

woman of five-and-forty? It was, I believe; for how can a woman

always remember how old she is? If ever there was a young soul in

God's world, it was Letty Napier. And the young man was tall and

stately as a Scandinavian chief, with a look of command, tempered

with patient endurance, in his eagle face, for he was more like an

eagle than any other creature, and in his countenance signs of

suffering. Miss Letty seeing this, was moved, and her heart

swelled, and she grew conscious and shy, and turning to Robert,

said,

'Come up the stair wi' 's, Robert; I may want ye.'

Robert jumped to his feet. His heart too had been yearning towards

the stranger.

As if yielding to the inevitable, Ericson rose and followed Miss

Letty. But when they had reached the room, and the door was shut

behind them, and Miss Letty pointed to a chair beside which stood a

little wooden tub full of hot water, saying, 'Sit ye doon there, Mr.

Ericson,' he drew himself up, all but his graciously-bowed head, and

said,

'Ma'am, I must tell you that I followed the rest in here from the

very stupidity of weariness. I have not a shilling in my pocket.'

'God bless me!' said Miss Letty--and God did bless her, I am

sure--'we maun see to the feet first. What wad ye du wi' a shillin'

gin ye had it? Wad ye clap ane upo' ilka blister?'

Ericson burst out laughing, and sat down. But still he hesitated.

'Aff wi' yer shune, sir. Duv ye think I can wash yer feet throu

ben' leather?' said Miss Letty, not disdaining to advance her

fingers to a shoe-tie.

'But I'm ashamed. My stockings are all in holes.'

'Weel, ye s' get a clean pair to put on the morn, an' I'll darn them

'at ye hae on, gin they be worth darnin', afore ye gang--an' what

are ye sae camstairie (unmanageable) for? A body wad think ye had a

clo'en fit in ilk ane o' thae bits o' shune o' yours. I winna

promise to please yer mither wi' my darnin' though.'

'I have no mother to find fault with it,' said Ericson.

'Weel, a sister's waur.'

'I have no sister, either.'

This was too much for Miss Letty. She could keep up the bravado of

humour no longer. She fairly burst out crying. In a moment more

the shoes and stockings were off, and the blisters in the hot water.

Miss Letty's tears dropped into the tub, and the salt in them did

not hurt the feet with which she busied herself, more than was

necessary, to hide them.

But no sooner had she recovered herself than she resumed her former

tone.

'A shillin'! said ye? An' a' thae greedy gleds (kites) o'

professors to pay, that live upo' the verra blude and banes o'

sair-vroucht students! Hoo cud ye hae a shillin' ower? Troth, it's

nae wonner ye haena ane left. An' a' the merchan's there jist

leevin' upo' ye! Lord hae a care o' 's! sic bonnie feet!--Wi'

blisters I mean. I never saw sic a sicht o' raw puddin's in my

life. Ye're no fit to come doon the stair again.'

All the time she was tenderly washing and bathing the weary feet.

When she had dressed them and tied them up, she took the tub of

water and carried it away, but turned at the door.

'Ye'll jist mak up yer min' to bide a twa three days,' she said;

'for thae feet cudna bide to be carried, no to say to carry a weicht

like you. There's naebody to luik for ye, ye ken. An' ye're no to

come doon the nicht. I'll sen' up yer supper. And Robert there 'll

bide and keep ye company.'

She vanished; and a moment after, Peggy appeared with a

salamander--that is a huge poker, ending not in a point, but a

red-hot ace of spades--which she thrust between the bars of the

grate, into the heart of a nest of brushwood. Presently a cheerful

fire illuminated the room.

Ericson was seated on one chair, with his feet on another, his head

sunk on his bosom, and his eyes thinking. There was something about

him almost as powerfully attractive to Robert as it had been to Miss

Letty. So he sat gazing at him, and longing for a chance of doing

something for him. He had reverence already, and some love, but he

had never felt at all as he felt towards this man. Nor was it as

the Chinese puzzlers called Scotch metaphysicians, might have

represented it--a combination of love and reverence. It was the

recognition of the eternal brotherhood between him and one nobler

than himself--hence a lovely eager worship.

Seeing Ericson look about him as if he wanted something, Robert

started to his feet.

'Is there onything ye want, Mr. Ericson?' he said, with service

standing in his eyes.

'A small bundle I think I brought up with me,' replied the youth.

It was not there. Robert rushed down-stairs, and returned with

it--a nightshirt and a hairbrush or so, tied up in a blue cotton

handkerchief. This was all that Robert was able to do for Ericson

that evening.

He went home and dreamed about him. He called at The Boar's Head

the next morning before going to school, but Ericson was not yet up.

When he called again as soon as morning school was over, he found

that they had persuaded him to keep his bed, but Miss Letty took him

up to his room. He looked better, was pleased to see Robert, and

spoke to him kindly. Twice yet Robert called to inquire after him

that day, and once more he saw him, for he took his tea up to him.

The next day Ericson was much better, received Robert with a smile,

and went out with him for a stroll, for all his companions were

gone, and of some students who had arrived since he did not know

any. Robert took him to his grandmother, who received him with

stately kindness. Then they went out again, and passed the windows

of Captain Forsyth's house. Mary St. John was playing. They stood

for a moment, almost involuntarily, to listen. She ceased.

'That's the music of the spheres,' said Ericson, in a low voice, as

they moved on.

'Will you tell me what that means?' asked Robert. 'I've come upon 't

ower an' ower in Milton.'

Thereupon Ericson explained to him what Pythagoras had taught about

the stars moving in their great orbits with sounds of awful harmony,

too grandly loud for the human organ to vibrate in response to their

music--hence unheard of men. And Ericson spoke as if he believed

it. But after he had spoken, his face grew sadder than ever; and,

as if to change the subject, he said, abruptly,

'What a fine old lady your grandmother is, Robert!'

'Is she?' returned Robert.

'I don't mean to say she's like Miss Letty,' said Ericson. 'She's an

angel!'

A long pause followed. Robert's thoughts went roaming in their

usual haunts.

'Do you think, Mr. Ericson,' he said, at length, taking up the old

question still floating unanswered in his mind, 'do you think if a

devil was to repent God would forgive him?'

Ericson turned and looked at him. Their eyes met. The youth

wondered at the boy. He had recognized in him a younger brother,

one who had begun to ask questions, calling them out into the deaf

and dumb abyss of the universe.

'If God was as good as I would like him to be, the devils themselves

would repent,' he said, turning away.

Then he turned again, and looking down upon Robert like a sorrowful

eagle from a crag over its harried nest, said,

'If I only knew that God was as good as--that woman, I should die

content.'

Robert heard words of blasphemy from the mouth of an angel, but his

respect for Ericson compelled a reply.

'What woman, Mr. Ericson?' he asked.

'I mean Miss Letty, of course.'

'But surely ye dinna think God's nae as guid as she is? Surely he's

as good as he can be. He is good, ye ken.'

'Oh, yes. They say so. And then they tell you something about him

that isn't good, and go on calling him good all the same. But

calling anybody good doesn't make him good, you know.'

'Then ye dinna believe 'at God is good, Mr. Ericson?' said Robert,

choking with a strange mingling of horror and hope.

'I didn't say that, my boy. But to know that God was good, and

fair, and kind--heartily, I mean, not half-ways, and with ifs and

buts--my boy, there would be nothing left to be miserable about.'

In a momentary flash of thought, Robert wondered whether this might

not be his old friend, the repentant angel, sent to earth as a man,

that he might have a share in the redemption, and work out his own

salvation. And from this very moment the thoughts about God that

had hitherto been moving in formless solution in his mind began

slowly to crystallize.

The next day, Eric Ericson, not without a piece in ae pouch and

money in another, took his way home, if home it could be called

where neither father, mother, brother, nor sister awaited his

return. For a season Robert saw him no more.

As often as his name was mentioned, Miss Letty's eyes would grow

hazy, and as often she would make some comical remark.

'Puir fallow!' she would say, 'he was ower lang-leggit for this

warld.'

Or again:

'Ay, he was a braw chield. But he canna live. His feet's ower

sma'.'

Or yet again:

'Saw ye ever sic a gowk, to mak sic a wark aboot sittin' doon an'

haein' his feet washed, as gin that cost a body onything!'

CHAPTER XVI.

MR. LAMMIE'S FARM.

One of the first warm mornings in the beginning of summer, the boy

woke early, and lay awake, as was his custom, thinking. The sun, in

all the indescribable purity of its morning light, had kindled a

spot of brilliance just about where his grannie's head must be lying

asleep in its sad thoughts, on the opposite side of the partition.

He lay looking at the light. There came a gentle tapping at his

window. A long streamer of honeysuckle, not yet in blossom, but

alive with the life of the summer, was blown by the air of the

morning against his window-pane, as if calling him to get up and

look out. He did get up and look out.

But he started back in such haste that he fell against the side of

his bed. Within a few yards of his window, bending over a bush, was

the loveliest face he had ever seen--the only face, in fact, he had

ever yet felt to be beautiful. For the window looked directly into

the garden of the next house: its honeysuckle tapped at his window,

its sweet-peas grew against his window-sill. It was the face of the

angel of that night; but how different when illuminated by the

morning sun from then, when lighted up by a chamber-candle! The

first thought that came to him was the half-ludicrous, all-fantastic

idea of the shoemaker about his grandfather's violin being a woman.

A vaguest dream-vision of her having escaped from his grandmother's

aumrie (store-closet), and wandering free amidst the wind and among

the flowers, crossed his mind before he had recovered sufficiently

from his surprise to prevent Fancy from cutting any more of those

too ridiculous capers in which she indulged at will in sleep, and as

often besides as she can get away from the spectacles of old Grannie

Judgment.

But the music of her revelation was not that of the violin; and

Robert vaguely felt this, though he searched no further for a

fitting instrument to represent her. If he had heard the organ

indeed!--but he knew no instrument save the violin: the piano he had

only heard through the window. For a few moments her face brooded

over the bush, and her long, finely-modelled fingers travelled about

it as if they were creating a flower upon it--probably they were

assisting the birth or blowing of some beauty--and then she raised

herself with a lingering look, and vanished from the field of the

window.

But ever after this, when the evening grew dark, Robert would steal

out of the house, leaving his book open by his grannie's lamp, that

its patient expansion might seem to say, 'He will come back

presently,' and dart round the corner with quick quiet step, to hear

if Miss St. John was playing. If she was not, he would return to

the Sabbath stillness of the parlour, where his grandmother sat

meditating or reading, and Shargar sat brooding over the freedom of

the old days ere Mrs. Falconer had begun to reclaim him. There he

would seat himself once more at his book--to rise again ere another

hour had gone by, and hearken yet again at her window whether the

stream might not be flowing now. If he found her at her instrument

he would stand listening in earnest delight, until the fear of being

missed drove him in: this secret too might be discovered, and this

enchantress too sent, by the decree of his grandmother, into the

limbo of vanities. Thus strangely did his evening life oscillate

between the two peaceful negations of grannie's parlour and the

vital gladness of the unknown lady's window. And skilfully did he

manage his retreats and returns, curtailing his absences with such

moderation that, for a long time, they awoke no suspicion in the

mind of his grandmother.

I suspect myself that the old lady thought he had gone to his

prayers in the garret. And I believe she thought that he was

praying for his dead father; with which most papistical, and,

therefore, most unchristian observance, she yet dared not interfere,

because she expected Robert to defend himself triumphantly with the

simple assertion that he did not believe his father was dead.

Possibly the mother was not sorry that her poor son should be

prayed for, in case he might be alive after all, though she could no

longer do so herself--not merely dared not, but persuaded herself

that she would not. Robert, however, was convinced enough, and

hopeless enough, by this time, and had even less temptation to break

the twentieth commandment by praying for the dead, than his

grandmother had; for with all his imaginative outgoings after his

father, his love to him was as yet, compared to that father's

mother's, 'as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine.'

Shargar would glance up at him with a queer look as he came in from

these excursions, drop his head over his task again, look busy and

miserable, and all would glide on as before.

When the first really summer weather came, Mr. Lammie one day paid

Mrs. Falconer a second visit. He had not been able to get over the

remembrance of the desolation in which he had left her. But he

could do nothing for her, he thought, till it was warm weather. He

was accompanied by his daughter, a woman approaching the further

verge of youth, bulky and florid, and as full of tenderness as her

large frame could hold. After much, and, for a long time,

apparently useless persuasion, they at last believed they had

prevailed upon her to pay them a visit for a fortnight. But she had

only retreated within another of her defences.

'I canna leave thae twa laddies alane. They wad be up to a'

mischeef.'

'There's Betty to luik efter them,' suggested Miss Lammie.

'Betty!' returned Mrs. Falconer, with scorn. 'Betty's naething but a

bairn hersel'--muckler and waur faured (worse favoured).'

'But what for shouldna ye fess the lads wi' ye?' suggested Mr.

Lammie.

'I hae no richt to burden you wi' them.'

'Weel, I hae aften wonnert what gart ye burden yersel' wi' that

Shargar, as I understan' they ca' him,' said Mr. Lammie.

'Jist naething but a bit o' greed,' returned the old lady, with the

nearest approach to a smile that had shown itself upon her face

since Mr. Lammie's last visit.

'I dinna understan' that, Mistress Faukner,' said Miss Lammie.

'I'm sae sure o' haein' 't back again, ye ken,--wi' interest,'

returned Mrs. Falconer.

'Hoo's that? His father winna con ye ony thanks for haudin' him in

life.'

'He that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord, ye ken, Miss

Lammie.'

'Atweel, gin ye like to lippen to that bank, nae doobt ae way or

anither it'll gang to yer accoont,' said Miss Lammie.

'It wad ill become us, ony gait,' said her father, 'nae to gie him

shelter for your sake, Mrs. Faukner, no to mention ither names, sin'

it's yer wull to mak the puir lad ane o' the family.--They say his

ain mither's run awa' an' left him.'

''Deed she's dune that.'

'Can ye mak onything o' 'im?'

'He's douce eneuch. An' Robert says he does nae that ill at the

schuil.'

'Weel, jist fess him wi' ye. We'll hae some place or ither to put

him intil, gin it suld be only a shak'-doon upo' the flure.'

'Na, na. There's the schuilin'--what's to be dune wi' that?'

'They can gang i' the mornin', and get their denner wi' Betty here;

and syne come hame to their fower-hoors (four o'clock tea) whan the

schule's ower i' the efternune. 'Deed, mem, ye maun jist come for

the sake o' the auld frien'ship atween the faimilies.'

'Weel, gin it maun be sae, it maun be sae,' yielded Mrs. Falconer,

with a sigh.

She had not left her own house for a single night for ten years.

Nor is it likely she would have now given in, for immovableness was

one of the most marked of her characteristics, had she not been so

broken by mental suffering, that she did not care much about

anything, least of all about herself.

Innumerable were the instructions in propriety of behaviour which

she gave the boys in prospect of this visit. The probability being

that they would behave just as well as at home, these instructions

were considerably unnecessary, for Mrs. Falconer was a strict

enforcer of all social rules. Scarcely less unnecessary were the

directions she gave as to the conduct of Betty, who received them

all in erect submission, with her hands under her apron. She ought

to have been a young girl instead of an elderly woman, if there was

any propriety in the way her mistress spoke to her. It proved at

least her own belief in the description she had given of her to Miss

Lammie.

'Noo, Betty, ye maun be dooce. An' dinna stan' at the door i' the

gloamin'. An' dinna stan' claikin' an' jawin' wi' the ither lasses

whan ye gang to the wall for watter. An' whan ye gang intil a chop,

dinna hae them sayin' ahint yer back, as sune's yer oot again,

"She's her ain mistress by way o'," or sic like. An' min' ye hae

worship wi' yersel', whan I'm nae here to hae 't wi' ye. Ye can

come benn to the parlour gin ye like. An' there's my muckle

Testament. And dinna gie the lads a' thing they want. Gie them

plenty to ait, but no ower muckle. Fowk suld aye lea' aff wi' an

eppiteet.'

Mr. Lammie brought his gig at last, and took grannie away to

Bodyfauld. When the boys returned from school at the dinner-hour,

it was to exult in a freedom which Robert had never imagined before.

But even he could not know what a relief it was to Shargar to eat

without the awfully calm eyes of Mrs. Falconer watching, as it

seemed to him, the progress of every mouthful down that capacious

throat of his. The old lady would have been shocked to learn how

the imagination of the ill-mothered lad interpreted her care over

him, but she would not have been surprised to know that the two were

merry in her absence. She knew that, in some of her own moods, it

would be a relief to think that that awful eye of God was not upon

her. But she little thought that even in the lawless proceedings

about to follow, her Robert, who now felt such a relief in her

absence, would be walking straight on, though blindly, towards a

sunrise of faith, in which he would know that for the eye of his God

to turn away from him for one moment would be the horror of the

outer darkness.

Merriment, however, was not in Robert's thoughts, and still less was

mischief. For the latter, whatever his grandmother might think, he

had no capacity. The world was already too serious, and was soon to

be too beautiful for mischief. After that, it would be too sad, and

then, finally, until death, too solemn glad. The moment he heard of

his grandmother's intended visit, one wild hope and desire and

intent had arisen within him.

When Betty came to the parlour door to lay the cloth for their

dinner, she found it locked.

'Open the door!' she cried, but cried in vain. From impatience she

passed to passion; but it was of no avail: there came no more

response than from the shrine of the deaf Baal. For to the boys it

was an opportunity not at any risk to be lost. Dull Betty never

suspected what they were about. They were ranging the place like

two tiger-cats whose whelps had been carried off in their

absence--questing, with nose to earth and tail in air, for the scent

of their enemy. My simile has carried me too far: it was only a

dead old gentleman's violin that a couple of boys was after--but

with what eagerness, and, on the part of Robert, what alternations

of hope and fear! And Shargar was always the reflex of Robert, so

far as Shargar could reflect Robert. Sometimes Robert would stop,

stand still in the middle of the room, cast a mathematical glance of

survey over its cubic contents, and then dart off in another

inwardly suggested direction of search. Shargar, on the other hand,

appeared to rummage blindly without a notion of casting the

illumination of thought upon the field of search. Yet to him fell

the success. When hope was growing dim, after an hour and a half of

vain endeavour, a scream of utter discordance heralded the

resurrection of the lady of harmony. Taught by his experience of

his wild mother's habits to guess at those of douce Mrs. Falconer,

Shargar had found the instrument in her bed at the foot, between the

feathers and the mattress. For one happy moment Shargar was the

benefactor, and Robert the grateful recipient of favour. Nor, I do

believe, was this thread of the still thickening cable that bound

them ever forgotten: broken it could not be.

Robert drew the recovered treasure from its concealment, opened the

case with trembling eagerness, and was stooping, with one hand on

the neck of the violin, and the other on the bow, to lift them from

it, when Shargar stopped him.

His success had given him such dignity, that for once he dared to

act from himself.

'Betty 'll hear ye,' he said.

'What care I for Betty? She daurna tell. I ken hoo to manage her.'

'But wadna 't be better 'at she didna ken?'

'She's sure to fin' oot whan she mak's the bed. She turns 't ower

and ower jist like a muckle tyke (dog) worryin' a rottan (rat).'

'De'il a bit o' her s' be a hair wiser! Ye dinna play tunes upo'

the boxie, man.'

Robert caught at the idea. He lifted the 'bonny leddy' from her

coffin; and while he was absorbed in the contemplation of her risen

beauty, Shargar laid his hands on Boston's Four-fold State, the

torment of his life on the Sunday evenings which it was his turn to

spend with Mrs. Falconer, and threw it as an offering to the powers

of Hades into the case, which he then buried carefully, with the

feather-bed for mould, the blankets for sod, and the counterpane

studiously arranged for stone, over it. He took heed, however, not

to let Robert know of the substitution of Boston for the fiddle,

because he knew Robert could not tell a lie. Therefore, when he

murmured over the volume some of its own words which he had read the

preceding Sunday, it was in a quite inaudible whisper: 'Now is it

good for nothing but to cumber the ground, and furnish fuel for

Tophet.'

Robert must now hide the violin better than his grannie had done,

while at the same time it was a more delicate necessity, seeing it

had lost its shell, and he shrunk from putting her in the power of

the shoemaker again. It cost him much trouble to fix on the place

that was least unsuitable. First he put it into the well of the

clock-case, but instantly bethought him what the awful consequence

would be if one of the weights should fall from the gradual decay of

its cord. He had heard of such a thing happening. Then he would

put it into his own place of dreams and meditations. But what if

Betty should take a fancy to change her bed? or some friend of his

grannie's should come to spend the night? How would the bonny leddy

like it? What a risk she would run! If he put her under the bed,

the mice would get at her strings--nay, perhaps, knaw a hole right

through her beautiful body. On the top of the clock, the brass

eagle with outspread wings might scratch her, and there was not

space to conceal her. At length he concluded--wrapped her in a

piece of paper, and placed her on the top of the chintz tester of

his bed, where there was just room between it and the ceiling: that

would serve till he bore her to some better sanctuary. In the

meantime she was safe, and the boy was the blessedest boy in

creation.

These things done, they were just in the humour to have a lark with

Betty. So they unbolted the door, rang the bell, and when Betty

appeared, red-faced and wrathful, asked her very gravely and

politely whether they were not going to have some dinner before they

went back to school: they had now but twenty minutes left. Betty

was so dumfoundered with their impudence that she could not say a

word. She did make haste with the dinner, though, and revealed her

indignation only in her manner of putting the things on the table.

As the boys left her, Robert contented himself with the single

hint:

'Betty, Bodyfauld 's i' the perris o' Kettledrum. Min' ye that.'

Betty glowered and said nothing.

But the delight of the walk of three miles over hill and dale and

moor and farm to Mr. Lammie's! The boys, if not as wild as

colts--that is, as wild as most boys would have been--were only the

more deeply excited. That first summer walk, with a goal before

them, in all the freshness of the perfecting year, was something

which to remember in after days was to Falconer nothing short of

ecstasy. The westering sun threw long shadows before them as they

trudged away eastward, lightly laden with the books needful for the

morrow's lessons. Once beyond the immediate purlieus of the town

and the various plots of land occupied by its inhabitants, they

crossed a small river, and entered upon a region of little hills,

some covered to the top with trees, chiefly larch, others

cultivated, and some bearing only heather, now nursing in secret its

purple flame for the outburst of the autumn. The road wound

between, now swampy and worn into deep ruts, now sandy and broken

with large stones. Down to its edge would come the dwarfed oak, or

the mountain ash, or the silver birch, single and small, but lovely

and fresh; and now green fields, fenced with walls of earth as green

as themselves, or of stones overgrown with moss, would stretch away

on both sides, sprinkled with busily-feeding cattle. Now they would

pass through a farm-steading, perfumed with the breath of cows, and

the odour of burning peat--so fragrant! though not yet so grateful

to the inner sense as it would be when encountered in after years

and in foreign lands. For the smell of burning and the smell of

earth are the deepest underlying sensuous bonds of the earth's

unity, and the common brotherhood of them that dwell thereon. Now

the scent of the larches would steal from the hill, or the wind

would waft the odour of the white clover, beloved of his

grandmother, to Robert's nostrils, and he would turn aside to pull

her a handful. Then they clomb a high ridge, on the top of which

spread a moorland, dreary and desolate, brightened by nothing save

'the canna's hoary beard' waving in the wind, and making it look

even more desolate from the sympathy they felt with the forsaken

grass. This crossed, they descended between young plantations of

firs and rowan-trees and birches, till they reached a warm house on

the side of the slope, with farm-offices and ricks of corn and hay

all about it, the front overgrown with roses and honeysuckle, and a

white-flowering plant unseen of their eyes hitherto, and therefore

full of mystery. From the open kitchen door came the smell of

something good. But beyond all to Robert was the welcome of Miss

Lammie, whose small fat hand closed upon his like a very

love-pudding, after partaking of which even his grandmother's

stately reception, followed immediately by the words 'Noo be dooce,'

could not chill the warmth in his bosom.

I know but one writer whose pen would have been able worthily to set

forth the delights of the first few days at Bodyfauld--Jean Paul.

Nor would he have disdained to make the gladness of a country

school-boy the theme of that pen. Indeed, often has he done so. If

the writer has any higher purpose than the amusement of other boys,

he will find the life of a country boy richer for his ends than that

of a town boy. For example, he has a deeper sense of the marvel of

Nature, a tenderer feeling of her feminality. I do not mean that

the other cannot develop this sense, but it is generally feeble, and

there is consequently less chance of its surviving. As far as my

experience goes, town girls and country boys love Nature most. I

have known town girls love her as passionately as country boys.

Town boys have too many books and pictures. They see Nature in

mirrors--invaluable privilege after they know herself, not before.

They have greater opportunity of observing human nature; but here

also the books are too many and various. They are cleverer than

country boys, but they are less profound; their observation may be

quicker; their perception is shallower. They know better what to do

on an emergency; they know worse how to order their ways. Of

course, in this, as in a thousand other matters, Nature will burst

out laughing in the face of the would-be philosopher, and bringing

forward her town boy, will say, 'Look here!' For the town boys are

Nature's boys after all, at least so long as doctrines of

self-preservation and ambition have not turned them from children of

the kingdom into dirt-worms. But I must stop, for I am getting up

to the neck in a bog of discrimination. As if I did not know the

nobility of some townspeople, compared with the worldliness of some

country folk. I give it up. We are all good and all bad. God mend

all. Nothing will do for Jew or Gentile, Frenchman or Englishman,

Negro or Circassian, town boy or country boy, but the kingdom of

heaven which is within him, and must come thence to the outside of

him.

To a boy like Robert the changes of every day, from country to town

with the gay morning, from town to country with the sober

evening--for country as Rothieden might be to Edinburgh, much more

was Bodyfauld country to Rothieden--were a source of boundless

delight. Instead of houses, he saw the horizon; instead of streets

or walled gardens, he roamed over fields bathed in sunlight and

wind. Here it was good to get up before the sun, for then he could

see the sun get up. And of all things those evening shadows

lengthening out over the grassy wildernesses--for fields of a very

moderate size appeared such to an imagination ever ready at the

smallest hint to ascend its solemn throne--were a deepening marvel.

Town to country is what a ceiling is to a c lum.?

CHAPTER XVII.

ADVENTURES.

Grannie's first action every evening, the moment the boys entered

the room, was to glance up at the clock, that she might see whether

they had arrived in reasonable time. This was not pleasant, because

it admonished Robert how impossible it was for him to have a lesson

on his own violin so long as the visit to Bodyfauld lasted. If they

had only been allowed to sleep at Rothieden, what a universe of

freedom would have been theirs! As it was, he had but two hours to

himself, pared at both ends, in the middle of the day. Dooble Sanny

might have given him a lesson at that time, but he did not dare to

carry his instrument through the streets of Rothieden, for the

proceeding would be certain to come to his grandmother's ears.

Several days passed indeed before he made up his mind as to how he

was to reap any immediate benefit from the recovery of the violin.

For after he had made up his mind to run the risk of successive

mid-day solos in the old factory--he was not prepared to carry the

instrument through the streets, or be seen entering the place with

it.

But the factory lay at the opposite corner of a quadrangle of

gardens, the largest of which belonged to itself; and the corner of

this garden touched the corner of Captain Forsyth's, which had

formerly belonged to Andrew Falconer: he had had a door made in the

walls at the point of junction, so that he could go from his house

to his business across his own property: if this door were not

locked, and Robert could pass without offence, what a north-west

passage it would be for him! The little garden belonging to his

grandmother's house had only a slight wooden fence to divide it from

the other, and even in this fence there was a little gate: he would

only have to run along Captain Forsyth's top walk to reach the door.

The blessed thought came to him as he lay in bed at Bodyfauld: he

would attempt the passage the very next day.

With his violin in its paper under his arm, he sped like a hare from

gate to door, found it not even latched, only pushed to and rusted

into such rest as it was dangerous to the hinges to disturb. He

opened it, however, without any accident, and passed through; then

closing it behind him, took his way more leisurely through the

tangled grass of his grandmother's property. When he reached the

factory, he judged it prudent to search out a more secret nook, one

more full of silence, that is, whence the sounds would be less

certain to reach the ears of the passers by, and came upon a small

room, near the top, which had been the manager's bedroom, and which,

as he judged from what seemed the signs of ancient occupation, a

cloak hanging on the wall, and the ashes of a fire lying in the

grate, nobody had entered for years: it was the safest place in the

world. He undid his instrument carefully, tuned its strings

tenderly, and soon found that his former facility, such as it was,

had not ebbed away beyond recovery. Hastening back as he came, he

was just in time for his dinner, and narrowly escaped encountering

Betty in the transe. He had been tempted to leave the instrument,

but no one could tell what might happen, and to doubt would be to be

miserable with anxiety.

He did the same for several days without interruption--not, however,

without observation. When, returning from his fourth visit, he

opened the door between the gardens, he started back in dismay, for

there stood the beautiful lady.

Robert hesitated for a moment whether to fly or speak. He was a

Lowland country boy, and therefore rude of speech, but he was three

parts a Celt, and those who know the address of the Irish or of the

Highlanders, know how much that involves as to manners and bearing.

He advanced the next instant and spoke.

'I beg yer pardon, mem. I thoucht naebody wad see me. I haena dune

nae ill.'

'I had not the least suspicion of it, I assure you,' returned Miss

St. John. 'But, tell me, what makes you go through here always at

the same hour with the same parcel under your arm?'

'Ye winna tell naebody--will ye, mem, gin I tell you?'

Miss St. John, amused, and interested besides in the contrast

between the boy's oddly noble face and good bearing on the one hand,

and on the other the drawl of his bluntly articulated speech and the

coarseness of his tone, both seeming to her in the extreme of

provincialism, promised; and Robert, entranced by all the qualities

of her voice and speech, and nothing disenchanted by the nearer view

of her lovely face, confided in her at once.

'Ye see, mem,' he said, 'I cam' upo' my grandfather's fiddle. But

my grandmither thinks the fiddle's no gude. And sae she tuik and

she hed it. But I faun't it again. An' I daurna play i' the hoose,

though my grannie's i' the country, for Betty hearin' me and tellin'

her. And sae I gang to the auld fact'ry there. It belangs to my

grannie, and sae does the yaird (garden). An' this hoose and yaird

was ance my father's, and sae he had that door throu, they tell me.

An' I thocht gin it suld be open, it wad be a fine thing for me, to

haud fowk ohn seen me. But it was verra ill-bred to you, mem, I

ken, to come throu your yaird ohn speirt leave. I beg yer pardon,

mem, an' I'll jist gang back, and roon' by the ro'd. This is my

fiddle I hae aneath my airm. We bude to pit back the case o' 't

whaur it was afore, i' my grannie's bed, to haud her ohn kent 'at

she had tint the grup o' 't.'

Certainly Miss St. John could not have understood the half of the

words Robert used, but she understood his story notwithstanding.

Herself an enthusiast in music, her sympathies were at once engaged

for the awkward boy who was thus trying to steal an entrance into

the fairy halls of sound. But she forbore any further allusion to

the violin for the present, and contented herself with assuring

Robert that he was heartily welcome to go through the garden as

often as he pleased. She accompanied her words with a smile that

made Robert feel not only that she was the most beautiful of all

princesses in fairy-tales, but that she had presented him with

something beyond price in the most self-denying manner. He took off

his cap, thanked her with much heartiness, if not with much polish,

and hastened to the gate of his grandmother's little garden. A few

years later such an encounter might have spoiled his dinner: I have

to record no such evil result of the adventure.

With Miss St. John, music was the highest form of human expression,

as must often be the case with those whose feeling is much in

advance of their thought, and to whom, therefore, may be called

mental sensation is the highest known condition. Music to such is

poetry in solution, and generates that infinite atmosphere, common

to both musician and poet, which the latter fills with shining

worlds.--But if my reader wishes to follow out for himself the idea

herein suggested, he must be careful to make no confusion between

those who feel musically or think poetically, and the musician or

the poet. One who can only play the music of others, however

exquisitely, is not a musician, any more than one who can read verse

to the satisfaction, or even expound it to the enlightenment of the

poet himself, is therefore a poet.--When Miss St. John would worship

God, it was in music that she found the chariot of fire in which to

ascend heavenward. Hence music was the divine thing in the world

for her; and to find any one loving music humbly and faithfully was

to find a brother or sister believer. But she had been so often

disappointed in her expectations from those she took to be such,

that of late she had become less sanguine. Still there was

something about this boy that roused once more her musical hopes;

and, however she may have restrained herself from the full

indulgence of them, certain it is that the next day, when she saw

Robert pass, this time leisurely, along the top of the garden, she

put on her bonnet and shawl, and, allowing him time to reach his

den, followed him, in the hope of finding out whether or not he

could play. I do not know what proficiency the boy had attained,

very likely not much, for a man can feel the music of his own bow,

or of his own lines, long before any one else can discover it. He

had already made a path, not exactly worn one, but trampled one,

through the neglected grass, and Miss St. John had no difficulty in

finding his entrance to the factory.

She felt a little eerie, as Robert would have called it, when she

passed into the waste silent place; for besides the wasteness and

the silence, motionless machines have a look of death about them, at

least when they bear such signs of disuse as those that filled these

rooms. Hearing no violin, she waited for a while in the

ground-floor of the building; but still hearing nothing, she

ascended to the first floor. Here, likewise, all was silence. She

hesitated, but at length ventured up the next stair, beginning,

however, to feel a little troubled as well as eerie, the silence was

so obstinately persistent. Was it possible that there was no violin

in that brown paper? But that boy could not be a liar. Passing

shelves piled-up with stores of old thread, she still went on, led

by a curiosity stronger than her gathering fear. At last she came

to a little room, the door of which was open, and there she saw

Robert lying on the floor with his head in a pool of blood.

Now Mary St. John was both brave and kind; and, therefore, though

not insensible to the fact that she too must be in danger where

violence had been used to a boy, she set about assisting him at

once. His face was deathlike, but she did not think he was dead.

She drew him out into the passage, for the room was close, and did

all she could to recover him; but for some time he did not even

breathe. At last his lips moved, and he murmured,

'Sandy, Sandy, ye've broken my bonnie leddy.'

Then he opened his eyes, and seeing a face to dream about bending in

kind consternation over him, closed them again with a smile and a

sigh, as if to prolong his dream.

The blood now came fast into his forsaken cheeks, and began to flow

again from the wound in his head. The lady bound it up with her

handkerchief. After a little he rose, though with difficulty, and

stared wildly about him, saying, with imperfect articulation,

'Father! father!' Then he looked at Miss St. John with a kind of

dazed inquiry in his eyes, tried several times to speak, and could

not.

'Can you walk at all?' asked Miss St. John, supporting him, for she

was anxious to leave the place.

'Yes, mem, weel eneuch,' he answered.

'Come along, then. I will help you home.'

'Na, na,' he said, as if he had just recalled something. 'Dinna min'

me. Rin hame, mem, or he'll see ye!'

'Who will see me?'

Robert stared more wildly, put his hand to his head, and made no

reply. She half led, half supported him down the stair, as far as

the first landing, when he cried out in a tone of anguish,

'My bonny leddy!'

'What is it?' asked Miss St. John, thinking he meant her.

'My fiddle! my fiddle! She 'll be a' in bits,' he answered, and

turned to go up again.

'Sit down here,' said Miss St. John, 'and I'll fetch it.'

Though not without some tremor, she darted back to the room. Then

she turned faint for the first time, but determinedly supporting

herself, she looked about, saw a brown-paper parcel on a shelf, took

it, and hurried out with a shudder.

Robert stood leaning against the wall. He stretched out his hands

eagerly.

'Gie me her. Gie me her.'

'You had better let me carry it. You are not able.'

'Na, na, mem. Ye dinna ken hoo easy she is to hurt.'

'Oh, yes, I do!' returned Miss St. John, smiling, and Robert could

not withstand the smile.

'Weel, tak care o' her, as ye wad o' yer ain sel', mem,' he said,

yielding.

He was now much better, and before he had been two minutes in the

open air, insisted that he was quite well. When they reached

Captain Forsyth's garden he again held out his hands for his violin.

'No, no,' said his new friend. 'You wouldn't have Betty see you like

that, would you?'

'No, mem; but I'll put in the fiddle at my ain window, and she sanna

hae a chance o' seein' 't,' answered Robert, not understanding her;

for though he felt a good deal of pain, he had no idea what a

dreadful appearance he presented.

'Don't you know that you have a wound on your head?' asked Miss St.

John.

'Na! hev I?' said Robert, putting up his hand. 'But I maun

gang--there's nae help for 't,' he added.--'Gin I cud only win to my

ain room ohn Betty seen me!--Eh! mem, I hae blaudit (spoiled) a' yer

bonny goon. That's a sair vex.'

'Never mind it,' returned Miss St. John, smiling. 'It is of no

consequence. But you must come with me. I must see what I can do

for your head. Poor boy!'

'Eh, mem! but ye are kin'! Gin ye speik like that ye'll gar me

greit. Naebody ever spak' to me like that afore. Maybe ye kent my

mamma. Ye're sae like her.'

This word mamma was the only remnant of her that lingered in his

speech. Had she lived he would have spoken very differently. They

were now walking towards the house.

'No, I did not know your mamma. Is she dead?'

'Lang syne, mem. And sae they tell me is yours.'

'Yes; and my father too. Your father is alive, I hope?'

Robert made no answer. Miss St. John turned.

The boy had a strange look, and seemed struggling with something in

his throat. She thought he was going to faint again, and hurried

him into the drawing-room. Her aunt had not yet left her room, and

her uncle was out.

'Sit down,' she said--so kindly--and Robert sat down on the edge of

a chair. Then she left the room, but presently returned with a

little brandy. 'There,' she said, offering the glass, 'that will do

you good.'

'What is 't, mem?'

'Brandy. There's water in it, of course.'

'I daurna touch 't. Grannie cudna bide me to touch 't,'

So determined was he, that Miss St. John was forced to yield.

Perhaps she wondered that the boy who would deceive his grandmother

about a violin should be so immovable in regarding her pleasure in

the matter of a needful medicine. But in this fact I begin to see

the very Falconer of my manhood's worship.

'Eh, mem! gin ye wad play something upo' her,' he resumed, pointing

to the piano, which, although he had never seen one before, he at

once recognized, by some hidden mental operation, as the source of

the sweet sounds heard at the window, 'it wad du me mair guid than a

haill bottle o' brandy, or whusky either.'

'How do you know that?' asked Miss St. John, proceeding to sponge

the wound.

''Cause mony's the time I hae stud oot there i' the street,

hearkenin'. Dooble Sanny says 'at ye play jist as gin ye war my

gran'father's fiddle hersel', turned into the bonniest cratur ever

God made.'

'How did you get such a terrible cut?'

She had removed the hair, and found that the injury was severe.

The boy was silent. She glanced round in his face. He was staring

as if he saw nothing, heard nothing. She would try again.

'Did you fall? Or how did you cut your head?'

'Yes, yes, mem, I fell,' he answered, hastily, with an air of

relief, and possibly with some tone of gratitude for the suggestion

of a true answer.

'What made you fall?'

Utter silence again. She felt a kind of turn--I do not know another

word to express what I mean: the boy must have fits, and either

could not tell, or was ashamed to tell, what had befallen him.

Thereafter she too was silent, and Robert thought she was offended.

Possibly he felt a change in the touch of her fingers.

'Mem, I wad like to tell ye,' he said, 'but I daurna.'

'Oh! never mind,' she returned kindly.

'Wad ye promise nae to tell naebody?'

'I don't want to know,' she answered, confirmed in her suspicion,

and at the same time ashamed of the alteration of feeling which the

discovery had occasioned.

An uncomfortable silence followed, broken by Robert.

'Gin ye binna pleased wi' me, mem,' he said, 'I canna bide ye to

gang on wi' siccan a job 's that.'

How Miss St. John could have understood him, I cannot think; but she

did.

'Oh! very well,' she answered, smiling. 'Just as you please.

Perhaps you had better take this piece of plaster to Betty, and ask

her to finish the dressing for you.'

Robert took the plaster mechanically, and, sick at heart and

speechless, rose to go, forgetting even his bonny leddy in his

grief.

'You had better take your violin with you,' said Miss St. John,

urged to the cruel experiment by a strong desire to see what the

strange boy would do.

He turned. The tears were streaming down his odd face. They went

to her heart, and she was bitterly ashamed of herself.

'Come along. Do sit down again. I only wanted to see what you

would do. I am very sorry,' she said, in a tone of kindness such as

Robert had never imagined.

He sat down instantly, saying,

'Eh, mem! it's sair to bide;' meaning, no doubt, the conflict

between his inclination to tell her all, and his duty to be silent.

The dressing was soon finished, his hair combed down over it, and

Robert looking once more respectable.

'Now, I think that will do,' said his nurse.

'Eh, thank ye, mem!' answered Robert, rising. 'Whan I'm able to play

upo' the fiddle as weel 's ye play upo' the piana, I'll come and

play at yer window ilka nicht, as lang 's ye like to hearken.'

She smiled, and he was satisfied. He did not dare again ask her to

play to him. But she said of herself, 'Now I will play something to

you, if you like,' and he resumed his seat devoutly.

When she had finished a lovely little air, which sounded to Robert

like the touch of her hands, and her breath on his forehead, she

looked round, and was satisfied, from the rapt expression of the

boy's countenance, that at least he had plenty of musical

sensibility. As if despoiled of volition, he stood motionless till

she said,

'Now you had better go, or Betty will miss you.'

Then he made her a bow in which awkwardness and grace were curiously

mingled, and taking up his precious parcel, and holding it to his

bosom as if it had been a child for whom he felt an access of

tenderness, he slowly left the room and the house.

Not even to Shargar did he communicate his adventure. And he went

no more to the deserted factory to play there. Fate had again

interposed between him and his bonny leddy.

When he reached Bodyfauld he fancied his grandmother's eyes more

watchful of him than usual, and he strove the more to resist the

weariness, and even faintness, that urged him to go to bed. Whether

he was able to hide as well a certain trouble that clouded his

spirit I doubt. His wound he did manage to keep a secret, thanks to

the care of Miss St. John, who had dressed it with court-plaster.

When he woke the next morning, it was with the consciousness of

having seen something strange the night before, and only when he

found that he was not in his own room at his grandmother's, was he

convinced that it must have been a dream and no vision. For in the

night, he had awaked there as he thought, and the moon was shining

with such clearness, that although it did not shine into his room,

he could see the face of the clock, and that the hands were both

together at the top. Close by the clock stood the bureau, with its

end against the partition forming the head of his grannie's bed.

All at once he saw a tall man, in a blue coat and bright buttons,

about to open the lid of the bureau. The same moment he saw a

little elderly man in a brown coat and a brown wig, by his side, who

sought to remove his hand from the lock. Next appeared a huge

stalwart figure, in shabby old tartans, and laid his hand on the

head of each. But the wonder widened and grew; for now came a

stately Highlander with his broadsword by his side, and an eagle's

feather in his bonnet, who laid his hand on the other Highlander's

arm.

When Robert looked in the direction whence this last had appeared,

the head of his grannie's bed had vanished, and a wild hill-side,

covered with stones and heather, sloped away into the distance.

Over it passed man after man, each with an ancestral air, while on

the gray sea to the left, galleys covered with Norsemen tore up the

white foam, and dashed one after the other up to the strand. How

long he gazed, he did not know, but when he withdrew his eyes from

the extended scene, there stood the figure of his father, still

trying to open the lid of the bureau, his grandfather resisting him,

the blind piper with his hand on the head of both, and the stately

chief with his hand on the piper's arm. Then a mist of

forgetfulness gathered over the whole, till at last he awoke and

found himself in the little wooden chamber at Bodyfauld, and not in

the visioned room. Doubtless his loss of blood the day before had

something to do with the dream or vision, whichever the reader may

choose to consider it. He rose, and after a good breakfast, found

himself very little the worse, and forgot all about his dream, till

a circumstance which took place not long after recalled it vividly

to his mind.

The enchantment of Bodyfauld soon wore off. The boys had no time to

enter into the full enjoyment of country ways, because of those

weary lessons, over the getting of which Mrs. Falconer kept as

strict a watch as ever; while to Robert the evening journey, his

violin and Miss St. John left at Rothieden, grew more than tame.

The return was almost as happy an event to him as the first going.

Now he could resume his lessons with the soutar.

With Shargar it was otherwise. The freedom for so much longer from

Mrs. Falconer's eyes was in itself so much of a positive pleasure,

that the walk twice a day, the fresh air, and the scents and sounds

of the country, only came in as supplementary. But I do not believe

the boy even then had so much happiness as when he was beaten and

starved by his own mother. And Robert, growing more and more

absorbed in his own thoughts and pursuits, paid him less and less

attention as the weeks went on, till Shargar at length judged it for

a time an evil day on which he first had slept under old Ronald

Falconer's kilt.

CHAPTER XVIII.

NATURE PUTS IN A CLAIM.

Before the day of return arrived, Robert had taken care to remove

the violin from his bedroom, and carry it once more to its old

retreat in Shargar's garret. The very first evening, however, that

grannie again spent in her own arm-chair, he hied from the house as

soon as it grew dusk, and made his way with his brown-paper parcel

to Sandy Elshender's.

Entering the narrow passage from which his shop door opened, and

hearing him hammering away at a sole, he stood and unfolded his

treasure, then drew a low sigh from her with his bow, and awaited

the result. He heard the lap-stone fall thundering on the floor,

and, like a spider from his cavern, Dooble Sanny appeared in the

door, with the bend-leather in one hand, and the hammer in the

other.

'Lordsake, man! hae ye gotten her again? Gie's a grup o' her!' he

cried, dropping leather and hammer.

'Na, na,' returned Robert, retreating towards the outer door. 'Ye

maun sweir upo' her that, whan I want her, I sall hae her ohn demur,

or I sanna lat ye lay roset upo' her.'

'I swear 't, Robert; I sweir 't upo' her,' said the soutar

hurriedly, stretching out both his hands as if to receive some human

being into his embrace.

Robert placed the violin in those grimy hands. A look of heavenly

delight dawned over the hirsute and dirt-besmeared countenance,

which drooped into tenderness as he drew the bow across the

instrument, and wiled from her a thin wail as of sorrow at their

long separation. He then retreated into his den, and was soon sunk

in a trance, deaf to everything but the violin, from which no

entreaties of Robert, who longed for a lesson, could rouse him; so

that he had to go home grievously disappointed, and unrewarded for

the risk he had run in venturing the stolen visit.

Next time, however, he fared better; and he contrived so well that,

from the middle of June to the end of August, he had two lessons a

week, mostly upon the afternoons of holidays. For these his master

thought himself well paid by the use of the instrument between. And

Robert made great progress.

Occasionally he saw Miss St. John in the garden, and once or twice

met her in the town; but her desire to find in him a pupil had been

greatly quenched by her unfortunate conjecture as to the cause of

his accident. She had, however, gone so far as to mention the

subject to her aunt, who assured her that old Mrs. Falconer would as

soon consent to his being taught gambling as music. The idea,

therefore, passed away; and beyond a kind word or two when she met

him, there was no further communication between them. But Robert

would often dream of waking from a swoon, and finding his head lying

on her lap, and her lovely face bending over him full of kindness

and concern.

By the way, Robert cared nothing for poetry. Virgil was too

troublesome to be enjoyed; and in English he had met with nothing

but the dried leaves and gum-flowers of the last century. Miss

Letty once lent him The Lady of the Lake; but before he had read the

first canto through, his grandmother laid her hands upon it, and,

without saying a word, dropped it behind a loose skirting-board in

the pantry, where the mice soon made it a ruin sad to behold. For

Miss Letty, having heard from the woful Robert of its strange

disappearance, and guessing its cause, applied to Mrs. Falconer for

the volume; who forthwith, the tongs aiding, extracted it from its

hole, and, without shade of embarrassment, held it up like a drowned

kitten before the eyes of Miss Letty, intending thereby, no doubt,

to impress her with the fate of all seducing spirits that should

attempt an entrance into her kingdom: Miss Letty only burst into

merry laughter over its fate. So the lode of poetry failed for the

present from Robert's life. Nor did it matter much; for had he not

his violin?

I have, I think, already indicated that his grandfather had been a

linen manufacturer. Although that trade had ceased, his family had

still retained the bleachery belonging to it, commonly called the

bleachfield, devoting it now to the service of those large calico

manufactures which had ruined the trade in linen, and to the

whitening of such yarn as the country housewives still spun at home,

and the webs they got woven of it in private looms. To Robert and

Shargar it was a wondrous pleasure when the pile of linen which the

week had accumulated at the office under the ga'le-room, was on

Saturday heaped high upon the base of a broad-wheeled cart, to get

up on it and be carried to the said bleachfield, which lay along the

bank of the river. Soft laid and high-borne, gazing into the blue

sky, they traversed the streets in a holiday triumph; and although,

once arrived, the manager did not fail to get some labour out of

them, yet the store of amusement was endless. The great wheel,

which drove the whole machinery; the plash-mill, or, more properly,

wauk-mill--a word Robert derived from the resemblance of the mallets

to two huge feet, and of their motion to walking--with the water

plashing and squirting from the blows of their heels; the beatles

thundering in arpeggio upon the huge cylinder round which the white

cloth was wound--each was haunted in its turn and season. The

pleasure of the water itself was inexhaustible. Here sweeping in a

mass along the race; there divided into branches and hurrying

through the walls of the various houses; here sliding through a

wooden channel across the floor to fall into the river in a

half-concealed cataract, there bubbling up through the bottom of a

huge wooden cave or vat, there resting placid in another; here

gurgling along a spout; there flowing in a narrow canal through the

green expanse of the well-mown bleaehfield, or lifted from it in

narrow curved wooden scoops, like fairy canoes with long handles,

and flung in showers over the outspread yarn--the water was an

endless delight.

It is strange how some individual broidery or figure upon Nature's

garment will delight a boy long before he has ever looked Nature in

the face, or begun to love herself. But Robert was soon to become

dimly conscious of a life within these things--a life not the less

real that its operations on his mind had been long unrecognized.

On the grassy bank of the gently-flowing river, at the other edge of

whose level the little canal squabbled along, and on the grassy brae

which rose immediately from the canal, were stretched, close beside

each other, with scarce a stripe of green betwixt, the long white

webs of linen, fastened down to the soft mossy ground with wooden

pegs, whose tops were twisted into their edges. Strangely would

they billow in the wind sometimes, like sea-waves, frozen and

enchanted flat, seeking to rise and wallow in the wind with

conscious depth and whelming mass. But generally they lay supine,

saturated with light and its cleansing power. Falconer's jubilation

in the white and green of a little boat, as we lay, one bright

morning, on the banks of the Thames between Richmond and Twickenham,

led to such a description of the bleachfield that I can write about

it as if I had known it myself.

One Saturday afternoon in the end of July, when the westering sun

was hotter than at midday, he went down to the lower end of the

field, where the river was confined by a dam, and plunged from the

bank into deep water. After a swim of half-an-hour, he ascended the

higher part of the field, and lay down upon a broad web to bask in

the sun. In his ears was the hush rather than rush of the water

over the dam, the occasional murmur of a belt of trees that skirted

the border of the field, and the dull continuous sound of the

beatles at their work below, like a persistent growl of thunder on

the horizon.

Had Robert possessed a copy of Robinson Crusoe, or had his

grandmother not cast The Lady of the Lake, mistaking it for an idol,

if not to the moles and the bats, yet to the mice and the

black-beetles, he might have been lying reading it, blind and deaf

to the face and the voice of Nature, and years might have passed

before a response awoke in his heart. It is good that children of

faculty, as distinguished from capacity, should not have too many

books to read, or too much of early lessoning. The increase of

examinations in our country will increase its capacity and diminish

its faculty. We shall have more compilers and reducers and fewer

thinkers; more modifiers and completers, and fewer inventors.

He lay gazing up into the depth of the sky, rendered deeper and

bluer by the masses of white cloud that hung almost motionless below

it, until he felt a kind of bodily fear lest he should fall off the

face of the round earth into the abyss. A gentle wind, laden with

pine odours from the sun-heated trees behind him, flapped its light

wing in his face: the humanity of the world smote his heart; the

great sky towered up over him, and its divinity entered his soul; a

strange longing after something 'he knew not nor could name' awoke

within him, followed by the pang of a sudden fear that there was no

such thing as that which he sought, that it was all a fancy of his

own spirit; and then the voice of Shargar broke the spell, calling

to him from afar to come and see a great salmon that lay by a stone

in the water. But once aroused, the feeling was never stilled; the

desire never left him; sometimes growing even to a passion that was

relieved only by a flood of tears.

Strange as it may sound to those who have never thought of such

things save in connection with Sundays and Bibles and churches and

sermons, that which was now working in Falconer's mind was the first

dull and faint movement of the greatest need that the human heart

possesses--the need of the God-Man. There must be truth in the scent

of that pine-wood: some one must mean it. There must be a glory in

those heavens that depends not upon our imagination: some power

greater than they must dwell in them. Some spirit must move in that

wind that haunts us with a kind of human sorrow; some soul must look

up to us from the eye of that starry flower. It must be something

human, else not to us divine.

Little did Robert think that such was his need--that his soul was

searching after One whose form was constantly presented to him, but

as constantly obscured and made unlovely by the words without

knowledge spoken in the religious assemblies of the land; that he

was longing without knowing it on the Saturday for that from which

on the Sunday he would be repelled without knowing it. Years passed

before he drew nigh to the knowledge of what he sought.

For weeks the mood broken by the voice of his companion did not

return, though the forms of Nature were henceforth full of a

pleasure he had never known before. He loved the grass; the water

was more gracious to him; he would leave his bed early, that he

might gaze on the clouds of the east, with their borders

gold-blasted with sunrise; he would linger in the fields that the

amber and purple, and green and red, of the sunset, might not escape

after the sun unseen. And as long as he felt the mystery, the

revelation of the mystery lay before and not behind him.

And Shargar--had he any soul for such things? Doubtless; but how

could he be other than lives behind Robert? For the latter had

ancestors--that is, he came of people with a mental and spiritual

history; while the former had been born the birth of an animal; of a

noble sire, whose family had for generations filled the earth with

fire, famine, slaughter, and licentiousness; and of a wandering

outcast mother, who blindly loved the fields and woods, but retained

her affection for her offspring scarcely beyond the period while she

suckled them. The love of freedom and of wild animals that she had

given him, however, was far more precious than any share his male

ancestor had borne in his mental constitution. After his fashion he

as well as Robert enjoyed the sun and the wind and the water and the

sky; but he had sympathies with the salmon and the rooks and the

wild rabbits even stronger than those of Robert.

CHAPTER XIX.

ROBERT STEALS HIS OWN.

The period of the hairst-play, that is, of the harvest holiday time,

drew near, and over the north of Scotland thousands of half-grown

hearts were beating with glad anticipation. Of the usual devices of

boys to cheat themselves into the half-belief of expediting a

blessed approach by marking its rate, Robert knew nothing: even the

notching of sticks was unknown at Rothieden; but he had a mode

notwithstanding. Although indifferent to the games of his

school-fellows, there was one amusement, a solitary one nearly, and

therein not so good as most amusements, into which he entered with

the whole energy of his nature: it was kite-flying. The moment that

the hairst-play approached near enough to strike its image through

the eyes of his mind, Robert proceeded to make his kite, or draigon,

as he called it. Of how many pleasures does pocket-money deprive

the unfortunate possessor! What is the going into a shop and buying

what you want, compared with the gentle delight of hours and days

filled with gaining effort after the attainment of your end? Never

boy that bought his kite, even if the adornment thereafter lay in

his own hands, and the pictures were gorgeous with colour and

gilding, could have half the enjoyment of Robert from the moment he

went to the cooper's to ask for an old gird or hoop, to the moment

when he said 'Noo, Shargar!' and the kite rose slowly from the depth

of the a rial flood. The hoop was carefully examined, the best?

portion cut away from it, that pared to a light strength, its ends

confined to the proper curve by a string, and then away went Robert

to the wright's shop. There a slip of wood, of proper length and

thickness, was readily granted to his request, free as the daisies

of the field. Oh! those horrid town conditions, where nothing is

given for the asking, but all sold for money! In Robert's kite the

only thing that cost money was the string to fly it with, and that

the grandmother willingly provided, for not even her ingenuity could

discover any evil, direct or implicated, in kite-flying. Indeed, I

believe the old lady felt not a little sympathy with the exultation

of the boy when he saw his kite far aloft, diminished to a speck in

the vast blue; a sympathy, it may be, rooted in the religious

aspirations which she did so much at once to rouse and to suppress

in the bosom of her grandchild. But I have not yet reached the

kite-flying, for I have said nothing of the kite's tail, for the

sake of which principally I began to describe the process of its

growth.

As soon as the body of the dragon was completed, Robert attached to

its spine the string which was to take the place of its caudal

elongation, and at a proper distance from the body joined to the

string the first of the cross-pieces of folded paper which in this

animal represent the continued vertebral processes. Every morning,

the moment he issued from his chamber, he proceeded to the garret

where the monster lay, to add yet another joint to his tail, until

at length the day should arrive when, the lessons over for a blessed

eternity of five or six weeks, he would tip the whole with a piece

of wood, to which grass, quantum suff., might be added from the

happy fields.

Upon this occasion the dragon was a monster one. With a little help

from Shargar, he had laid the skeleton of a six-foot specimen, and

had carried the body to a satisfactory completion.

The tail was still growing, having as yet only sixteen joints, when

Mr. Lammie called with an invitation for the boys to spend their

holidays with him. It was fortunate for Robert that he was in the

room when Mr. Lammie presented his petition, otherwise he would

never have heard of it till the day of departure arrived, and would

thus have lost all the delights of anticipation. In frantic effort

to control his ecstasy, he sped to the garret, and with trembling

hands tied the second joint of the day to the tail of the

dragon--the first time he had ever broken the law of its accretion.

Once broken, that law was henceforth an object of scorn, and the

tail grew with frightful rapidity. It was indeed a great dragon.

And none of the paltry fields about Rothieden should be honoured

with its first flight, but from Bodyfauld should the majestic child

of earth ascend into the regions of upper air.

My reader may here be tempted to remind me that Robert had been only

too glad to return to Rothieden from his former visit. But I must

in my turn remind him that the circumstances were changed. In the

first place, the fiddle was substituted for grannie; and in the

second, the dragon for the school.

The making of this dragon was a happy thing for Shargar, and a yet

happier thing for Robert, in that it introduced again for a time

some community of interest between them. Shargar was happier than

he had been for many a day because Robert used him; and Robert was

yet happier than Shargar in that his conscience, which had

reproached him for his neglect of him, was now silent. But not even

his dragon had turned aside his attentions from his violin; and many

were the consultations between the boys as to how best she might be

transported to Bodyfauld, where endless opportunities of holding

communion with her would not be wanting. The difficulty was only

how to get her clear of Rothieden.

The play commenced on a Saturday; but not till the Monday were they

to be set at liberty. Wearily the hours of mental labour and bodily

torpidity which the Scotch called the Sabbath passed away, and at

length the millennial morning dawned. Robert and Shargar were up

before the sun. But strenuous were the efforts they made to

suppress all indications of excitement, lest grannie, fearing the

immoral influence of gladness, should give orders to delay their

departure for an awfully indefinite period, which might be an hour,

a day, or even a week. Horrible conception! Their behaviour was so

decorous that not even a hinted threat escaped the lips of Mrs.

Falconer.

They set out three hours before noon, carrying the great kite, and

Robert's school bag, of green baize, full of sundries: a cart from

Bodyfauld was to fetch their luggage later in the day. As soon as

they were clear of the houses, Shargar lay down behind a dyke with

the kite, and Robert set off at full speed for Dooble Sanny's shop,

making a half-circuit of the town to avoid the chance of being seen

by grannie or Betty. Having given due warning before, he found the

brown-paper parcel ready for him, and carried it off in fearful

triumph. He joined Shargar in safety, and they set out on their

journey as rich and happy a pair of tramps as ever tramped, having

six weeks of their own in their pockets to spend and not spare.

A hearty welcome awaited them, and they were soon revelling in the

glories of the place, the first instalment of which was in the shape

of curds and cream, with oatcake and butter, as much as they liked.

After this they would 'e'en to it like French falconers' with their

kite, for the wind had been blowing bravely all the morning, having

business to do with the harvest. The season of stubble not yet

arrived, they were limited to the pasturage and moorland, which,

however, large as their kite was, were spacious enough. Slowly the

great-headed creature arose from the hands of Shargar, and ascended

about twenty feet, when, as if seized with a sudden fit of wrath or

fierce indignation, it turned right round and dashed itself with

headlong fury to the earth, as if sooner than submit to such

influences a moment longer it would beat out its brains at once.

'It hasna half tail eneuch,' cried Robert. 'It's queer 'at things

winna gang up ohn hauden them doon. Pu' a guid han'fu' o' clover,

Shargar. She's had her fa', an' noo she'll gang up a' richt. She's

nane the waur o' 't.'

Upon the next attempt, the kite rose triumphantly. But just as it

reached the length of the string it shot into a faster current of

air, and Robert found himself first dragged along in spite of his

efforts, and then lifted from his feet. After carrying him a few

yards, the dragon broke its string, dropped him in a ditch, and,

drifting away, went fluttering and waggling downwards in the

distance.

'Luik whaur she gangs, Shargar,' cried Robert, from the ditch.

Experience coming to his aid, Shargar took landmarks of the

direction in which it went; and ere long they found it with its tail

entangled in the topmost branches of a hawthorn tree, and its head

beating the ground at its foot. It was at once agreed that they

would not fly it again till they got some stronger string.

Having heard the adventure, Mr. Lammie produced a shilling from the

pocket of his corduroys, and gave it to Robert to spend upon the

needful string. He resolved to go to the town the next morning and

make a grand purchase of the same. During the afternoon he roamed

about the farm with his hands in his pockets, revolving if not many

memories, yet many questions, while Shargar followed like a pup at

the heels of Miss Lammie, to whom, during his former visit, he had

become greatly attached.

In the evening, resolved to make a confidant of Mr. Lammie, and

indeed to cast himself upon the kindness of the household generally,

Robert went up to his room to release his violin from its prison of

brown paper. What was his dismay to find--not his bonny leddy, but

her poor cousin, the soutar's auld wife! It was too bad. Dooble

Sanny indeed!

He first stared, then went into a rage, and then came out of it to

go into a resolution. He replaced the unwelcome fiddle in the

parcel, and came down-stairs gloomy and still wrathful, but silent.

The evening passed over, and the inhabitants of the farmhouse went

early to bed. Robert tossed about fuming on his. He had not

undressed.

About eleven o'clock, after all had been still for more than an

hour, he took his shoes in one hand and the brown parcel in the

other, and descending the stairs like a thief, undid the quiet

wooden bar that secured the door, and let himself out. All was

darkness, for the moon was not yet up, and he felt a strange

sensation of ghostliness in himself--awake and out of doors, when he

ought to be asleep and unconscious in bed. He had never been out so

late before, and felt as if walking in the region of the dead,

existing when and where he had no business to exist. For it was the

time Nature kept for her own quiet, and having once put her children

to bed--hidden them away with the world wiped out of them--enclosed

them in her ebony box, as George Herbert says--she did not expect to

have her hours of undress and meditation intruded upon by a

venturesome school-boy. Yet she let him pass. He put on his shoes

and hurried to the road. He heard a horse stamp in the stable, and

saw a cat dart across the corn-yard as he went through. Those were

all the signs of life about the place.

It was a cloudy night and still. Nothing was to be heard but his

own footsteps. The cattle in the fields were all asleep. The larch

and spruce trees on the top of the hill by the foot of which his

road wound were still as clouds. He could just see the sky through

their stems. It was washed with the faintest of light, for the

moon, far below, was yet climbing towards the horizon. A star or

two sparkled where the clouds broke, but so little light was there,

that, until he had passed the moorland on the hill, he could not get

the horror of moss-holes, and deep springs covered with treacherous

green, out of his head. But he never thought of turning. When the

fears of the way at length fell back and allowed his own thoughts to

rise, the sense of a presence, or of something that might grow to a

presence, was the first to awake in him. The stillness seemed to be

thinking all around his head. But the way grew so dark, where it

lay through a corner of the pine-wood, that he had to feel the edge

of the road with his foot to make sure that he was keeping upon it,

and the sense of the silence vanished. Then he passed a farm, and

the motions of horses came through the dark, and a doubtful crow

from a young inexperienced cock, who did not yet know the moon from

the sun. Then a sleepy low in his ear startled him, and made him

quicken his pace involuntarily.

By the time he reached Rothieden all the lights were out, and this

was just what he wanted.

The economy of Dooble Sanny's abode was this: the outer door was

always left on the latch at night, because several families lived in

the house; the soutar's workshop opened from the passage, close to

the outer door, therefore its door was locked; but the key hung on a

nail just inside the soutar's bedroom. All this Robert knew.

Arrived at the house, he lifted the latch, closed the door behind

him, took off his shoes once more, like a housebreaker, as indeed he

was, although a righteous one, and felt his way to and up the stair

to the bedroom. There was a sound of snoring within. The door was

a little ajar. He reached the key and descended, his heart beating

more and more wildly as he approached the realization of his hopes.

Gently as he could he turned it in the lock. In a moment more he

had his hands on the spot where the shoemaker always laid his

violin. But his heart sank within him: there was no violin there.

A blank of dismay held him both motionless and thoughtless; nor had

he recovered his senses before he heard footsteps, which he well

knew, approaching in the street. He slunk at once into a corner.

Elshender entered, feeling his way carefully, and muttering at his

wife. He was tipsy, most likely, but that had never yet interfered

with the safety of his fiddle: Robert heard its faint echo as he

laid it gently down. Nor was he too tipsy to lock the door behind

him, leaving Robert incarcerated amongst the old boots and leather

and rosin.

For one moment only did the boy's heart fail him. The next he was

in action, for a happy thought had already struck him. Hastily,

that he might forestall sleep in the brain of the soutar, he undid

his parcel, and after carefully enveloping his own violin in the

paper, took the old wife of the soutar, and proceeded to perform

upon her a trick which in a merry moment his master had taught him,

and which, not without some feeling of irreverence, he had

occasionally practised upon his own bonny lady.

The shoemaker's room was overhead; its thin floor of planks was the

ceiling of the workshop. Ere Dooble Sanny was well laid by the side

of his sleeping wife, he heard a frightful sound from below, as of

some one tearing his beloved violin to pieces. No sound of rending

coffin-planks or rising dead would have been so horrible in the ears

of the soutar. He sprang from his bed with a haste that shook the

crazy tenement to its foundation.

The moment Robert heard that, he put the violin in its place, and

took his station by the door-cheek. The soutar came tumbling down

the stair, and rushed at the door, but found that he had to go back

for the key. When, with uncertain hand, he had opened at length, he

went straight to the nest of his treasure, and Robert slipping out

noiselessly, was in the next street before Dooble Sanny, having

found the fiddle uninjured, and not discovering the substitution,

had finished concluding that the whisky and his imagination had

played him a very discourteous trick between them, and retired once

more to bed. And not till Robert had cut his foot badly with a

piece of glass, did he discover that he had left his shoes behind

him. He tied it up with his handkerchief, and limped home the three

miles, too happy to think of consequences.

Before he had gone far, the moon floated up on the horizon, large,

and shaped like the broadside of a barrel. She stared at him in

amazement to see him out at such a time of the night. But he

grasped his violin and went on. He had no fear now, even when he

passed again over the desolate moss, although he saw the stagnant

pools glimmering about him in the moonlight. And ever after this he

had a fancy for roaming at night. He reached home in safety, found

the door as he had left it, and ascended to his bed, triumphant in

his fiddle.

In the morning bloody prints were discovered on the stair, and

traced to the door of his room. Miss Lammie entered in some alarm,

and found him fast asleep on his bed, still dressed, with a

brown-paper parcel in his arms, and one of his feet evidently enough

the source of the frightful stain. She was too kind to wake him,

and inquiry was postponed till they met at breakfast, to which he

descended bare-footed, save for a handkerchief on the injured foot.

'Robert, my lad,' said Mr. Lammie, kindly, 'hoo cam ye by that

bluidy fut?'

Robert began the story, and, guided by a few questions from his

host, at length told the tale of the violin from beginning to end,

omitting only his adventure in the factory. Many a guffaw from Mr.

Lammie greeted its progress, and Miss Lammie laughed till the tears

rolled unheeded down her cheeks, especially when Shargar, emboldened

by the admiration Robert had awakened, imparted his private share in

the comedy, namely, the entombment of Boston in a fifth-fold state;

for the Lammies were none of the unco guid to be censorious upon

such exploits. The whole business advanced the boys in favour at

Bodyfauld; and the entreaties of Robert that nothing, should reach

his grandmother's ears were entirely unnecessary.

After breakfast Miss Lammie dressed the wounded foot. But what was

to be done for shoes, for Robert's Sunday pair had been left at

home? Under ordinary circumstances it would have been no great

hardship to him to go barefoot for the rest of the autumn, but the

cut was rather a serious one. So his feet were cased in a pair of

Mr. Lammie's Sunday boots, which, from their size, made it so

difficult for him to get along, that he did not go far from the

doors, but revelled in the company of his violin in the corn-yard

amongst last year's ricks, in the barn, and in the hayloft, playing

all the tunes he knew, and trying over one or two more from a very

dirty old book of Scotch airs, which his teacher had lent him.

In the evening, as they sat together after supper, Mr. Lammie said,

'Weel, Robert, hoo's the fiddle?'

'Fine, I thank ye, sir,' answered Robert.

'Lat's hear what ye can do wi' 't.'

Robert fetched the instrument and complied.

'That's no that ill,' remarked the farmer. 'But eh! man, ye suld hae

heard yer gran'father han'le the bow. That was something to

hear--ance in a body's life. Ye wad hae jist thoucht the strings

had been drawn frae his ain inside, he kent them sae weel, and

han'led them sae fine. He jist fan' (felt) them like wi' 's fingers

throu' the bow an' the horsehair an' a', an' a' the time he was

drawin' the soun' like the sowl frae them, an' they jist did

onything 'at he likit. Eh! to hear him play the Flooers o' the

Forest wad hae garred ye greit.'

'Cud my father play?' asked Robert.

'Ay, weel eneuch for him. He could do onything he likit to try,

better nor middlin'. I never saw sic a man. He played upo' the

bagpipes, an' the flute, an' the bugle, an' I kenna what a'; but

a'thegither they cam' na within sicht o' his father upo' the auld

fiddle. Lat's hae a luik at her.'

He took the instrument in his hands reverently, turned it over and

over, and said,

'Ay, ay; it's the same auld mill, an' I wat it grun' (ground) bonny

meal.--That sma' crater noo 'ill be worth a hunner poun', I s'

warran',' he added, as he restored it carefully into Robert's hands,

to whom it was honey and spice to hear his bonny lady paid her due

honours. 'Can ye play the Flooers o' the Forest, no?' he added yet

again.

'Ay can I,' answered Robert, with some pride, and laid the bow on

the violin, and played the air through without blundering a single

note.

'Weel, that's verra weel,' said Mr. Lammie. 'But it's nae mair like

as yer gran'father played it, than gin there war twa sawyers at it,

ane at ilka lug o' the bow, wi' the fiddle atween them in a

saw-pit.'

Robert's heart sank within him; but Mr. Lammie went on:

'To hear the bow croudin' (cooing), and wailin', an' greitin' ower

the strings, wad hae jist garred ye see the lands o' braid Scotlan'

wi' a' the lasses greitin' for the lads that lay upo' reid Flodden

side; lasses to cut, and lasses to gether, and lasses to bin', and

lasses to stook, and lasses to lead, and no a lad amo' them a'.

It's just the murnin' o' women, doin' men's wark as weel 's their

ain, for the men that suld hae been there to du 't; and I s' warran'

ye, no a word to the orra (exceptional, over-all) lad that didna

gang wi' the lave (rest).'

Robert had not hitherto understood it--this wail of a pastoral and

ploughing people over those who had left their side to return no

more from the field of battle. But Mr. Lammie's description of his

grandfather's rendering laid hold of his heart.

'I wad raither be grutten for nor kissed,' said he, simply.

'Haud ye to that, my lad,' returned Mr. Lammie. 'Lat the lasses

greit for ye gin they like; but haud oot ower frae the kissin'. I

wadna mell wi' 't.'

'Hoot, father, dinna put sic nonsense i' the bairns' heids,' said

Miss Lammie.

'Whilk 's the nonsense, Aggy?' asked her father, slily. 'But I

doobt,' he added, 'he'll never play the Flooers o' the Forest as it

suld be playt, till he's had a taste o' the kissin', lass.'

'Weel, it's a queer instructor o' yowth, 'at says an' onsays i' the

same breith.'

'Never ye min'. I haena contradickit mysel' yet; for I hae said

naething. But, Robert, my man, ye maun pit mair sowl into yer

fiddlin'. Ye canna play the fiddle till ye can gar 't greit. It's

unco ready to that o' 'ts ain sel'; an' it's my opingon that there's

no anither instrument but the fiddle fit to play the Flooers o' the

Forest upo', for that very rizzon, in a' his Maijesty's

dominions.--My father playt the fiddle, but no like your

gran'father.'

Robert was silent. He spent the whole of the next morning in

reiterated attempts to alter his style of playing the air in

question, but in vain--as far at least as any satisfaction to

himself was the result. He laid the instrument down in despair, and

sat for an hour disconsolate upon the bedside. His visit had not as

yet been at all so fertile in pleasure as he had anticipated. He

could not fly his kite; he could not walk; he had lost his shoes;

Mr. Lammie had not approved of his playing; and, although he had his

will of the fiddle, he could not get his will out of it. He could

never play so as to please Miss St. John. Nothing but manly pride

kept him from crying. He was sorely disappointed and dissatisfied;

and the world might be dreary even at Bodyfauld.

Few men can wait upon the bright day in the midst of the dull one.

Nor can many men even wait for it.

CHAPTER XX.

JESSIE HEWSON.

The wound on Robert's foot festered, and had not yet healed when the

sickle was first put to the barley. He hobbled out, however, to the

reapers, for he could not bear to be left alone with his violin, so

dreadfully oppressive was the knowledge that he could not use it

after its nature. He began to think whether his incapacity was not

a judgment upon him for taking it away from the soutar, who could do

so much more with it, and to whom, consequently, it was so much more

valuable. The pain in his foot, likewise, had been very depressing;

and but for the kindness of his friends, especially of Miss Lammie,

he would have been altogether 'a weary wight forlorn.'

Shargar was happier than ever he had been in his life. His white

face hung on Miss Lammie's looks, and haunted her steps from spence

(store-room, as in Devonshire) to milk-house, and from milk-house to

chessel, surmounted by the glory of his red hair, which a

farm-servant declared he had once mistaken for a fun-buss

(whin-bush) on fire. This day she had gone to the field to see the

first handful of barley cut, and Shargar was there, of course.

It was a glorious day of blue and gold, with just wind enough to set

the barley-heads a-talking. But, whether from the heat of the sun,

or the pain of his foot operating on the general discouragement

under which he laboured, Robert turned faint all at once, and

dragged himself away to a cottage on the edge of the field.

It was the dwelling of a cottar, whose family had been settled upon

the farm of Bodyfauld from time immemorial. They were, indeed, like

other cottars, a kind of feudal dependents, occupying an acre or two

of the land, in return for which they performed certain stipulated

labour, called cottar-wark. The greater part of the family was

employed in the work of the farm, at the regular wages.

Alas for Scotland that such families are now to seek! Would that

the parliaments of our country held such a proportion of

noble-minded men as was once to be found in the clay huts on a

hill-side, or grouped about a central farm, huts whose wretched look

would move the pity of many a man as inferior to their occupants as

a King Charles's lap-dog is to a shepherd's colley. The utensils of

their life were mean enough: the life itself was often elixir

vitae--a true family life, looking up to the high, divine life. But

well for the world that such life has been scattered over it, east

and west, the seed of fresh growth in new lands. Out of offence to

the individual, God brings good to the whole; for he pets no nation,

but trains it for the perfect globular life of all nations--of his

world--of his universe. As he makes families mingle, to redeem each

from its family selfishness, so will he make nations mingle, and

love and correct and reform and develop each other, till the

planet-world shall go singing through space one harmony to the God

of the whole earth. The excellence must vanish from one portion,

that it may be diffused through the whole. The seed ripens on one

favoured mound, and is scattered over the plain. We console

ourselves with the higher thought, that if Scotland is worse, the

world is better. Yea, even they by whom the offence came, and who

have first to reap the woe of that offence, because they did the

will of God to satisfy their own avarice in laying land to land and

house to house, shall not reap their punishment in having their own

will, and standing therefore alone in the earth when the good of

their evil deeds returns upon it; but the tears of men that ascended

to heaven in the heat of their burning dwellings shall descend in

the dew of blessing even on the hearts of them that kindled the

fire.--'Something too much of this.'

Robert lifted the latch, and walked into the cottage. It was not

quite so strange to him as it would be to most of my readers; still,

he had not been in such a place before. A girl who was stooping by

the small peat fire on the hearth looked up, and seeing that he was

lame, came across the heights and hollows of the clay floor to meet

him. Robert spoke so faintly that she could not hear.

'What's yer wull?' she asked; then, changing her tone,--'Eh! ye're

no weel,' she said. 'Come in to the fire. Tak a haud o' me, and

come yer wa's butt.'

She was a pretty, indeed graceful girl of about eighteen, with the

elasticity rather than undulation of movement which distinguishes

the peasant from the city girl. She led him to the chimla-lug (the

ear of the chimney), carefully levelled a wooden chair to the

inequalities of the floor, and said,

'Sit ye doon. Will I fess a drappy o' milk?'

'Gie me a drink o' water, gin ye please,' said Robert.

She brought it. He drank, and felt better. A baby woke in a cradle

on the other side of the fire, and began to cry. The girl went and

took him up; and then Robert saw what she was like. Light-brown

hair clustered about a delicately-coloured face and hazel eyes.

Later in the harvest her cheeks would be ruddy--now they were

peach-coloured. A white neck rose above a pink print jacket, called

a wrapper; and the rest of her visible dress was a blue petticoat.

She ended in pretty, brown bare feet. Robert liked her, and began

to talk. If his imagination had not been already filled, he would

have fallen in love with her, I dare say, at once; for, except Miss

St. John, he had never seen anything he thought so beautiful. The

baby cried now and then.

'What ails the bairnie?' he asked.

'Ow, it's jist cuttin' its teeth. Gin it greits muckle, I maun jist

tak it oot to my mither. She'll sune quaiet it. Are ye haudin'

better?'

'Hoot, ay. I'm a' richt noo. Is yer mither shearin'?'

'Na. She's gatherin'. The shearin' 's some sair wark for her e'en

noo. I suld hae been shearin', but my mither wad fain hae a day o'

the hairst. She thocht it wud du her gude. But I s' warran' a day

o' 't 'll sair (satisfy) her, and I s' be at it the morn. She's

been unco dowie (ailing) a' the summer; and sae has the bairnie.'

'Ye maun hae had a sair time o' 't, than.'

'Ay, some. But I aye got some sleep. I jist tuik the towie

(string) into the bed wi' me, and whan the bairnie grat, I waukit,

an' rockit it till 't fell asleep again. But whiles naething wad du

but tak him till 's mammie.'

All the time she was hushing and fondling the child, who went on

fretting when not actually crying.

'Is he yer brither, than?' asked Robert.

'Ay, what ither? I maun tak him, I see. But ye can sit there as

lang 's ye like; and gin ye gang afore I come back, jist turn the

key 'i the door to lat onybody ken that there's naebody i' the

hoose.'

Robert thanked her, and remained in the shadow by the chimney, which

was formed of two smoke-browned planks fastened up the wall, one on

each side, and an inverted wooden funnel above to conduct the smoke

through the roof. He sat for some time gloomily gazing at a spot of

sunlight which burned on the brown clay floor. All was still as

death. And he felt the white-washed walls even more desolate than

if they had been smoke-begrimed.

Looking about him, he found over his head something which he did not

understand. It was as big as the stump of a great tree. Apparently

it belonged to the structure of the cottage, but he could not, in

the imperfect light, and the dazzling of the sun-spot at which he

had been staring, make out what it was, or how it came to be up

there--unsupported as far as he could see. He rose to examine it,

lifted a bit of tarpaulin which hung before it, and found a rickety

box, suspended by a rope from a great nail in the wall. It had two

shelves in it full of books.

Now, although there were more books in Mr. Lammie's house than in

his grandmother's, the only one he had found that in the least

enticed him to read, was a translation of George Buchanan's History

of Scotland. This he had begun to read faithfully, believing every

word of it, but had at last broken down at the fiftieth king or so.

Imagine, then, the moon that arose on the boy when, having pulled a

ragged and thumb-worn book from among those of James Hewson the

cottar, he, for the first time, found himself in the midst of The

Arabian Nights. I shrink from all attempt to set forth in words the

rainbow-coloured delight that coruscated in his brain. When Jessie

Hewson returned, she found him seated where she had left him, so

buried in his volume that he did not lift his head when she entered.

'Ye hae gotten a buik,' she said.

'Ay have I,' answered Robert, decisively.

'It's a fine buik, that. Did ye ever see 't afore?'

'Na, never.'

'There's three wolums o' 't about, here and there,' said Jessie; and

with the child on one arm, she proceeded with the other hand to

search for them in the crap o' the wa', that is, on the top of the

wall where the rafters rest.

There she found two or three books, which, after examining them, she

placed on the dresser beside Robert.

'There's nane o' them there,' she said; 'but maybe ye wad like to

luik at that anes.'

Robert thanked her, but was too busy to feel the least curiosity

about any book in the world but the one he was reading. He read on,

heart and soul and mind absorbed in the marvels of the eastern

skald; the stories told in the streets of Cairo, amidst gorgeous

costumes, and camels, and white-veiled women, vibrating here in the

heart of a Scotch boy, in the darkest corner of a mud cottage, at

the foot of a hill of cold-loving pines, with a barefooted girl and

a baby for his companions.

But the pleasure he had been having was of a sort rather to expedite

than to delay the subjective arrival of dinner-time. There was,

however, happily no occasion to go home in order to appease his

hunger; he had but to join the men and women in the barley-field:

there was sure to be enough, for Miss Lammie was at the head of the

commissariat.

When he had had as much milk-porridge as he could eat, and a good

slice of swack (elastic) cheese, with a cap (wooden bowl) of ale,

all of which he consumed as if the good of them lay in the haste of

their appropriation, he hurried back to the cottage, and sat there

reading The Arabian Nights, till the sun went down in the

orange-hued west, and the gloamin' came, and with it the reapers,

John and Elspet Hewson, and their son George, to their supper and

early bed.

John was a cheerful, rough, Roman-nosed, black-eyed man, who took

snuff largely, and was not careful to remove the traces of the

habit. He had a loud voice, and an original way of regarding

things, which, with his vivacity, made every remark sound like the

proclamation of a discovery.

'Are ye there, Robert?' said he, as he entered. Robert rose,

absorbed and silent.

'He's been here a' day, readin' like a colliginer,' said Jessie.

'What are ye readin' sae eident (diligent), man?' asked John.

'A buik o' stories, here,' answered Robert, carelessly, shy of being

supposed so much engrossed with them as he really was.

I should never expect much of a young poet who was not rather

ashamed of the distinction which yet he chiefly coveted. There is a

modesty in all young delight. It is wild and shy, and would hide

itself, like a boy's or maiden's first love, from the gaze of the

people. Something like this was Robert's feeling over The Arabian

Nights.

'Ay,' said John, taking snuff from a small bone spoon, 'it's a gran'

buik that. But my son Charley, him 'at 's deid an' gane hame, wad

hae tell't ye it was idle time readin' that, wi' sic a buik as that

ither lyin' at yer elbuck.'

He pointed to one of the books Jessie had taken from the crap o' the

wa' and laid down beside him on the well-scoured dresser. Robert

took up the volume and opened it. There was no title-page.

'The Tempest?' he said. 'What is 't? Poetry?'

'Ay is 't. It's Shackspear.'

'I hae heard o' him,' said Robert. 'What was he?'

'A player kin' o' a chiel', wi' an unco sicht o' brains,' answered

John. 'He cudna hae had muckle time to gang skelpin' and sornin'

aboot the country like maist o' thae cattle, gin he vrote a' that,

I'm thinkin'.'

'Whaur did he bide?'

'Awa' in Englan'--maistly aboot Lonnon, I'm thinkin'. That's the

place for a' by-ordinar fowk, they tell me.'

'Hoo lang is 't sin he deid?'

'I dinna ken. A hunner year or twa, I s' warran'. It's a lang

time. But I'm thinkin' fowk than was jist something like what they

are noo. But I ken unco little aboot him, for the prent 's some

sma', and I'm some ill for losin' my characters, and sae I dinna win

that far benn wi' him. Geordie there 'll tell ye mair aboot him.'

But George Hewson had not much to communicate, for he had but lately

landed in Shakspere's country, and had got but a little way inland

yet. Nor did Robert much care, for his head was full of The Arabian

Nights. This, however, was his first introduction to Shakspere.

Finding himself much at home, he stopped yet a while, shared in the

supper, and resumed his seat in the corner when the book was brought

out for worship. The iron lamp, with its wick of rush-pith, which

hung against the side of the chimney, was lighted, and John sat down

to read. But as his eyes and the print, too, had grown a little dim

with years, the lamp was not enough, and he asked for a

'fir-can'le.' A splint of fir dug from the peat-bog was handed to

him. He lighted it at the lamp, and held it in his hand over the

page. Its clear resinous flame enabled him to read a short psalm.

Then they sang a most wailful tune, and John prayed. If I were to

give the prayer as he uttered it, I might make my reader laugh,

therefore I abstain, assuring him only that, although full of long

words--amongst the rest, aspiration and ravishment--the prayer of

the cheerful, joke-loving cottar contained evidence of a degree of

religious development rare, I doubt, amongst bishops.

When Robert left the cottage, he found the sky partly clouded and

the air cold. The nearest way home was across the barley-stubble of

the day's reaping, which lay under a little hill covered with

various species of the pine. His own soul, after the restful day he

had spent, and under the reaction from the new excitement of the

stories he had been reading, was like a quiet, moonless night. The

thought of his mother came back upon him, and her written words, 'O

Lord, my heart is very sore'; and the thought of his father followed

that, and he limped slowly home, laden with mournfulness. As he

reached the middle of the field, the wind was suddenly there with a

low sough from out of the north-west. The heads of barley in the

sheaves leaned away with a soft rustling from before it; and Robert

felt for the first time the sadness of a harvest-field. Then the

wind swept away to the pine-covered hill, and raised a rushing and a

wailing amongst its thin-clad branches, and to the ear of Robert the

trees were singing over again in their night solitudes the air sung

by the cottar's family. When he looked to the north-west, whence

the wind came, he saw nothing but a pale cleft in the sky. The

meaning, the music of the night awoke in his soul; he forgot his

lame foot, and the weight of Mr. Lammie's great boots, ran home and

up the stair to his own room, seized his violin with eager haste,

nor laid it down again till he could draw from it, at will, a sound

like the moaning of the wind over the stubble-field. Then he knew

that he could play the Flowers of the Forest. The Wind that Shakes

the Barley cannot have been named from the barley after it was cut,

but while it stood in the field: the Flowers of the Forest was of

the gathered harvest.

He tried the air once over in the dark, and then carried his violin

down to the room where Mr. and Miss Lammie sat.

'I think I can play 't noo, Mr. Lammie,' he said abruptly.

'Play what, callant?' asked his host.

'The Flooers o' the Forest.'

'Play awa' than.'

And Robert played--not so well as he had hoped. I dare say it was a

humble enough performance, but he gave something at least of the

expression Mr. Lammie desired. For, the moment the tune was over,

he exclaimed,

'Weel dune, Robert man! ye'll be a fiddler some day yet!'

And Robert was well satisfied with the praise.

'I wish yer mother had been alive,' the farmer went on. 'She wad hae

been rael prood to hear ye play like that. Eh! she likit the fiddle

weel. And she culd play bonny upo' the piana hersel'. It was

something to hear the twa o' them playing thegither, him on the

fiddle--that verra fiddle o' 's father's 'at ye hae i' yer han'--and

her on the piana. Eh! but she was a bonnie wuman as ever I saw, an'

that quaiet! It's my belief she never thocht aboot her ain beowty

frae week's en' to week's en', and that's no sayin' little--is 't,

Aggy?'

'I never preten't ony richt to think aboot sic,' returned Miss

Lammie, with a mild indignation.

'That's richt, lass. Od, ye're aye i' the richt--though I say 't

'at sudna.'

Miss Lammie must indeed have been good-natured, to answer only with

a genuine laugh. Shargar looked explosive with anger. But Robert

would fain hear more of his mother.

'What was my mother like, Mr. Lammie?' he asked.

'Eh, my man! ye suld hae seen her upon a bonnie bay mere that yer

father gae her. Faith! she sat as straught as a rash, wi' jist a

hing i' the heid o' her, like the heid o' a halm o' wild aits.'

'My father wasna that ill till her than?' suggested Robert.

'Wha ever daured say sic a thing?' returned Mr. Lammie, but in a

tone so far from satisfactory to Robert, that he inquired no more in

that direction.

I need hardly say that from that night Robert was more than ever

diligent with his violin.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE DRAGON.

Next day, his foot was so much better that he sent Shargar to

Rothieden to buy the string, taking with him Robert's school-bag, in

which to carry off his Sunday shoes; for as to those left at Dooble

Sanny's, they judged it unsafe to go in quest of them: the soutar

could hardly be in a humour fit to be intruded upon.

Having procured the string, Shargar went to Mrs. Falconer's.

Anxious not to encounter her, but, if possible, to bag the boots

quietly, he opened the door, peeped in, and seeing no one, made his

way towards the kitchen. He was arrested, however, as he crossed

the passage by the voice of Mrs. Falconer calling, 'Wha's that?'

There she was at the parlour door. It paralyzed him. His first

impulse was to make a rush and escape. But the boots--he could not

go without at least an attempt upon them. So he turned and faced

her with inward trembling.

'Wha's that?' repeated the old lady, regarding him fixedly. 'Ow,

it's you! What duv ye want? Ye camna to see me, I'm thinkin'!

What hae ye i' that bag?'

'I cam to coff (buy) twine for the draigon,' answered Shargar.

'Ye had twine eneuch afore!'

'It bruik. It wasna strang eneuch.'

'Whaur got ye the siller to buy mair? Lat's see 't?'

Shargar took the string from the bag.

'Sic a sicht o' twine! What paid ye for 't?'

'A shillin'.'

'Whaur got ye the shillin'?'

'Mr. Lammie gae 't to Robert.'

'I winna hae ye tak siller frae naebody. It's ill mainners. Hae!'

said the old lady, putting her hand in her pocket, and taking out a

shilling. 'Hae,' she said. 'Gie Mr. Lammie back his shillin', an'

tell 'im 'at I wadna hae ye learn sic ill customs as tak siller.

It's eneuch to gang sornin' upon 'im (exacting free quarters) as ye

du, ohn beggit for siller. Are they a' weel?'

'Ay, brawly,' answered Shargar, putting the shilling in his pocket.

In another moment Shargar had, without a word of adieu, embezzled

the shoes, and escaped from the house without seeing Betty. He went

straight to the shop he had just left, and bought another shilling's

worth of string.

When he got home, he concealed nothing from Robert, whom he found

seated in the barn, with his fiddle, waiting his return.

Robert started to his feet. He could appropriate his grandfather's

violin, to which, possibly, he might have shown as good a right as

his grandmother--certainly his grandfather would have accorded it

him--but her money was sacred.

'Shargar, ye vratch!' he cried, 'fess that shillin' here direckly.

Tak the twine wi' ye, and gar them gie ye back the shillin'.'

'They winna brak the bargain,' cried Shargar, beginning almost to

whimper, for a savoury smell of dinner was coming across the yard.

'Tell them it's stown siller, and they'll be in het watter aboot it

gin they dinna gie ye 't back.'

'I maun hae my denner first,' remonstrated Shargar.

But the spirit of his grandmother was strong in Robert, and in a

matter of rectitude there must be no temporizing. Therein he could

be as tyrannical as the old lady herself.

'De'il a bite or a sup s' gang ower your thrapple till I see that

shillin'.'

There was no help for it. Six hungry miles must be trudged by

Shargar ere he got a morsel to eat. Two hours and a half passed

before he reappeared. But he brought the shilling. As to how he

recovered it, Robert questioned him in vain. Shargar, in his turn,

was obstinate.

'She's a some camstairy (unmanageable) wife, that grannie o' yours,'

said Mr. Lammie, when Robert returned the shilling with Mrs.

Falconer's message, 'but I reckon I maun pit it i' my pooch, for she

will hae her ain gait, an' I dinna want to strive wi' her. But gin

ony o' ye be in want o' a shillin' ony day, lads, as lang 's I'm

abune the yird--this ane 'll be grown twa, or maybe mair, 'gen that

time.'

So saying, the farmer put the shilling into his pocket, and buttoned

it up.

The dragon flew splendidly now, and its strength was mighty. It was

Robert's custom to drive a stake in the ground, slanting against the

wind, and thereby tether the animal, as if it were up there grazing

in its own natural region. Then he would lie down by the stake and

read The Arabian Nights, every now and then casting a glance upward

at the creature alone in the waste air, yet all in his power by the

string at his side. Somehow the high-flown dragon was a bond

between him and the blue; he seemed nearer to the sky while it flew,

or at least the heaven seemed less far away and inaccessible. While

he lay there gazing, all at once he would find that his soul was up

with the dragon, feeling as it felt, tossing about with it in the

torrents of the air. Out at his eyes it would go, traverse the dim

stairless space, and sport with the wind-blown monster. Sometimes,

to aid his aspiration, he would take a bit of paper, make a hole in

it, pass the end of the string through the hole, and send the

messenger scudding along the line athwart the depth of the wind. If

it stuck by the way, he would get a telescope of Mr. Lammie's, and

therewith watch its struggles till it broke loose, then follow it

careering up to the kite. Away with each successive paper his

imagination would fly, and a sense of air, and height, and freedom

settled from his play into his very soul, a germ to sprout

hereafter, and enrich the forms of his aspirations. And all his

after-memories of kite-flying were mingled with pictures of eastern

magnificence, for from the airy height of the dragon his eyes always

came down upon the enchanted pages of John Hewson's book.

Sometimes, again, he would throw down his book, and sitting up with

his back against the stake, lift his bonny leddy from his side, and

play as he had never played in Rothieden, playing to the dragon

aloft, to keep him strong in his soaring, and fierce in his battling

with the winds of heaven. Then he fancied that the monster swooped

and swept in arcs, and swayed curving to and fro, in rhythmic

response to the music floating up through the wind.

What a full globated symbolism lay then around the heart of the boy

in his book, his violin, his kite!

CHAPTER XXII.

DR. ANDERSON.

One afternoon, as they were sitting at their tea, a footstep in the

garden approached the house, and then a figure passed the window.

Mr. Lammie started to his feet.

'Bless my sowl, Aggy! that's Anderson!' he cried, and hurried to the

door.

His daughter followed. The boys kept their seats. A loud and

hearty salutation reached their ears; but the voice of the farmer

was all they heard. Presently he returned, bringing with him the

tallest and slenderest man Robert had ever seen. He was

considerably over six feet, with a small head, and delicate, if not

fine features, a gentle look in his blue eyes, and a slow clear

voice, which sounded as if it were thinking about every word it

uttered. The hot sun of India seemed to have burned out everything

self-assertive, leaving him quietly and rather sadly contemplative.

'Come in, come in,' repeated Mr. Lammie, overflowing with glad

welcome. 'What'll ye hae? There's a frien' o' yer ain,' he

continued, pointing to Robert, 'an' a fine lad.' Then lowering his

voice, he added: 'A son o' poor Anerew's, ye ken, doctor.'

The boys rose, and Dr. Anderson, stretching his long arms across the

table, shook hands kindly with Robert and Shargar. Then he sat down

and began to help himself to the cakes (oat-cake), at which Robert

wondered, seeing there was 'white breid' on the table. Miss Lammie

presently came in with the teapot and some additional dainties, and

the boys took the opportunity of beginning at the beginning again.

Dr. Anderson remained for a few days at Bodyfauld, sending Shargar

to Rothieden for some necessaries from The Boar's Head, where he had

left his servant and luggage. During this time Mr. Lammie was much

occupied with his farm affairs, anxious to get his harvest in as

quickly as possible, because a change of weather was to be dreaded;

so the doctor was left a good deal to himself. He was fond of

wandering about, but, thoughtful as he was, did not object to the

companionship which Robert implicitly offered him: before many hours

were over, the two were friends.

Various things attracted Robert to the doctor. First, he was a

relation of his own, older than himself, the first he had known

except his father, and Robert's heart was one of the most dutiful.

Second, or perhaps I ought to have put this first, he was the only

gentleman, except Eric Ericson, whose acquaintance he had yet made.

Third, he was kind to him, and gentle to him, and, above all,

respectful to him; and to be respected was a new sensation to Robert

altogether. And lastly, he could tell stories of elephants and

tiger hunts, and all The Arabian Nights of India. He did not

volunteer much talk, but Robert soon found that he could draw him

out.

But what attracted the man to the boy?

'Ah! Robert,' said the doctor one day, sadly, 'it's a sore thing to

come home after being thirty years away.'

He looked up at the sky, then all around at the hills: the face of

Nature alone remained the same. Then his glance fell on Robert, and

he saw a pair of black eyes looking up at him, brimful of tears.

And thus the man was drawn to the boy.

Robert worshipped Dr. Anderson. As long as he remained their

visitor, kite and violin and all were forgotten, and he followed him

like a dog. To have such a gentleman for a relation, was grand

indeed. What could he do for him? He ministered to him in all

manner of trifles--a little to the amusement of Dr. Anderson, but

more to his pleasure, for he saw that the boy was both large-hearted

and lowly-minded: Dr. Anderson had learned to read character, else

he would never have been the honour to his profession that he was.

But all the time Robert could not get him to speak about his father.

He steadily avoided the subject.

When he went away, the two boys walked with him to The Boar's Head,

caught a glimpse of his Hindoo attendant, much to their wonderment,

received from the doctor a sovereign apiece and a kind good-bye, and

returned to Bodyfauld.

Dr. Anderson remained a few days longer at Rothieden, and amongst

others visited Mrs. Falconer, who was his first cousin. What passed

between them Robert never heard, nor did his grandmother even allude

to the visit. He went by the mail-coach from Rothieden to Aberdeen,

and whether he should ever see him again Robert did not know.

He flew his kite no more for a while, but betook himself to the work

of the harvest-field, in which he was now able for a share. But his

violin was no longer neglected.

Day after day passed in the delights of labour, broken for Robert by

The Arabian Nights and the violin, and for Shargar by attendance

upon Miss Lammie, till the fields lay bare of their harvest, and the

night-wind of autumn moaned everywhere over the vanished glory of

the country, and it was time to go back to school.

CHAPTER XXIII.

AN AUTO DA F .?

The morning at length arrived when Robert and Shargar must return to

Rothieden. A keen autumnal wind was blowing far-off feathery clouds

across a sky of pale blue; the cold freshened the spirits of the

boys, and tightened their nerves and muscles, till they were like

bow-strings. No doubt the winter was coming, but the sun, although

his day's work was short and slack, was still as clear as ever. So

gladsome was the world, that the boys received the day as a fresh

holiday, and strenuously forgot to-morrow. The wind blew straight

from Rothieden, and between sun and wind a bright thought awoke in

Robert. The dragon should not be carried--he should fly home.

After they had said farewell, in which Shargar seemed to suffer more

than Robert, and had turned the corner of the stable, they heard the

good farmer shouting after them,

'There'll be anither hairst neist year, boys,' which wonderfully

restored their spirits. When they reached the open road, Robert

laid his violin carefully into a broom-bush. Then the tail was

unrolled, and the dragon ascended steady as an angel whose work is

done. Shargar took the stick at the end of the string, and Robert

resumed his violin. But the creature was hard to lead in such a

wind; so they made a loop on the string, and passed it round

Shargar's chest, and he tugged the dragon home. Robert longed to

take his share in the struggle, but he could not trust his violin to

Shargar, and so had to walk beside ingloriously. On the way they

laid their plans for the accommodation of the dragon. But the

violin was the greater difficulty. Robert would not hear of the

factory, for reasons best known to himself, and there were serious

objections to taking it to Dooble Sanny. It was resolved that the

only way was to seize the right moment, and creep upstairs with it

before presenting themselves to Mrs. Falconer. Their intended

man uvres with the kite would favour the concealment of this stroke.?

Before they entered the town they drew in the kite a little way, and

cut off a dozen yards of the string, which Robert put in his pocket,

with a stone tied to the end. When they reached the house, Shargar

went into the little garden and tied the string of the kite to the

paling between that and Captain Forsyth's. Robert opened the street

door, and having turned his head on all sides like a thief, darted

with his violin up the stairs. Having laid his treasure in one of

the presses in Shargar's garret, he went to his own, and from the

skylight threw the stone down into the captain's garden, fastening

the other end of the string to the bedstead. Escaping as cautiously

as he had entered, he passed hurriedly into their neighbour's

garden, found the stone, and joined Shargar. The ends were soon

united, and the kite let go. It sunk for a moment, then, arrested

by the bedstead, towered again to its former 'pride of place,'

sailing over Rothieden, grand and unconcerned, in the wastes of air.

But the end of its tether was in Robert's garret. And that was to

him a sense of power, a thought of glad mystery. There was

henceforth, while the dragon flew, a relation between the desolate

little chamber, in that lowly house buried among so many more

aspiring abodes, and the unmeasured depths and spaces, the stars,

and the unknown heavens. And in the next chamber lay the fiddle

free once more,--yet another magical power whereby his spirit could

forsake the earth and mount heavenwards.

All that night, all the next day, all the next night, the dragon

flew.

Not one smile broke over the face of the old lady as she received

them. Was it because she did not know what acts of disobedience,

what breaches of the moral law, the two children of possible

perdition might have committed while they were beyond her care, and

she must not run the risk of smiling upon iniquity? I think it was

rather that there was no smile in her religion, which, while it

developed the power of a darkened conscience, overlaid and

half-smothered all the lovelier impulses of her grand nature. How

could she smile? Did not the world lie under the wrath and curse of

God? Was not her own son in hell for ever? Had not the blood of

the Son of God been shed for him in vain? Had not God meant that it

should be in vain? For by the gift of his Spirit could he not have

enabled him to accept the offered pardon? And for anything she

knew, was not Robert going after him to the place of misery? How

could she smile?

'Noo be dooce,' she said, the moment she had shaken hands with them,

with her cold hands, so clean and soft and smooth. With a volcanic

heart of love, her outside was always so still and cold!--snow on

the mountain sides, hot vein-coursing lava within. For her highest

duty was submission to the will of God. Ah! if she had only known

the God who claimed her submission! But there is time enough for

every heart to know him.

'Noo be dooce,' she repeated, 'an' sit doon, and tell me aboot the

fowk at Bodyfauld. I houpe ye thankit them, or ye left, for their

muckle kindness to ye.'

The boys were silent.

'Didna ye thank them?'

'No, grannie; I dinna think 'at we did.'

'Weel, that was ill-faured o' ye. Eh! but the hert is deceitfu'

aboon a' thing, and desperately wicked. Who can know it? Come

awa'. Come awa'. Robert, festen the door.'

And she led them to the corner for prayer, and poured forth a

confession of sin for them and for herself, such as left little that

could have been added by her own profligate son, had he joined in

the prayer. Either there are no degrees in guilt, or the Scotch

language was equal only to the confession of children and holy

women, and could provide no more awful words for the contrition of

the prodigal or the hypocrite. But the words did little harm, for

Robert's mind was full of the kite and the violin, and was probably

nearer God thereby than if he had been trying to feel as wicked as

his grandmother told God that he was. Shargar was even more

divinely employed at the time than either; for though he had not had

the manners to thank his benefactor, his heart had all the way home

been full of tender thoughts of Miss Lammie's kindness; and now,

instead of confessing sins that were not his, he was loving her over

and over, and wishing to be back with her instead of with this

awfully good woman, in whose presence there was no peace, for all

the atmosphere of silence and calm in which she sat.

Confession over, and the boys at liberty again, a new anxiety seized

them. Grannie must find out that Robert's shoes were missing, and

what account was to be given of the misfortune, for Robert would

not, or could not lie? In the midst of their discussion a bright

idea flashed upon Shargar, which, however, he kept to himself: he

would steal them, and bring them home in triumph, emulating thus

Robert's exploit in delivering his bonny leddy.

The shoemaker sat behind his door to be out of the draught: Shargar

might see a great part of the workshop without being seen, and he

could pick Robert's shoes from among a hundred. Probably they lay

just where Robert had laid them, for Dooble Sanny paid attention to

any job only in proportion to the persecution accompanying it.

So the next day Shargar contrived to slip out of school just as the

writing lesson began, for he had great skill in conveying himself

unseen, and, with his book-bag, slunk barefooted into the soutar's

entry.

The shop door was a little way open, and the red eyes of Shargar had

only the corner next it to go peering about in. But there he saw

the shoes. He got down on his hands and knees, and crept nearer.

Yes, they were beyond a doubt Robert's shoes. He made a long arm,

like a beast of prey, seized them, and, losing his presence of mind

upon possession, drew them too hastily towards him. The shoemaker

saw them as they vanished through the door, and darted after them.

Shargar was off at full speed, and Sandy followed with hue and cry.

Every idle person in the street joined in the pursuit, and all who

were too busy or too respectable to run crowded to door and windows.

Shargar made instinctively for his mother's old lair; but

bethinking himself when he reached the door, he turned, and, knowing

nowhere else to go, fled in terror to Mrs. Falconer's, still,

however, holding fast by the shoes, for they were Robert's.

As Robert came home from school, wondering what could have become of

his companion, he saw a crowd about his grandmother's door, and

pushing his way through it in some dismay, found Dooble Sanny and

Shargar confronting each other before the stern justice of Mrs.

Falconer.

'Ye're a leear,' the soutar was panting out. 'I haena had a pair o'

shune o' Robert's i' my han's this three month. Thae shune--lat me

see them--they're--Here's Robert himsel'. Are thae shune yours,

noo, Robert?'

'Ay are they. Ye made them yersel'.'

'Hoo cam they in my chop, than?'

'Speir nae mair quest'ons nor's worth answerin',' said Robert, with

a look meant to be significant. 'They're my shune, and I'll keep

them. Aiblins ye dinna aye ken wha's shune ye hae, or whan they cam

in to ye.'

'What for didna Shargar come an' speir efter them, than, in place o'

makin' a thief o' himsel' that gait?'

'Ye may haud yer tongue,' returned Robert, with yet more

significance.

'I was aye a gowk (idiot),' said Shargar, in apologetic reflection,

looking awfully white, and afraid to lift an eye to Mrs. Falconer,

yet reassured a little by Robert's presence.

Some glimmering seemed now to have dawned upon the soutar, for he

began to prepare a retreat. Meantime Mrs. Falconer sat silent,

allowing no word that passed to escape her. She wanted to be at the

bottom of the mysterious affair, and therefore held her peace.

'Weel, I'm sure, Robert, ye never tellt me aboot the shune,' said

Alexander. 'I s' jist tak them back wi' me, and du what's wantit to

them. And I'm sorry that I hae gien ye this tribble, Mistress

Faukner; but it was a' that fule's wite there. I didna even ken it

was him, till we war near-han' the hoose.'

'Lat me see the shune,' said Mrs. Falconer, speaking almost for the

first time. 'What's the maitter wi' them?'

Examining the shoes, she saw they were in a perfectly sound state,

and this confirmed her suspicion that there was more in the affair

than had yet come out. Had she taken the straightforward measure of

examining Robert, she would soon have arrived at the truth. But she

had such a dread of causing a lie to be told, that she would adopt

any roundabout way rather than ask a plain question of a suspected

culprit. So she laid the shoes down beside her, saying to the

soutar,

'There's naething amiss wi' the shune. Ye can lea' them.'

Thereupon Alexander went away, and Robert and Shargar would have

given more than their dinner to follow him. Grannie neither asked

any questions, however, nor made a single remark on what had passed.

Dinner was served and eaten, and the boys returned to their

afternoon school.

No sooner was she certain that they were safe under the

school-master's eye than the old lady put on her black silk bonnet

and her black woollen shawl, took her green cotton umbrella, which

served her for a staff, and, refusing Betty's proffered assistance,

set out for Dooble Sanny's shop.

As she drew near she heard the sounds of his violin. When she

entered, he laid his auld wife carefully aside, and stood in an

expectant attitude.

'Mr. Elshender, I want to be at the boddom o' this,' said Mrs.

Falconer.

'Weel, mem, gang to the boddom o' 't,' returned Dooble Sanny,

dropping on his stool, and taking his stone upon his lap and

stroking it, as if it had been some quadrupedal pet. Full of rough

but real politeness to women when in good humour, he lost all his

manners along with his temper upon the slightest provocation, and

her tone irritated him.

'Hoo cam Robert's shune to be i' your shop?'

'Somebody bude till hae brocht them, mem. In a' my expairience, and

that's no sma', I never kent pair o' shune gang ohn a pair o' feet

i' the wame o' them.'

'Hoots! what kin' o' gait 's that to speyk till a body? Whase feet

was inside the shune?'

'De'il a bit o' me kens, mem.'

'Dinna sweir, whatever ye du.'

'De'il but I will sweir, mem; an' gin ye anger me, I'll jist sweir

awfu'.'

'I'm sure I hae nae wuss to anger ye, man! Canna ye help a body to

win at the boddom o' a thing ohn angert an' sworn?'

'Weel, I kenna wha brocht the shune, as I tellt ye a'ready.'

'But they wantit nae men'in'.'

'I micht hae men't them an' forgotten 't, mem.'

'Noo ye're leein'.'

'Gin ye gang on that gait, mem, I winna speyk a word o' trowth frae

this moment foret.'

'Jist tell me what ye ken aboot thae shune, an' I'll no say anither

word.'

'Weel, mem, I'll tell ye the trowth. The de'il brocht them in ae

day in a lang taings; and says he, "Elshender, men' thae shune for

puir Robby Faukner; an' dooble-sole them for the life o' ye; for

that auld luckie-minnie o' his 'ill sune hae him doon oor gait, and

the grun' 's het i' the noo; an' I dinna want to be ower sair upon

him, for he's a fine chield, an' 'll mak a fine fiddler gin he live

lang eneuch."'

Mrs. Falconer left the shop without another word, but with an awful

suspicion which the last heedless words of the shoemaker had aroused

in her bosom. She left him bursting with laughter over his

lapstone. He caught up his fiddle and played The De'il's i' the

Women lustily and with expression. But he little thought what he

had done.

As soon as she reached her own room, she went straight to her bed

and disinterred the bonny leddy's coffin. She was gone; and in her

stead, horror of horrors! lay in the unhallowed chest that body of

divinity known as Boston's Fourfold State. Vexation, anger,

disappointment, and grief possessed themselves of the old woman's

mind. She ranged the house like the 'questing beast' of the Round

Table, but failed in finding the violin before the return of the

boys. Not a word did she say all that evening, and their oppressed

hearts foreboded ill. They felt that there was thunder in the

clouds, a sleeping storm in the air; but how or when it would break

they had no idea.

Robert came home to dinner the next day a few minutes before

Shargar. As he entered his grandmother's parlour, a strange odour

greeted his sense. A moment more, and he stood rooted with horror,

and his hair began to rise on his head. His violin lay on its back

on the fire, and a yellow tongue of flame was licking the red lips

of a hole in its belly. All its strings were shrivelled up save

one, which burst as he gazed. And beside, stern as a Druidess, sat

his grandmother in her chair, feeding her eyes with grim

satisfaction on the detestable sacrifice. At length the rigidity of

Robert's whole being relaxed in an involuntary howl like that of a

wild beast, and he turned and rushed from the house in a helpless

agony of horror. Where he was going he knew not, only a blind

instinct of modesty drove him to hide his passion from the eyes of

men.

>From her window Miss St. John saw him tearing like one demented

along the top walk of the captain's garden, and watched for his

return. He came far sooner than she expected.

Before he arrived at the factory, Robert began to hear strange

sounds in the desolate place. When he reached the upper floor, he

found men with axe and hammer destroying the old woodwork, breaking

the old jennies, pitching the balls of lead into baskets, and

throwing the spools into crates. Was there nothing but destruction

in the world? There, most horrible! his 'bonny leddy' dying of

flames, and here, the temple of his refuge torn to pieces by

unhallowed hands! What could it mean? Was his grandmother's

vengeance here too? But he did not care. He only felt like the

dove sent from the ark, that there was no rest for the sole of his

foot, that there was no place to hide his head in his agony--that he

was naked to the universe; and like a heartless wild thing hunted

till its brain is of no more use, he turned and rushed back again

upon his track. At one end was the burning idol, at the other the

desecrated temple.

No sooner had he entered the captain's garden than Miss St. John met

him.

'What is the matter with you, Robert?' she asked, kindly.

'Oh, mem!' gasped Robert, and burst into a very storm of weeping.

It was long before he could speak. He cowered before Miss St. John

as if conscious of an unfriendly presence, and seeking to shelter

himself by her tall figure from his grandmother's eyes. For who

could tell but at the moment she might be gazing upon him from some

window, or even from the blue vault above? There was no escaping

her. She was the all-seeing eye personified--the eye of the God of

the theologians of his country, always searching out the evil, and

refusing to acknowledge the good. Yet so gentle and faithful was

the heart of Robert, that he never thought of her as cruel. He took

it for granted that somehow or other she must be right. Only what a

terrible thing such righteousness was! He stood and wept before the

lady.

Her heart was sore for the despairing boy. She drew him to a little

summer-seat. He entered with her, and sat down, weeping still. She

did her best to soothe him. At last, sorely interrupted by sobs, he

managed to let her know the fate of his 'bonnie leddy.' But when he

came to the words, 'She's burnin' in there upo' granny's fire,' he

broke out once more with that wild howl of despair, and then,

ashamed of himself, ceased weeping altogether, though he could not

help the intrusion of certain chokes and sobs upon his otherwise

even, though low and sad speech.

Knowing nothing of Mrs. Falconer's character, Miss St. John set her

down as a cruel and heartless as well as tyrannical and bigoted old

woman, and took the mental position of enmity towards her. In a

gush of motherly indignation she kissed Robert on the forehead.

>From that chrism he arose a king.

He dried his eyes; not another sob even broke from him; he gave one

look, but no word of gratitude, to Miss St. John; bade her good-bye;

and walked composedly into his grandmother's parlour, where the neck

of the violin yet lay upon the fire only half consumed. The rest

had vanished utterly.

'What are they duin' doon at the fact'ry, grannie?' he asked.

'What's wha duin', laddie?' returned his grandmother, curtly.

'They're takin' 't doon.'

'Takin' what doon?' she returned, with raised voice.

'Takin' doon the hoose.'

The old woman rose.

'Robert, ye may hae spite in yer hert for what I hae dune this

mornin', but I cud do no ither. An' it's an ill thing to tak sic

amen's o' me, as gin I had dune wrang, by garrin' me troo 'at yer

grandfather's property was to gang the gait o' 's auld, useless,

ill-mainnert scraich o' a fiddle.'

'She was the bonniest fiddle i' the country-side, grannie. And she

never gae a scraich in her life 'cep' whan she was han'let in a

mainner unbecomin'. But we s' say nae mair aboot her, for she's

gane, an' no by a fair strae-deith (death on one's own straw)

either. She had nae blude to cry for vengeance; but the snappin' o'

her strings an' the crackin' o' her banes may hae made a cry to gang

far eneuch notwithstandin'.'

The old woman seemed for one moment rebuked under her grandson's

eloquence. He had made a great stride towards manhood since the

morning.

'The fiddle's my ain,' she said, in a defensive tone. 'And sae is

the fact'ry,' she added, as if she had not quite reassured herself

concerning it.

'The fiddle's yours nae mair, grannie. And for the fact'ry--ye

winna believe me: gang and see yersel'.'

Therewith Robert retreated to his garret.

When he opened the door of it, the first thing he saw was the string

of his kite, which, strange to tell, so steady had been the wind,

was still up in the air--still tugging at the bedpost. Whether it

was from the stinging thought that the true sky-soarer, the violin,

having been devoured by the jaws of the fire-devil, there was no

longer any significance in the outward and visible sign of the

dragon, or from a dim feeling that the time of kites was gone by and

manhood on the threshold, I cannot tell; but he drew his knife from

his pocket, and with one down-stroke cut the string in twain. Away

went the dragon, free, like a prodigal, to his ruin. And with the

dragon, afar into the past, flew the childhood of Robert Falconer.

He made one remorseful dart after the string as it swept out of the

skylight, but it was gone beyond remeid. And never more, save in

twilight dreams, did he lay hold on his childhood again. But he

knew better and better, as the years rolled on, that he approached a

deeper and holier childhood, of which that had been but the feeble

and necessarily vanishing type.

As the kite sank in the distance, Mrs. Falconer issued from the

house, and went down the street towards the factory.

Before she came back the cloth was laid for dinner, and Robert and

Shargar were both in the parlour awaiting her return. She entered

heated and dismayed, went into Robert's bedroom, and shut the door

hastily. They heard her open the old bureau. In a moment after she

came out with a more luminous expression upon her face than Robert

had ever seen it bear. It was as still as ever, but there was a

strange light in her eyes, which was not confined to her eyes, but

shone in a measure from her colourless forehead and cheeks as well.

It was long before Robert was able to interpret that change in her

look, and that increase of kindness towards himself and Shargar,

apparently such a contrast with the holocaust of the morning. Had

they both been Benjamins they could not have had more abundant

platefuls than she gave them that day. And when they left her to

return to school, instead of the usual 'Noo be douce,' she said, in

gentle, almost loving tones, 'Noo, be good lads, baith o' ye.'

The conclusion at which Falconer did arrive was that his grandmother

had hurried home to see whether the title-deeds of the factory were

still in her possession, and had found that they were gone--taken,

doubtless, by her son Andrew. At whatever period he had

appropriated them, he must have parted with them but recently. And

the hope rose luminous that her son had not yet passed into the

region 'where all life dies, death lives.' Terrible consolation!

Terrible creed, which made the hope that he was still on this side

of the grave working wickedness, light up the face of the mother,

and open her hand in kindness. Is it suffering, or is it

wickedness, that is the awful thing? 'Ah! but they are both combined

in the other world.' And in this world too, I answer; only,

according to Mrs. Falconer's creed, in the other world God, for the

sake of the suffering, renders the wickedness eternal!

The old factory was in part pulled down, and out of its remains a

granary constructed. Nor did the old lady interpose a word to

arrest the alienation of her property.

CHAPTER XXIV.

BOOT FOR BALE.

Mary St. John was the orphan daughter of an English clergyman, who

had left her money enough to make her at least independent. Mrs.

Forsyth, hearing that her niece was left alone in the world, had

concluded that her society would be a pleasure to herself and a

relief to the housekeeping. Even before her father's death, Miss

St. John, having met with a disappointment, and concluded herself

dead to the world, had been looking about for some way of doing

good. The prospect of retirement, therefore, and of being useful to

her sick aunt, had drawn her northwards.

She was now about six-and-twenty, filled with two passions--one for

justice, the other for music. Her griefs had not made her selfish,

nor had her music degenerated into sentiment. The gentle style of

the instruction she had received had never begotten a diseased

self-consciousness; and if her religion lacked something of the

intensity without which a character like hers could not be evenly

balanced, its force was not spent on the combating of unholy doubts

and selfish fears, but rose on the wings of her music in gentle

thanksgiving. Tears had changed her bright-hued hopes into a

dove-coloured submission, through which her mind was passing towards

a rainbow dawn such as she had never dreamed of. To her as yet the

Book of Common Prayer contained all the prayers that human heart had

need to offer; what things lay beyond its scope must lie beyond the

scope of religion. All such things must be parted with one day, and

if they had been taken from her very soon, she was the sooner free

from the painful necessity of watching lest earthly love should

remove any of the old landmarks dividing what was God's from what

was only man's. She had now retired within the pale of religion,

and left the rest of her being, as she thought, 'to dull

forgetfulness a prey.'

She had little comfort in the society of her aunt. Indeed, she felt

strongly tempted to return again to England the same month, and seek

a divine service elsewhere. But it was not at all so easy then as

it is now for a woman to find the opportunity of being helpful in

the world of suffering.

Mrs. Forsyth was one of those women who get their own way by the

very vis inertiae of their silliness. No argument could tell upon

her. She was so incapable of seeing anything noble that her perfect

satisfaction with everything she herself thought, said, or did,

remained unchallenged. She had just illness enough to swell her

feeling of importance. She looked down upon Mrs. Falconer from such

an immeasurable height that she could not be indignant with her for

anything; she only vouchsafed a laugh now and then at her oddities,

holding no further communication with her than a condescending bend

of the neck when they happened to meet, which was not once a year.

But, indeed, she would have patronized the angel Gabriel, if she

had had a chance, and no doubt given him a hint or two upon the

proper way of praising God. For the rest, she was good-tempered,

looked comfortable, and quarrelled with nobody but her rough honest

old bear of a husband, whom, in his seventieth year, she was always

trying to teach good manners, with the frequent result of a storm of

swearing.

But now Mary St. John was thoroughly interested in the strange boy

whose growing musical pinions were ever being clipped by the shears

of unsympathetic age and crabbed religion, and the idea of doing

something for him to make up for the injustice of his grandmother

awoke in her a slight glow of that interest in life which she sought

only in doing good. But although ere long she came to love the boy

very truly, and although Shargar's life was bound up in the favour

of Robert, yet neither stooping angel nor foot-following dog ever

loved the lad with the love of that old grandmother, who would for

him have given herself to the fire to which she had doomed his

greatest delight.

For some days Robert worked hard at his lessons, for he had nothing

else to do. Life was very gloomy now. If he could only go to sea,

or away to keep sheep on the stormy mountains! If there were only

some war going on, that he might list! Any fighting with the

elements, or with the oppressors of the nations, would make life

worth having, a man worth being. But God did not heed. He leaned

over the world, a dark care, an immovable fate, bearing down with

the weight of his presence all aspiration, all budding delights of

children and young persons: all must crouch before him, and uphold

his glory with the sacrificial death of every impulse, every

admiration, every lightness of heart, every bubble of laughter.

Or--which to a mind like Robert's was as bad--if he did not punish

for these things, it was because they came not within the sphere of

his condescension, were not worth his notice: of sympathy could be

no question.

But this gloom did not last long. When souls like Robert's have

been ill-taught about God, the true God will not let them gaze too

long upon the Moloch which men have set up to represent him. He

will turn away their minds from that which men call him, and fill

them with some of his own lovely thoughts or works, such as may by

degrees prepare the way for a vision of the Father.

One afternoon Robert was passing the soutar's shop. He had never

gone near him since his return. But now, almost mechanically, he

went in at the open door.

'Weel, Robert, ye are a stranger. But what's the maitter wi' ye?

Faith! yon was an ill plisky ye played me to brak into my chop an'

steal the bonnie leddy.'

'Sandy,' said Robert, solemnly, 'ye dinna ken what ye hae dune by

that trick ye played me. Dinna ever mention her again i' my

hearin'.'

'The auld witch hasna gotten a grup o' her again?' cried the

shoemaker, starting half up in alarm. 'She cam here to me aboot the

shune, but I reckon I sortit her!'

'I winna speir what ye said,' returned Robert. 'It's no maitter

noo.'

And the tears rose to his eyes. His bonny lady!

'The Lord guide 's!' exclaimed the soutar. 'What is the maitter wi'

the bonnie leddy?'

'There's nae bonnie leddy ony mair. I saw her brunt to death afore

my verra ain een.'

The shoemaker sprang to his feet and caught up his paring knife.

'For God's sake, say 'at yer leein'!' he cried.

'I wish I war leein',' returned Robert.

The soutar uttered a terrible oath, and swore--

'I'll murder the auld--.' The epithet he ended with is too ugly to

write.

'Daur to say sic a word in ae breath wi' my grannie,' cried Robert,

snatching up the lapstone, 'an' I'll brain ye upo' yer ain

shop-flure.'

Sandy threw the knife on his stool, and sat down beside it. Robert

dropped the lapstone. Sandy took it up and burst into tears, which

before they were half down his face, turned into tar with the

blackness of the same.

'I'm an awfu' sinner,' he said, 'and vengeance has owerta'en me.

Gang oot o' my chop! I wasna worthy o' her. Gang oot, I say, or

I'll kill ye.'

Robert went. Close by the door he met Miss St. John. He pulled off

his cap, and would have passed her. But she stopped him.

'I am going for a walk a little way,' she said. 'Will you go with

me?'

She had come out in the hope of finding him, for she had seen him go

up the street.

'That I wull,' returned Robert, and they walked on together.

When they were beyond the last house, Miss St. John said,

'Would you like to play on the piano, Robert?'

'Eh, mem!' said Robert, with a deep suspiration. Then, after a

pause: 'But duv ye think I cud?'

'There's no fear of that. Let me see your hands.'

'They're some black, I doobt, mem,' he remarked, rubbing them hard

upon his trowsers before he showed them; 'for I was amaist cawin'

oot the brains o' Dooble Sanny wi' his ain lapstane. He's an

ill-tongued chield. But eh! mem, ye suld hear him play upo' the

fiddle! He's greitin' his een oot e'en noo for the bonnie leddy.'

Not discouraged by her inspection of his hands, black as they were,

Miss St. John continued,

'But what would your grandmother say?' she asked.

'She maun ken naething aboot it, mem. I can-not tell her a'thing.

She wad greit an' pray awfu', an' lock me up, I daursay. Ye see,

she thinks a' kin' o' music 'cep' psalm-singin' comes o' the deevil

himsel'. An' I canna believe that. For aye whan I see onything by

ordinar bonnie, sic like as the mune was last nicht, it aye gars me

greit for my brunt fiddle.'

'Well, you must come to me every day for half-an-hour at least, and

I will give you a lesson on my piano. But you can't learn by that.

And my aunt could never bear to hear you practising. So I'll tell

you what you must do. I have a small piano in my own room. Do you

know there is a door from your house into my room?'

'Ay,' said Robert. 'That hoose was my father's afore your uncle

bought it. My father biggit it.'

'Is it long since your father died?'

'I dinna ken.'

'Where did he die?'

'I dinna ken.'

'Do you remember it?'

'No, mem.'

'Well, if you will come to my room, you shall practise there. I

shall be down-stairs with my aunt. But perhaps I may look up now

and then, to see how you are getting on. I will leave the door

unlocked, so that you can come in when you like. If I don't want

you, I will lock the door. You understand? You mustn't be handling

things, you know.'

''Deed, mem, ye may lippen (trust) to me. But I'm jist feared to

lat ye hear me lay a finger upo' the piana, for it's little I cud do

wi' my fiddle, an', for the piana! I'm feart I'll jist scunner

(disgust) ye.'

'If you really want to learn, there will be no fear of that,'

returned Miss St. John, guessing at the meaning of the word scunner.

'I don't think I am doing anything wrong,' she added, half to

herself, in a somewhat doubtful tone.

''Deed no, mem. Ye're jist an angel unawares. For I maist think

sometimes that my grannie 'll drive me wud (mad); for there's

naething to read but guid buiks, an' naething to sing but psalms;

an' there's nae fun aboot the hoose but Betty; an' puir Shargar's

nearhan' dementit wi' 't. An' we maun pray till her whether we will

or no. An' there's no comfort i' the place but plenty to ate; an'

that canna be guid for onybody. She likes flooers, though, an' wad

like me to gar them grow; but I dinna care aboot it: they tak sic a

time afore they come to onything.'

Then Miss St. John inquired about Shargar, and began to feel rather

differently towards the old lady when she had heard the story. But

how she laughed at the tale, and how light-hearted Robert went home,

are neither to be told.

The next Sunday, the first time for many years, Dooble Sanny was at

church with his wife, though how much good he got by going would be

a serious question to discuss.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE GATES OF PARADISE.

Robert had his first lesson the next Saturday afternoon. Eager and

undismayed by the presence of Mrs, Forsyth, good-natured and

contemptuous--for had he not a protecting angel by him?--he

hearkened for every word of Miss St. John, combated every fault, and

undermined every awkwardness with earnest patience. Nothing

delighted Robert so much as to give himself up to one greater. His

mistress was thoroughly pleased, and even Mrs. Forsyth gave him two

of her soft finger tips to do something or other with--Robert did

not know what, and let them go.

About eight o'clock that same evening, his heart beating like a

captured bird's, he crept from grannie's parlour, past the kitchen,

and up the low stair to the mysterious door. He had been trying for

an hour to summon up courage to rise, feeling as if his grandmother

must suspect where he was going. Arrived at the barrier, twice his

courage failed him; twice he turned and sped back to the parlour. A

third time he made the essay, a third time stood at the wondrous

door--so long as blank as a wall to his careless eyes, now like the

door of the magic Sesame that led to the treasure-cave of Ali Baba.

He laid his hand on the knob, withdrew it, thought he heard some one

in the transe, rushed up the garret stair, and stood listening,

hastened down, and with a sudden influx of determination opened the

door, saw that the trap was raised, closed the door behind him, and

standing with his head on the level of the floor, gazed into the

paradise of Miss St. John's room. To have one peep into such a room

was a kind of salvation to the half-starved nature of the boy. All

before him was elegance, richness, mystery. Womanhood radiated from

everything. A fire blazed in the chimney. A rug of long white wool

lay before it. A little way off stood the piano. Ornaments

sparkled and shone upon the dressing-table. The door of a wardrobe

had swung a little open, and discovered the sombre shimmer of a

black silk dress. Something gorgeously red, a China crape shawl,

hung glowing beyond it. He dared not gaze any longer. He had

already been guilty of an immodesty. He hastened to ascend, and

seated himself at the piano.

Let my reader aid me for a moment with his imagination--reflecting

what it was to a boy like Robert, and in Robert's misery, to open a

door in his own meagre dwelling and gaze into such a room--free to

him. If he will aid me so, then let him aid himself by thinking

that the house of his own soul has such a door into the infinite

beauty, whether he has yet found it or not.

'Just think,' Robert said to himself, 'o' me in sic a place! It's a

pailace. It's a fairy pailace. And that angel o' a leddy bides

here, and sleeps there! I wonner gin she ever dreams aboot onything

as bonny 's hersel'!'

Then his thoughts took another turn.

'I wonner gin the room was onything like this whan my mamma sleepit

in 't? I cudna hae been born in sic a gran' place. But my mamma

micht hae weel lien here.'

The face of the miniature, and the sad words written below the hymn,

came back upon him, and he bowed his head upon his hands. He was

sitting thus when Miss St. John came behind him, and heard him

murmur the one word Mamma! She laid her hand on his shoulder. He

started and rose.

'I beg yer pardon, mem. I hae no business to be here, excep' to

play. But I cudna help thinkin' aboot my mother; for I was born in

this room, mem. Will I gang awa' again?'

He turned towards the door.

'No, no,' said Miss St. John. 'I only came to see if you were here.

I cannot stop now; but to-morrow you must tell me about your

mother. Sit down, and don't lose any more time. Your grandmother

will miss you. And then what would come of it?'

Thus was this rough diamond of a Scotch boy, rude in speech, but

full of delicate thought, gathered under the modelling influences of

the finished, refined, tender, sweet-tongued, and sweet-thoughted

Englishwoman, who, if she had been less of a woman, would have been

repelled by his uncouthness; if she had been less of a lady, would

have mistaken his commonness for vulgarity. But she was just, like

the type of womankind, a virgin-mother. She saw the nobility of his

nature through its homely garments, and had been, indeed, sent to

carry on the work from which his mother had been too early taken

away.

'There's jist ae thing mem, that vexes me a wee, an' I dinna ken

what to think aboot it,' said Robert, as Miss St. John was leaving

the room. 'Maybe ye cud bide ae minute till I tell ye.'

'Yes, I can. What is it?'

'I'm nearhan' sure that whan I lea' the parlour, grannie 'ill think

I'm awa' to my prayers; and sae she'll think better o' me nor I

deserve. An' I canna bide that.'

'What should make you suppose that she will think so?'

'Fowk kens what ane anither's aboot, ye ken, mem.'

'Then she'll know you are not at your prayers.'

'Na. For sometimes I div gang to my prayers for a whilie like, but

nae for lang, for I'm nae like ane o' them 'at he wad care to hear

sayin' a lang screed o' a prayer till 'im. I hae but ae thing to

pray aboot.'

'And what's that, Robert?'

One of his silences had seized him. He looked confused, and turned

away.

'Never mind,' said Miss St. John, anxious to relieve him, and

establish a comfortable relation between them; 'you will tell me

another time.'

'I doobt no, mem,' answered Robert, with what most people would

think an excess of honesty.

But Miss St. John made a better conjecture as to his apparent

closeness.

'At all events,' she said, 'don't mind what your grannie may think,

so long as you have no wish to make her think it. Good-night.'

Had she been indeed an angel from heaven, Robert could not have

worshipped her more. And why should he? Was she less God's

messenger that she had beautiful arms instead of less beautiful

wings?

He practised his scales till his unaccustomed fingers were stiff,

then shut the piano with reverence, and departed, carefully peeping

into the disenchanted region without the gates to see that no enemy

lay in wait for him as he passed beyond them. He closed the door

gently; and in one moment the rich lovely room and the beautiful

lady were behind him, and before him the bare stair between two

white-washed walls, and the long flagged transe that led to his

silent grandmother seated in her arm-chair, gazing into the red

coals--for somehow grannie's fire always glowed, and never

blazed--with her round-toed shoes pointed at them from the top of

her little wooden stool. He traversed the stair and the transe,

entered the parlour, and sat down to his open book as though nothing

had happened. But his grandmother saw the light in his face, and

did think he had just come from his prayers. And she blessed God

that he had put it into her heart to burn the fiddle.

The next night Robert took with him the miniature of his mother, and

showed it to Miss St. John, who saw at once that, whatever might be

his present surroundings, his mother must have been a lady. A

certain fancied resemblance in it to her own mother likewise drew

her heart to the boy. Then Robert took from his pocket the gold

thimble, and said,

'This thimmel was my mamma's. Will ye tak it, mem, for ye ken it's

o' nae use to me.'

Miss St. John hesitated for a moment.

'I will keep it for you, if you like,' she said, for she could not

bear to refuse it.

'Na, mem; I want ye to keep it to yersel'; for I'm sure my mamma wad

hae likit you to hae 't better nor ony ither body.'

'Well, I will use it sometimes for your sake. But mind, I will not

take it from you; I will only keep it for you.'

'Weel, weel, mem; gin ye'll keep it till I speir for 't, that'll du

weel eneuch,' answered Robert, with a smile.

He laboured diligently; and his progress corresponded to his labour.

It was more than intellect that guided him: Falconer had genius for

whatever he cared for.

Meantime the love he bore his teacher, and the influence of her

beauty, began to mould him, in his kind and degree, after her

likeness, so that he grew nice in his person and dress, and smoothed

the roughness and moderated the broadness of his speech with the

amenities of the English which she made so sweet upon her tongue.

He became still more obedient to his grandmother, and more diligent

at school; gathered to himself golden opinions without knowing it,

and was gradually developing into a rustic gentleman.

Nor did the piano absorb all his faculties. Every divine influence

tends to the rounded perfection of the whole. His love of Nature

grew more rapidly. Hitherto it was only in summer that he had felt

the presence of a power in her and yet above her: in winter, now,

the sky was true and deep, though the world was waste and sad; and

the tones of the wind that roared at night about the goddess-haunted

house, and moaned in the chimneys of the lowly dwelling that nestled

against it, woke harmonies within him which already he tried to

spell out falteringly. Miss St. John began to find that he put

expressions of his own into the simple things she gave him to play,

and even dreamed a little at his own will when alone with the

passive instrument. Little did Mrs. Falconer think into what a

seventh heaven of accursed music she had driven her boy.

But not yet did he tell his friend, much as he loved and much as he

trusted her, the little he knew of his mother's sorrows and his

father's sins, or whose the hand that had struck him when she found

him lying in the waste factory.

For a time almost all his trouble about God went from him. Nor do I

think that this was only because he rarely thought of him at all:

God gave him of himself in Miss St. John. But words dropped now and

then from off the shelves where his old difficulties lay, and they

fell like seeds upon the heart of Miss St. John, took root, and rose

in thoughts: in the heart of a true woman the talk of a child even

will take life.

One evening Robert rose from the table, not unwatched of his

grandmother, and sped swiftly and silently through the dark, as was

his custom, to enter the chamber of enchantment. Never before had

his hand failed to alight, sure as a lark on its nest, upon the

brass handle of the door that admitted him to his paradise. It

missed it now, and fell on something damp, and rough, and repellent

instead. Horrible, but true suspicion! While he was at school that

day, his grandmother, moved by what doubt or by what certainty she

never revealed, had had the doorway walled up. He felt the place

all over. It was to his hands the living tomb of his mother's vicar

on earth.

He returned to his book, pale as death, but said never a word. The

next day the stones were plastered over.

Thus the door of bliss vanished from the earth. And neither the boy

nor his grandmother ever said that it had been.

PART II.--HIS YOUTH.

CHAPTER I.

ROBERT KNOCKS--AND THE DOOR IS NOT OPENED.

The remainder of that winter was dreary indeed. Every time Robert

went up the stair to his garret, he passed the door of a tomb. With

that gray mortar Mary St. John was walled up, like the nun he had

read of in the Marmion she had lent him. He might have rung the

bell at the street door, and been admitted into the temple of his

goddess, but a certain vague terror of his grannie, combined with

equally vague qualms of conscience for having deceived her, and the

approach in the far distance of a ghastly suspicion that violins,

pianos, moonlight, and lovely women were distasteful to the

over-ruling Fate, and obnoxious to the vengeance stored in the gray

cloud of his providence, drove him from the awful entrance of the

temple of his Isis.

Nor did Miss St. John dare to make any advances to the dreadful old

lady. She would wait. For Mrs. Forsyth, she cared nothing about

the whole affair. It only gave her fresh opportunity for smiling

condescensions about 'poor Mrs. Falconer.' So Paradise was over and

gone.

But though the loss of Miss St. John and the piano was the last

blow, his sorrow did not rest there, but returned to brood over his

bonny lady. She was scattered to the winds. Would any of her ashes

ever rise in the corn, and moan in the ripening wind of autumn?

Might not some atoms of the bonny leddy creep into the pines on the

hill, whose 'soft and soul-like sounds' had taught him to play the

Flowers of the Forest on those strings which, like the nerves of an

amputated limb, yet thrilled through his being? Or might not some

particle find its way by winds and waters to sycamore forest of

Italy, there creep up through the channels of its life to some

finely-rounded curve of noble tree, on the side that ever looks

sunwards, and be chosen once again by the violin-hunter, to be

wrought into a new and fame-gathering instrument?

Could it be that his bonny lady had learned her wondrous music in

those forests, from the shine of the sun, and the sighing of the

winds through the sycamores and pines? For Robert knew that the

broad-leaved sycamore, and the sharp, needle-leaved pine, had each

its share in the violin. Only as the wild innocence of human

nature, uncorrupted by wrong, untaught by suffering, is to that

nature struggling out of darkness into light, such and so different

is the living wood, with its sweetest tones of obedient impulse,

answering only to the wind which bloweth where it listeth, to that

wood, chosen, separated, individualized, tortured into strange,

almost vital shape, after a law to us nearly unknown, strung with

strings from animal organizations, and put into the hands of man to

utter the feelings of a soul that has passed through a like history.

This Robert could not yet think, and had to grow able to think it

by being himself made an instrument of God's music.

What he could think was that the glorious mystery of his bonny leddy

was gone for ever--and alas! she had no soul. Here was an eternal

sorrow. He could never meet her again. His affections, which must

live for ever, were set upon that which had passed away. But the

child that weeps because his mutilated doll will not rise from the

dead, shall yet find relief from his sorrow, a true relief, both

human and divine. He shall know that that which in the doll made

him love the doll, has not passed away. And Robert must yet be

comforted for the loss of his bonny leddy. If she had had a soul,

nothing but her own self could ever satisfy him. As she had no

soul, another body might take her place, nor occasion reproach of

inconstancy.

But, in the meantime, the shears of Fate having cut the string of

the sky-soaring kite of his imagination, had left him with the stick

in his hand. And thus the rest of that winter was dreary enough.

The glow was out of his heart; the glow was out of the world. The

bleak, kindless wind was hissing through those pines that clothed

the hill above Bodyfauld, and over the dead garden, where in the

summer time the rose had looked down so lovingly on the heartsease.

If he had stood once more at gloaming in that barley-stubble, not

even the wail of Flodden-field would have found him there, but a

keen sense of personal misery and hopeless cold. Was the summer a

lie?

Not so. The winter restrains, that the summer may have the needful

time to do its work well; for the winter is but the sleep of summer.

Now in the winter of his discontent, and in Nature finding no help,

Robert was driven inwards--into his garret, into his soul. There,

the door of his paradise being walled up, he began, vaguely,

blindly, to knock against other doors--sometimes against stone-walls

and rocks, taking them for doors--as travel-worn, and hence

brain-sick men have done in a desert of mountains. A door, out or

in, he must find, or perish.

It fell, too, that Miss St. John went to visit some friends who

lived in a coast town twenty miles off; and a season of heavy snow

followed by frost setting in, she was absent for six weeks, during

which time, without a single care to trouble him from without,

Robert was in the very desert of desolation. His spirits sank

fearfully. He would pass his old music-master in the street with

scarce a recognition, as if the bond of their relation had been

utterly broken, had vanished in the smoke of the martyred violin,

and all their affection had gone into the dust-heap of the past.

Dooble Sanny's character did not improve. He took more and more

whisky, his bouts of drinking alternating as before with fits of

hopeless repentance. His work was more neglected than ever, and his

wife having no money to spend even upon necessaries, applied in

desperation to her husband's bottle for comfort. This comfort, to

do him justice, he never grudged her; and sometimes before midday

they would both be drunk--a condition expedited by the lack of food.

When they began to recover, they would quarrel fiercely; and at

last they became a nuisance to the whole street. Little did the

whisky-hating old lady know to what god she had really offered up

that violin--if the consequences of the holocaust can be admitted as

indicating the power which had accepted it.

But now began to appear in Robert the first signs of a practical

outcome of such truth as his grandmother had taught him, operating

upon the necessities of a simple and earnest nature. Reality,

however lapt in vanity, or even in falsehood, cannot lose its power.

It is--the other is not. She had taught him to look up--that there

was a God. He would put it to the test. Not that he doubted it yet:

he only doubted whether there was a hearing God. But was not that

worse? It was, I think. For it is of far more consequence what

kind of a God, than whether a God or no. Let not my reader suppose

I think it possible there could be other than a perfect

God--perfect--even to the vision of his creatures, the faith that

supplies the lack of vision being yet faithful to that vision. I

speak from Robert's point of outlook. But, indeed, whether better

or worse is no great matter, so long as he would see it or what

there was. He had no comfort, and, without reasoning about it, he

felt that life ought to have comfort--from which point he began to

conclude that the only thing left was to try whether the God in whom

his grandmother believed might not help him. If the God would but

hear him, it was all he had yet learned to require of his Godhood.

And that must ever be the first thing to require. More demands

would come, and greater answers he would find. But now--if God

would but hear him! If he spoke to him but one kind word, it would

be the very soul of comfort; he could no more be lonely. A fountain

of glad imaginations gushed up in his heart at the thought. What

if, from the cold winter of his life, he had but to open the door of

his garret-room, and, kneeling by the bare bedstead, enter into the

summer of God's presence! What if God spoke to him face to face!

He had so spoken to Moses. He sought him from no fear of the

future, but from present desolation; and if God came near to him, it

would not be with storm and tempest, but with the voice of a friend.

And surely, if there was a God at all, that is, not a power greater

than man, but a power by whose power man was, he must hear the voice

of the creature whom he had made, a voice that came crying out of

the very need which he had created. Younger people than Robert are

capable of such divine metaphysics. Hence he continued to disappear

from his grandmother's parlour at much the same hour as before. In

the cold, desolate garret, he knelt and cried out into that which

lay beyond the thought that cried, the unknowable infinite, after

the God that may be known as surely as a little child knows his

mysterious mother. And from behind him, the pale-blue, star-crowded

sky shone upon his head, through the window that looked upwards

only.

Mrs. Falconer saw that he still went away as he had been wont, and

instituted observations, the result of which was the knowledge that

he went to his own room. Her heart smote her, and she saw that the

boy looked sad and troubled. There was scarce room in her heart for

increase of love, but much for increase of kindness, and she did

increase it. In truth, he needed the smallest crumb of comfort that

might drop from the table of God's 'feastful friends.'

Night after night he returned to the parlour cold to the very heart.

God was not to be found, he said then. He said afterwards that

even then 'God was with him though he knew it not.'

For the very first night, the moment that he knelt and cried, 'O

Father in heaven, hear me, and let thy face shine upon me'--like a

flash of burning fire the words shot from the door of his heart: 'I

dinna care for him to love me, gin he doesna love ilka body;' and no

more prayer went from the desolate boy that night, although he knelt

an hour of agony in the freezing dark. Loyal to what he had been

taught, he struggled hard to reduce his rebellious will to what he

supposed to be the will of God. It was all in vain. Ever a voice

within him--surely the voice of that God who he thought was not

hearing--told him that what he wanted was the love belonging to his

human nature, his human needs--not the preference of a

court-favourite. He had a dim consciousness that he would be a

traitor to his race if he accepted a love, even from God, given him

as an exception from his kind. But he did not care to have such a

love. It was not what his heart yearned for. It was not love. He

could not love such a love. Yet he strove against it all--fought

for religion against right as he could; struggled to reduce his

rebellious feelings, to love that which was unlovely, to choose that

which was abhorrent, until nature almost gave way under the effort.

Often would he sink moaning on the floor, or stretch himself like a

corpse, save that it was face downwards, on the boards of the

bedstead. Night after night he returned to the battle, but with no

permanent success. What a success that would have been! Night

after night he came pale and worn from the conflict, found his

grandmother and Shargar composed, and in the quietness of despair

sat down beside them to his Latin version.

He little thought, that every night, at the moment when he stirred

to leave the upper room, a pale-faced, red-eyed figure rose from its

seat on the top of the stair by the door, and sped with long-legged

noiselessness to resume its seat by the grandmother before he should

enter. Shargar saw that Robert was unhappy, and the nearest he

could come to the sharing of his unhappiness was to take his place

outside the door within which he had retreated. Little, too, did

Shargar, on his part, think that Robert, without knowing it, was

pleading for him inside--pleading for him and for all his race in

the weeping that would not be comforted.

Robert had not the vaguest fancy that God was with him--the spirit

of the Father groaning with the spirit of the boy in intercession

that could not be uttered. If God had come to him then and

comforted him with the assurance of individual favour--but the very

supposition is a taking of his name in vain--had Robert found

comfort in the fancied assurance that God was his friend in

especial, that some private favour was granted to his prayers, that,

indeed, would have been to be left to his own inventions, to bring

forth not fruits meet for repentance, but fruits for which

repentance alone is meet. But God was with him, and was indeed

victorious in the boy when he rose from his knees, for the last

time, as he thought, saying, 'I cannot yield--I will pray no

more.'--With a burst of bitter tears he sat down on the bedside till

the loudest of the storm was over, then dried his dull eyes, in

which the old outlook had withered away, and trod unknowingly in the

silent footsteps of Shargar, who was ever one corner in advance of

him, down to the dreary lessons and unheeded prayers; but, thank

God, not to the sleepless night, for some griefs bring sleep the

sooner.

My reader must not mistake my use of the words especial and private,

or suppose that I do not believe in an individual relation between

every man and God, yes, a peculiar relation, differing from the

relation between every other man and God! But this very

individuality and peculiarity can only be founded on the broadest

truths of the Godhood and the manhood.

Mrs. Falconer, ere she went to sleep, gave thanks that the boys had

been at their prayers together. And so, in a very deep sense, they

had.

And well they might have been; for Shargar was nearly as desolate as

Robert, and would certainly, had his mother claimed him now, have

gone on the tramp with her again. Wherein could this civilized life

show itself to him better than that to which he had been born? For

clothing he cared little, and he had always managed to kill his

hunger or thirst, if at longer intervals, then with greater

satisfaction. Wherein is the life of that man who merely does his

eating and drinking and clothing after a civilized fashion better

than that of the gipsy or tramp? If the civilized man is honest to

boot, and gives good work in return for the bread or turtle on which

he dines, and the gipsy, on the other hand, steals his dinner, I

recognize the importance of the difference; but if the rich man

plunders the community by exorbitant profits, or speculation with

other people's money, while the gipsy adds a fowl or two to the

produce of his tinkering; or, once again, if the gipsy is as honest

as the honest citizen, which is not so rare a case by any means as

people imagine, I return to my question: Wherein, I say, is the warm

house, the windows hung with purple, and the table covered with fine

linen, more divine than the tent or the blue sky, and the dipping in

the dish? Why should not Shargar prefer a life with the mother God

had given him to a life with Mrs. Falconer? Why should he prefer

geography to rambling, or Latin to Romany? His purposelessness and

his love for Robert alone kept him where he was.

The next evening, having given up his praying, Robert sat with his

Sallust before him. But the fount of tears began to swell, and the

more he tried to keep it down, the more it went on swelling till his

throat was filled with a lump of pain. He rose and left the room.

But he could not go near the garret. That door too was closed. He

opened the house door instead, and went out into the street. There,

nothing was to be seen but faint blue air full of moonlight, solid

houses, and shining snow. Bareheaded he wandered round the corner

of the house to the window whence first he had heard the sweet

sounds of the pianoforte. The fire within lighted up the crimson

curtains, but no voice of music came forth. The window was as dumb

as the pale, faintly befogged moon overhead, itself seeming but a

skylight through which shone the sickly light of the passionless

world of the dead. Not a form was in the street. The eyes of the

houses gleamed here and there upon the snow. He leaned his elbow on

the window-sill behind which stood that sealed fountain of lovely

sound, looked up at the moon, careless of her or of aught else in

heaven or on earth, and sunk into a reverie, in which nothing was

consciously present but a stream of fog-smoke that flowed slowly,

listlessly across the face of the moon, like the ghost of a dead

cataract. All at once a wailful sound arose in his head. He did

not think for some time whether it was born in his brain, or entered

it from without. At length he recognized the Flowers of the Forest,

played as only the soutar could play it. But alas! the cry

responsive to his bow came only from the auld wife--no more from the

bonny leddy! Then he remembered that there had been a humble

wedding that morning on the opposite side of the way; in the street

department of the jollity of which Shargar had taken a small share

by firing a brass cannon, subsequently confiscated by Mrs. Falconer.

But this was a strange tune to play at a wedding! The soutar

half-way to his goal of drunkenness, had begun to repent for the

fiftieth time that year, had with his repentance mingled the memory

of the bonny leddy ruthlessly tortured to death for his wrong, and

had glided from a strathspey into that sorrowful moaning. The

lament interpreted itself to his disconsolate pupil as he had never

understood it before, not even in the stubble-field; for it now

spoke his own feelings of waste misery, forsaken loneliness. Indeed

Robert learned more of music in those few minutes of the foggy

winter night and open street, shut out of all doors, with the tones

of an ancient grief and lamentation floating through the blotted

moonlight over his ever-present sorrow, than he could have learned

from many lessons even of Miss St. John. He was cold to the heart,

yet went in a little comforted.

Things had gone ill with him. Outside of Paradise, deserted of his

angel, in the frost and the snow, the voice of the despised violin

once more the source of a sad comfort! But there is no better

discipline than an occasional descent from what we count well-being,

to a former despised or less happy condition. One of the results of

this taste of damnation in Robert was, that when he was in bed that

night, his heart began to turn gently towards his old master. How

much did he not owe him, after all! Had he not acted ill and

ungratefully in deserting him? His own vessel filled to the brim

with grief, had he not let the waters of its bitterness overflow

into the heart of the soutar? The wail of that violin echoed now in

Robert's heart, not for Flodden, not for himself, but for the

debased nature that drew forth the plaint. Comrades in misery, why

should they part? What right had he to forsake an old friend and

benefactor because he himself was unhappy? He would go and see him

the very next night. And he would make friends once more with the

much 'suffering instrument' he had so wrongfully despised.

CHAPTER II.

THE STROKE.

The following night, he left his books on the table, and the house

itself behind him, and sped like a grayhound to Dooble Sanny's shop,

lifted the latch, and entered.

By the light of a single dip set on a chair, he saw the shoemaker

seated on his stool, one hand lying on the lap of his leathern

apron, his other hand hanging down by his side, and the fiddle on

the ground at his feet. His wife stood behind him, wiping her eyes

with her blue apron. Through all its accumulated dirt, the face of

the soutar looked ghastly, and they were eyes of despair that he

lifted to the face of the youth as he stood holding the latch in his

hand. Mrs. Alexander moved towards Robert, drew him in, and gently

closed the door behind him, resuming her station like a sculptured

mourner behind her motionless husband.

'What on airth's the maitter wi' ye, Sandy?' said Robert.

'Eh, Robert!' returned the shoemaker, and a tone of affection tinged

the mournfulness with which he uttered the strange words--'eh,

Robert! the Almichty will gang his ain gait, and I'm in his grup

noo.'

'He's had a stroke,' said his wife, without removing her apron from

her eyes.

'I hae gotten my pecks (blows),' resumed the soutar, in a despairing

voice, which gave yet more effect to the fantastic eccentricity of

conscience which from the midst of so many grave faults chose such a

one as especially bringing the divine displeasure upon him: 'I hae

gotten my pecks for cryin' doon my ain auld wife to set up your

bonny leddy. The tane's gane a' to aise an' stew (ashes and dust),

an' frae the tither,' he went on, looking down on the violin at his

feet as if it had been something dead in its youth--'an' frae the

tither I canna draw a cheep, for my richt han' has forgotten her

cunnin' Man, Robert, I canna lift it frae my side.'

'Ye maun gang to yer bed,' said Robert, greatly concerned.

'Ow, ay, I maun gang to my bed, and syne to the kirkyaird, and syne

to hell, I ken that weel eneuch. Robert, I lea my fiddle to you.

Be guid to the auld wife, man--better nor I hae been. An auld

wife's better nor nae fiddle.'

He stooped, lifted the violin with his left hand, gave it to Robert,

rose, and made for the door. They helped him up the creaking stair,

got him half-undressed, and laid him in his bed. Robert put the

violin on the top of a press within sight of the sufferer, left him

groaning, and ran for the doctor. Having seen him set out for the

patient's dwelling, he ran home to his grandmother.

Now while Robert was absent, occasion had arisen to look for him:

unusual occurrence, a visitor had appeared, no less a person than

Mr. Innes, the school-master. Shargar had been banished in

consequence from the parlour, and had seated himself outside

Robert's room, never doubting that Robert was inside. Presently he

heard the bell ring, and then Betty came up the stair, and said

Robert was wanted. Thereupon Shargar knocked at the door, and as

there was neither voice nor hearing, opened it, and found, with a

well-known horror, that he had been watching an empty room. He made

no haste to communicate the fact. Robert might return in a moment,

and his absence from the house not be discovered. He sat down on

the bedstead and waited. But Betty came up again, and before

Shargar could prevent her, walked into the room with her candle in

her hand. In vain did Shargar intreat her to go and say that Robert

was coming. Betty would not risk the danger of discovery in

connivance, and descended to open afresh the fountain of the old

lady's anxiety. She did not, however, betray her disquietude to Mr.

Innes.

She had asked the school-master to visit her, in order that she

might consult him about Robert's future. Mr. Innes expressed a high

opinion of the boy's faculties and attainments, and strongly urged

that he should be sent to college. Mrs. Falconer inwardly shuddered

at the temptations to which this course would expose him; but he

must leave home or be apprentice to some trade. She would have

chosen the latter, I believe, but for religion towards the boy's

parents, who would never have thought of other than a profession for

him. While the school-master was dwelling on the argument that he

was pretty sure to gain a good bursary, and she would thus be

relieved for four years, probably for ever, from further expense on

his account, Robert entered.

'Whaur hae ye been, Robert?' asked Mrs. Falconer.

'At Dooble Sanny's,' answered the boy.

'What hae ye been at there?'

'Helpin' him till 's bed.'

'What's come ower him?'

'A stroke.'

'That's what comes o' playin' the fiddle.'

'I never heard o' a stroke comin' frae a fiddle, grannie. It comes

oot o' a clood whiles. Gin he had hauden till 's fiddle, he wad hae

been playin' her the nicht, in place o' 's airm lyin' at 's side

like a lang lingel (ligneul--shoemaker's thread).'

'Hm!' said his grandmother, concealing her indignation at this

freedom of speech, 'ye dinna believe in God's judgments!'

'Nae upo' fiddles,' returned Robert.

Mr. Innes sat and said nothing, with difficulty concealing his

amusement at this passage of arms.

It was but within the last few days that Robert had become capable

of speaking thus. His nature had at length arrived at the point of

so far casting off the incubus of his grandmother's authority as to

assert some measure of freedom and act openly. His very

hopelessness of a hearing in heaven had made him indifferent to

things on earth, and therefore bolder. Thus, strange as it may

seem, the blessing of God descended on him in the despair which

enabled him to speak out and free his soul from the weight of

concealment. But it was not despair alone that gave him strength.

On his way home from the shoemaker's he had been thinking what he

could do for him; and had resolved, come of it what might, that he

would visit him every evening, and try whether he could not comfort

him a little by playing upon his violin. So that it was

loving-kindness towards man, as well as despair towards God, that

gave him strength to resolve that between him and his grandmother

all should be above-board from henceforth.

'Nae upo' fiddles,' Robert had said.

'But upo' them 'at plays them,' returned his grandmother.

'Na; nor upo' them 'at burns them,' retorted Robert--impudently it

must be confessed; for every man is open to commit the fault of

which he is least capable.

But Mrs. Falconer had too much regard to her own dignity to indulge

her feelings. Possibly too her sense of justice, which Falconer

always said was stronger than that of any other woman he had ever

known, as well as some movement of her conscience interfered. She

was silent, and Robert rushed into the breach which his last

discharge had effected.

'An' I want to tell ye, grannie, that I mean to gang an' play the

fiddle to puir Sanny ilka nicht for the best pairt o' an hoor; an'

excep' ye lock the door an' hide the key, I will gang. The puir

sinner sanna be desertit by God an' man baith.'

He scarcely knew what he was saying before it was out of his mouth;

and as if to cover it up, he hurried on.

'An' there's mair in 't.--Dr. Anderson gae Shargar an' me a

sovereign the piece. An' Dooble Sanny s' hae them, to haud him ohn

deid o' hunger an' cauld.'

'What for didna ye tell me 'at Dr. Anderson had gien ye sic a sicht

o' siller? It was ill-faured o' ye--an' him as weel.'

''Cause ye wad hae sent it back till 'im; an' Shargar and me we

thocht we wad raither keep it.'

'Considerin' 'at I'm at sae muckle expense wi' ye baith, it wadna

hae been ill-contrived to hae brocht the siller to me, an' latten me

du wi' 't as I thocht fit.--Gang na awa', laddie,' she added, as she

saw Robert about to leave the room.

'I'll be back in a minute, grannie,' returned Robert.

'He's a fine lad, that!' said Mr. Innes; 'an' guid 'll come o' 'm,

and that 'll be heard tell o'.'

'Gin he had but the grace o' God, there wadna be muckle to compleen

o',' acquiesced his grandmother.

'There's time eneuch for that, Mrs. Faukner. Ye canna get auld

heids upo' young shoothers, ye ken.'

''Deed for that maitter, ye may get mony an auld heid upo' auld

shoothers, and nae a spark o' grace in 't to lat it see hoo to lay

itsel' doon i' the grave.'

Robert returned before Mr. Innes had made up his mind as to whether

the old lady intended a personal rebuke.

'Hae, grannie,' he said, going up to her, and putting the two

sovereigns in her white palm.

He had found some difficulty in making Shargar give up his, else he

would have returned sooner.

'What's this o' 't, laddie?' said Mrs. Falconer. 'Hoots! I'm nae

gaein' to tak yer siller. Lat the puir soutar-craturs hae 't. But

dinna gie them mair nor a shillin' or twa at ance--jist to haud them

in life. They deserve nae mair. But they maunna sterve. And jist

ye tell them, laddie, at gin they spen' ae saxpence o' 't upo'

whusky, they s' get nae mair.'

'Ay, ay, grannie,' responded Robert, with a glimmer of gladness in

his heart. 'And what aboot the fiddlin', grannie?' he added, half

playfully, hoping for some kind concession therein as well.

But he had gone too far. She vouchsafed no reply, and her face grew

stern with offence. It was one thing to give bread to eat, another

to give music and gladness. No music but that which sprung from

effectual calling and the perseverance of the saints could be lawful

in a world that was under the wrath and curse of God. Robert waited

in vain for a reply.

'Gang yer wa's,' she said at length. 'Mr. Innes and me has some

business to mak an en' o', an' we want nae assistance.'

Robert rejoined Shargar, who was still bemoaning the loss of his

sovereign. His face brightened when he saw its well-known yellow

shine once more, but darkened again as soon as Robert told him to

what service it was now devoted.

'It's my ain,' he said, with a suppressed expostulatory growl.

Robert threw the coin on the floor.

'Tak yer filthy lucre!' he exclaimed with contempt, and turned to

leave Shargar alone in the garret with his sovereign.

'Bob!' Shargar almost screamed, 'tak it, or I'll cut my throat.'

This was his constant threat when he was thoroughly in earnest.

'Cut it, an' hae dune wi' 't,' said Robert cruelly.

Shargar burst out crying.

'Len' me yer knife, than, Bob,' he sobbed, holding out his hand.

Robert burst into a roar of laughter, caught up the sovereign from

the floor, sped with it to the baker's, who refused to change it

because he had no knowledge of anything representing the sum of

twenty shillings except a pound-note, succeeded in getting silver

for it at the bank, and then ran to the soutar's.

After he left the parlour, the discussion of his fate was resumed

and finally settled between his grandmother and the school-master.

The former, in regard of the boy's determination to befriend the

shoemaker in the matter of music as well as of money, would now have

sent him at once to the grammar-school in Old Aberdeen, to prepare

for the competition in the month of November; but the latter

persuaded her that if the boy gave his whole attention to Latin till

the next summer, and then went to the grammar-school for three

months or so, he would have an excellent chance of success. As to

the violin, the school-master said, wisely enough:

'He that will to Cupar maun to Cupar; and gin ye kep (intercept) him

upo' the shore-road, he'll tak to the hill-road; an' I s' warran' a

braw lad like Robert 'll get mony a ane in Ebberdeen 'll be ready

eneuch to gie him a lift wi' the fiddle, and maybe tak him into waur

company nor the puir bed-ridden soutar; an' wi' you an' me to hing

on to the tail o' 'im like, he canna gang ower the scar (cliff)

afore he learns wit.'

'Hm!' was the old lady's comprehensive response.

It was further arranged that Robert should be informed of their

conclusion, and so roused to effort in anticipation of the trial

upon which his course in life must depend.

Nothing could have been better for Robert than the prospect of a

college education. But his first thought at the news was not of the

delights of learning nor of the honourable course that would ensue,

but of Eric Ericson, the poverty-stricken, friendless descendant of

yarls and sea-rovers. He would see him--the only man that

understood him! Not until the passion of this thought had abated,

did he begin to perceive the other advantages before him. But so

practical and thorough was he in all his proposals and means, that

ere half-an-hour was gone, he had begun to go over his Rudiments

again. He now wrote a version, or translation from English into

Latin, five times a week, and read Caeser, Virgil, or Tacitus, every

day. He gained permission from his grandmother to remove his bed to

his own garret, and there, from the bedstead at which he no longer

kneeled, he would often rise at four in the morning, even when the

snow lay a foot thick on the skylight, kindle his lamp by means of a

tinder-box and a splinter of wood dipped in sulphur, and sitting

down in the keen cold, turn half a page of Addison into something as

near Ciceronian Latin as he could effect. This would take him from

an hour and a half to two hours, when he would tumble again into

bed, blue and stiff, and sleep till it was time to get up and go to

the morning school before breakfast. His health was excellent, else

it could never have stood such treatment.

CHAPTER III.

'THE END CROWNS ALL'.

His sole relaxation almost lay in the visit he paid every evening to

the soutar and his wife. Their home was a wretched place; but

notwithstanding the poverty in which they were now sunk, Robert soon

began to see a change, like the dawning of light, an alba, as the

Italians call the dawn, in the appearance of something white here

and there about the room. Robert's visits had set the poor woman

trying to make the place look decent. It soon became at least

clean, and there is a very real sense in which cleanliness is next

to godliness. If the people who want to do good among the poor

would give up patronizing them, would cease from trying to convert

them before they have gained the smallest personal influence with

them, would visit them as those who have just as good a right to be

here as they have, it would be all the better for both, perhaps

chiefly for themselves.

For the first week or so, Alexander, unable either to work or play,

and deprived of his usual consolation of drink, was very testy and

unmanageable. If Robert, who strove to do his best, in the hope of

alleviating the poor fellow's sufferings--chiefly those of the

mind--happened to mistake the time or to draw a false note from the

violin, Sandy would swear as if he had been the Grand Turk and

Robert one of his slaves. But Robert was too vexed with himself,

when he gave occasion to such an outburst, to mind the outburst

itself. And invariably when such had taken place, the shoemaker

would ask forgiveness before he went. Holding out his left hand,

from which nothing could efface the stains of rosin and lamp-black

and heel-ball, save the sweet cleansing of mother-earth, he would

say,

'Robert, ye'll jist pit the sweirin' doon wi' the lave (rest), an'

score 't oot a'thegither. I'm an ill-tongued vratch, an' I'm

beginnin' to see 't. But, man, ye're jist behavin' to me like God

himsel', an' gin it warna for you, I wad jist lie here roarin' an'

greitin' an' damnin' frae mornin' to nicht.--Ye will be in the

morn's night--willna ye?' he would always end by asking with some

anxiety.

'Of coorse I will,' Robert would answer.

'Gude nicht, than, gude nicht.--I'll try and get a sicht o' my sins

ance mair,' he added, one evening. 'Gin I could only be a wee bit

sorry for them, I reckon he wad forgie me. Dinna ye think he wad,

Robert?'

'Nae doobt, nae doobt,' answered Robert hurriedly. 'They a' say 'at

gin a man repents the richt gait, he'll forgie him.'

He could not say more than 'They say,' for his own horizon was all

dark, and even in saying this much he felt like a hypocrite. A

terrible waste, heaped thick with the potsherds of hope, lay outside

that door of prayer which he had, as he thought, nailed up for ever.

'An' what is the richt gait?' asked the soutar.

''Deed, that's mair nor I ken, Sandy,' answered Robert mournfully.

'Weel, gin ye dinna ken, what's to come o' me?' said Alexander

anxiously.

'Ye maun speir at himsel',' returned Robert, 'an' jist tell him 'at

ye dinna ken, but ye'll do onything 'at he likes.'

With these words he took his leave hurriedly, somewhat amazed to

find that he had given the soutar the strange advice to try just

what he had tried so unavailingly himself. And stranger still, he

found himself, before he reached home, praying once more in his

heart--both for Dooble Sanny and for himself. From that hour a

faint hope was within him that some day he might try again, though

he dared not yet encounter such effort and agony.

All this time he had never doubted that there was God; nor had he

ventured to say within himself that perhaps God was not good; he had

simply come to the conclusion that for him there was no approach to

the fountain of his being.

In the course of a fortnight or so, when his system had covered over

its craving after whisky, the irritability of the shoemaker almost

vanished. It might have been feared that his conscience would then

likewise relax its activity; but it was not so: it grew yet more

tender. He now began to give Robert some praise, and make

allowances for his faults, and Robert dared more in consequence, and

played with more spirit. I do not say that his style could have

grown fine under such a master, but at least he learned the

difference between slovenliness and accuracy, and between accuracy

and expression, which last is all of original that the best mere

performer can claim.

One evening he was scraping away at Tullochgorum when Mr. Maccleary

walked in. Robert ceased. The minister gave him one searching

glance, and sat down by the bedside. Robert would have left the

room.

'Dinna gang, Robert,' said Sandy, and Robert remained.

The clergyman talked very faithfully as far as the shoemaker was

concerned; though whether he was equally faithful towards God might

be questioned. He was one of those prudent men, who are afraid of

dealing out the truth freely lest it should fall on thorns or stony

places. Hence of course the good ground came in for a scanty share

too. Believing that a certain precise condition of mind was

necessary for its proper reception, he would endeavour to bring

about that condition first. He did not know that the truth makes

its own nest in the ready heart, and that the heart may be ready for

it before the priest can perceive the fact, seeing that the

imposition of hands confers, now-a-days at least, neither love nor

common-sense. He therefore dwelt upon the sins of the soutar,

magnifying them and making them hideous, in the idea that thus he

magnified the law, and made it honourable, while of the special

tenderness of God to the sinner he said not a word. Robert was

offended, he scarcely knew why, with the minister's mode of treating

his friend; and after Mr. Maccleary had taken a far kinder leave of

them than God could approve, if he resembled his representation,

Robert sat still, oppressed with darkness.

'It's a' true,' said the soutar; 'but, man Robert, dinna ye think

the minister was some sair upo' me?'

'I duv think it,' answered Robert.

'Something beirs 't in upo' me 'at he wadna be sae sair upo' me

himsel'. There's something i' the New Testament, some gait, 'at's

pitten 't into my heid; though, faith, I dinna ken whaur to luik for

't. Canna ye help me oot wi' 't, man?'

Robert could think of nothing but the parable of the prodigal son.

Mrs. Alexander got him the New Testament, and he read it. She sat

at the foot of the bed listening.

'There!' cried the soutar, triumphantly, 'I telled ye sae! Not ae

word aboot the puir lad's sins! It was a' a hurry an' a scurry to

get the new shune upo' 'im, an' win at the calfie an' the fiddlin'

an' the dancin'.--O Lord,' he broke out, 'I'm comin' hame as fest 's

I can; but my sins are jist like muckle bauchles (shoes down at

heel) upo' my feet and winna lat me. I expec' nae ring and nae

robe, but I wad fain hae a fiddle i' my grup when the neist prodigal

comes hame; an' gin I dinna fiddle weel, it s' no be my wyte.--Eh,

man! but that is what I ca' gude, an' a' the minister said--honest

man--'s jist blether till 't.--O Lord, I sweir gin ever I win up

again, I'll put in ilka steek (stitch) as gin the shune war for the

feet o' the prodigal himsel'. It sall be gude wark, O Lord. An'

I'll never lat taste o' whusky intil my mou'--nor smell o' whusky

intil my nose, gin sae be 'at I can help it--I sweir 't, O Lord. An'

gin I binna raised up again--'

Here his voice trembled and ceased, and silence endured for a short

minute. Then he called his wife.

'Come here, Bell. Gie me a kiss, my bonny lass. I hae been an ill

man to you.'

'Na, na, Sandy. Ye hae aye been gude to me--better nor I deserved.

Ye hae been naebody's enemy but yer ain.'

'Haud yer tongue. Ye're speykin' waur blethers nor the minister,

honest man! I tell ye I hae been a damned scoon'rel to ye. I haena

even hauden my han's aff o' ye. And eh! ye war a bonny lass whan I

merried ye. I hae blaudit (spoiled) ye a'thegither. But gin I war

up, see gin I wadna gie ye a new goon, an' that wad be something to

make ye like yersel' again. I'm affrontet wi' mysel' 'at I had been

sic a brute o' a man to ye. But ye maun forgie me noo, for I do

believe i' my hert 'at the Lord's forgien me. Gie me anither kiss,

lass. God be praised, and mony thanks to you! Ye micht hae run

awa' frae me lang or noo, an' a'body wad hae said ye did

richt.--Robert, play a spring.'

Absorbed in his own thoughts, Robert began to play The Ewie wi' the

Crookit Horn.

'Hoots! hoots!' cried Sandy angrily. 'What are ye aboot? Nae mair

o' that. I hae dune wi' that. What's i' the heid o' ye, man?'

'What'll I play than, Sandy?' asked Robert meekly.

'Play The Lan' o' the Leal, or My Nannie's awa,', or something o'

that kin'. I'll be leal to ye noo, Bell. An' we winna pree o' the

whusky nae mair, lass.'

'I canna bide the smell o' 't,' cried Bell, sobbing.

Robert struck in with The Lan' o' the Leal. When he had played it

over two or three times, he laid the fiddle in its place, and

departed--able just to see, by the light of the neglected candle,

that Bell sat on the bedside stroking the rosiny hand of her

husband, the rhinoceros-hide of which was yet delicate enough to let

the love through to his heart.

After this the soutar never called his fiddle his auld wife.

Robert walked home with his head sunk on his breast. Dooble Sanny,

the drinking, ranting, swearing soutar, was inside the wicket-gate;

and he was left outside for all his prayers, with the arrows from

the castle of Beelzebub sticking in his back. He would have another

try some day--but not yet--he dared not yet.

Henceforth Robert had more to do in reading the New Testament than

in the fiddle to the soutar, though they never parted without an air

or two. Sandy continued hopeful and generally cheerful, with

alternations which the reading generally fixed on the right side for

the night. Robert never attempted any comments, but left him to

take from the word what nourishment he could. There was no return

of strength to the helpless arm, and his constitution was gradually

yielding.

The rumour got abroad that he was a 'changed character,'--how is not

far to seek, for Mr. Maccleary fancied himself the honoured

instrument of his conversion, whereas paralysis and the New

Testament were the chief agents, and even the violin had more share

in it than the minister. For the spirit of God lies all about the

spirit of man like a mighty sea, ready to rush in at the smallest

chink in the walls that shut him out from his own--walls which even

the tone of a violin afloat on the wind of that spirit is sometimes

enough to rend from battlement to base, as the blast of the rams'

horns rent the walls of Jericho. And now to the day of his death,

the shoemaker had need of nothing. Food, wine, and delicacies were

sent him by many who, while they considered him outside of the

kingdom, would have troubled themselves in no way about him. What

with visits of condolence and flattery, inquiries into his

experience, and long prayers by his bedside, they now did their best

to send him back among the swine. The soutar's humour, however,

aided by his violin, was a strong antidote against these evil

influences.

'I doobt I'm gaein' to dee, Robert,' he said at length one evening

as the lad sat by his bedside.

'Weel, that winna do ye nae ill,' answered Robert, adding with just

a touch of bitterness--'ye needna care aboot that.'

'I do not care aboot the deein' o' 't. But I jist want to live lang

eneuch to lat the Lord ken 'at I'm in doonricht earnest aboot it. I

hae nae chance o' drinkin' as lang's I'm lyin' here.'

'Never ye fash yer heid aboot that. Ye can lippen (trust) that to

him, for it's his ain business. He'll see 'at ye're a' richt.

Dinna ye think 'at he'll lat ye aff.'

'The Lord forbid,' responded the soutar earnestly. 'It maun be a'

pitten richt. It wad be dreidfu' to be latten aff. I wadna hae him

content wi' cobbler's wark.--I hae 't,' he resumed, after a few

minutes' pause; 'the Lord's easy pleased, but ill to saitisfee. I'm

sair pleased wi' your playin', Robert, but it's naething like the

richt thing yet. It does me gude to hear ye, though, for a' that.'

The very next night he found him evidently sinking fast. Robert

took the violin, and was about to play, but the soutar stretched out

his one left hand, and took it from him, laid it across his chest

and his arm over it, for a few moments, as if he were bidding it

farewell, then held it out to Robert, saying,

'Hae, Robert. She's yours.--Death's a sair divorce.--Maybe they 'll

hae an orra3 fiddle whaur I'm gaein', though. Think o' a Rothieden

soutar playin' afore his grace!'

Robert saw that his mind was wandering, and mingled the paltry

honours of earth with the grand simplicities of heaven. He began to

play The Land o' the Leal. For a little while Sandy seemed to follow

and comprehend the tones, but by slow degrees the light departed

from his face. At length his jaw fell, and with a sigh, the body

parted from Dooble Sanny, and he went to God.

His wife closed mouth and eyes without a word, laid the two arms,

equally powerless now, straight by his sides, then seating herself

on the edge of the bed, said,

'Dinna bide, Robert. It's a' ower noo. He's gang hame. Gin I war

only wi' 'im wharever he is!'

She burst into tears, but dried her eyes a moment after, and seeing

that Robert still lingered, said,

'Gang, Robert, an' sen' Mistress Downie to me. Dinna greit--there's

a gude lad; but tak yer fiddle an' gang. Ye can be no more use.'

Robert obeyed. With his violin in his hand, he went home; and, with

his violin still in his hand, walked into his grandmother's parlour.

'Hoo daur ye bring sic a thing into my hoose?' she said, roused by

the apparent defiance of her grandson. 'Hoo daur ye, efter what's

come an' gane?'

''Cause Dooble Sanny's come and gane, grannie, and left naething but

this ahint him. And this ane's mine, whase ever the ither micht be.

His wife's left wi'oot a plack, an' I s' warran' the gude fowk o'

Rothieden winna mak sae muckle o' her noo 'at her man's awa'; for

she never was sic a randy as he was, an' the triumph o' grace in her

's but sma', therefore. Sae I maun mak the best 'at I can o' the

fiddle for her. An' ye maunna touch this ane, grannie; for though

ye way think it richt to burn fiddles, ither fowk disna; and this

has to do wi' ither fowk, grannie; it's no atween you an' me, ye

ken,' Robert went on, fearful lest she might consider herself

divinely commissioned to extirpate the whole race of stringed

instruments,--'for I maun sell 't for her.'

'Tak it oot o' my sicht,' said Mrs. Falconer, and said no more.

He carried the instrument up to his room, laid it on his bed, locked

his door, put the key in his pocket, and descended to the parlour.

'He's deid, is he?' said his grandmother, as he re-entered.

'Ay is he, grannie,' answered Robert. 'He deid a repentant man.'

'An' a believin'?' asked Mrs. Falconer.

'Weel, grannie, I canna say 'at he believed a' thing 'at ever was,

for a body michtna ken a' thing.'

'Toots, laddie! Was 't savin' faith?'

'I dinna richtly ken what ye mean by that; but I'm thinkin' it was

muckle the same kin' o' faith 'at the prodigal had; for they baith

rase an' gaed hame.'

''Deed, maybe ye're richt, laddie,' returned Mrs. Falconer, after a

moment's thought. 'We'll houp the best.'

All the remainder of the evening she sat motionless, with her eyes

fixed on the rug before her, thinking, no doubt, of the repentance

and salvation of the fiddler, and what hope there might yet be for

her own lost son.

The next day being Saturday, Robert set out for Bodyfauld, taking

the violin with him. He went alone, for he was in no mood for

Shargar's company. It was a fine spring day, the woods were

budding, and the fragrance of the larches floated across his way.

There was a lovely sadness in the sky, and in the motions of the

air, and in the scent of the earth--as if they all knew that fine

things were at hand which never could be so beautiful as those that

had gone away. And Robert wondered how it was that everything

should look so different. Even Bodyfauld seemed to have lost its

enchantment, though his friends were as kind as ever. Mr. Lammie

went into a rage at the story of the lost violin, and Miss Lammie

cried from sympathy with Robert's distress at the fate of his bonny

leddy. Then he came to the occasion of his visit, which was to beg

Mr. Lammie, when next he went to Aberdeen, to take the soutar's

fiddle, and get what he could for it, to help his widow.

'Poor Sanny!' said Robert, 'it never cam' intil 's heid to sell her,

nae mair nor gin she had been the auld wife 'at he ca'd her.'

Mr. Lammie undertook the commission; and the next time he saw

Robert, handed him ten pounds as the result of the negotiation. It

was all Robert could do, however, to get the poor woman to take the

money. She looked at it with repugnance, almost as if it had been

the price of blood. But Robert having succeeded in overcoming her

scruples, she did take it, and therewith provide a store of

sweeties, and reels of cotton, and tobacco, for sale in Sanny's

workshop. She certainly did not make money by her merchandise, for

her anxiety to be honest rose to the absurd; but she contrived to

live without being reduced to prey upon her own gingerbread and

rock.

CHAPTER IV.

THE ABERDEEN GARRET.

Miss St. John had long since returned from her visit, but having

heard how much Robert was taken up with his dying friend, she judged

it better to leave her intended proposal of renewing her lessons

alone for the present. Meeting him, however, soon after Alexander's

death, she introduced the subject, and Robert was enraptured at the

prospect of the re-opening of the gates of his paradise. If he did

not inform his grandmother of the fact, neither did he attempt to

conceal it; but she took no notice, thinking probably that the whole

affair would be effectually disposed of by his departure. Till that

period arrived, he had a lesson almost every evening, and Miss St.

John was surprised to find how the boy had grown since the door was

built up. Robert's gratitude grew into a kind of worship.

The evening before his departure for Bodyfauld--whence his

grandmother had arranged that he should start for Aberdeen, in order

that he might have the company of Mr. Lammie, whom business drew

thither about the same time--as he was having his last lesson, Mrs.

Forsyth left the room. Thereupon Robert, who had been dejected all

day at the thought of the separation from Miss St. John, found his

heart beating so violently that he could hardly breathe. Probably

she saw his emotion, for she put her hand on the keys, as if to

cover it by showing him how some movement was to be better effected.

He seized her hand and lifted it to his lips. But when he found

that instead of snatching it away, she yielded it, nay gently

pressed it to his face, he burst into tears, and dropped on his

knees, as if before a goddess.

'Hush, Robert! Don't be foolish,' she said, quietly and tenderly.

'Here is my aunt coming.'

The same moment he was at the piano again, playing My Bonny Lady

Ann, so as to astonish Miss St. John, and himself as well. Then he

rose, bade her a hasty good-night, and hurried away.

A strange conflict arose in his mind at the prospect of leaving the

old place, on every house of whose streets, on every swell of whose

surrounding hills he left the clinging shadows of thought and

feeling. A faintly purpled mist arose, and enwrapped all the past,

changing even his grayest troubles into tales of fairyland, and his

deepest griefs into songs of a sad music. Then he thought of

Shargar, and what was to become of him after he was gone. The lad

was paler and his eyes were redder than ever, for he had been

weeping in secret. He went to his grandmother and begged that

Shargar might accompany him to Bodyfauld.

'He maun bide at hame an' min' his beuks,' she answered; 'for he

winna hae them that muckle langer. He maun be doin' something for

himsel'.'

So the next morning the boys parted--Shargar to school, and Robert

to Bodyfauld--Shargar left behind with his desolation, his sun gone

down in a west that was not even stormy, only gray and hopeless, and

Robert moving towards an east which reflected, like a faint

prophecy, the west behind him tinged with love, death, and music,

but mingled the colours with its own saffron of coming dawn.

When he reached Bodyfauld he marvelled to find that all its glory

had returned. He found Miss Lammie busy among the rich yellow pools

in her dairy, and went out into the garden, now in the height of its

summer. Great cabbage roses hung heavy-headed splendours towards

purple-black heartseases, and thin-filmed silvery pods of honesty;

tall white lilies mingled with the blossoms of currant bushes, and

at their feet the narcissi of old classic legend pressed their

warm-hearted paleness into the plebeian thicket of the many-striped

gardener's garters. It was a lovely type of a commonwealth indeed,

of the garden and kingdom of God. His whole mind was flooded with a

sense of sunny wealth. The farmer's neglected garden blossomed into

higher glory in his soul. The bloom and the richness and the use

were all there; but instead of each flower was a delicate ethereal

sense or feeling about that flower. Of these how gladly would he

have gathered a posy to offer Miss St. John! but, alas! he was no

poet; or rather he had but the half of the poet's inheritance--he

could see: he could not say. But even if he had been full of poetic

speech, he would yet have found that the half of his posy remained

ungathered, for although we have speech enough now to be 'cousin to

the deed,' as Chaucer says it must always be, we have not yet enough

speech to cousin the tenth part of our feelings. Let him who doubts

recall one of his own vain attempts to convey that which made the

oddest of dreams entrancing in loveliness--to convey that aroma of

thought, the conscious absence of which made him a fool in his own

eyes when he spoke such silly words as alone presented themselves

for the service. I can no more describe the emotion aroused in my

mind by a gray cloud parting over a gray stone, by the smell of a

sweetpea, by the sight of one of those long upright pennons of

striped grass with the homely name, than I can tell what the glory

of God is who made these things. The man whose poetry is like

nature in this, that it produces individual, incommunicable moods

and conditions of mind--a sense of elevated, tender, marvellous, and

evanescent existence, must be a poet indeed. Every dawn of such a

feeling is a light-brushed bubble rendering visible for a moment the

dark unknown sea of our being which lies beyond the lights of our

consciousness, and is the stuff and region of our eternal growth.

But think what language must become before it will tell

dreams!--before it will convey the delicate shades of fancy that

come and go in the brain of a child!--before it will let a man know

wherein one face differeth from another face in glory! I suspect,

however, that for such purposes it is rather music than articulation

that is needful--that, with a hope of these finer results, the

language must rather be turned into music than logically extended.

The next morning he awoke at early dawn, hearing the birds at his

window. He rose and went out. The air was clear and fresh as a

new-made soul. Bars of mottled cloud were bent across the eastern

quarter of the sky, which lay like a great ethereal ocean ready for

the launch of the ship of glory that was now gliding towards its

edge. Everything was waiting to conduct him across the far horizon

to the south, where lay the stored-up wonder of his coming life.

The lark sang of something greater than he could tell; the wind got

up, whispered at it, and lay down to sleep again; the sun was at

hand to bathe the world in the light and gladness alone fit to

typify the radiance of Robert's thoughts. The clouds that formed

the shore of the upper sea were already burning from saffron into

gold. A moment more and the first insupportable sting of light

would shoot from behind the edge of that low blue hill, and the

first day of his new life would be begun. He watched, and it came.

The well-spring of day, fresh and exuberant as if now first from

the holy will of the Father of Lights, gushed into the basin of the

world, and the world was more glad than tongue or pen can tell. The

supernal light alone, dawning upon the human heart, can exceed the

marvel of such a sunrise.

And shall life itself be less beautiful than one of its days? Do

not believe it, young brother. Men call the shadow, thrown upon the

universe where their own dusky souls come between it and the eternal

sun, life, and then mourn that it should be less bright than the

hopes of their childhood. Keep thou thy soul translucent, that thou

mayest never see its shadow; at least never abuse thyself with the

philosophy which calls that shadow life. Or, rather would I say,

become thou pure in heart, and thou shalt see God, whose vision

alone is life.

Just as the sun rushed across the horizon he heard the tramp of a

heavy horse in the yard, passing from the stable to the cart that

was to carry his trunk to the turnpike road, three miles off, where

the coach would pass. Then Miss Lammie came and called him to

breakfast, and there sat the farmer in his Sunday suit of black,

already busy. Robert was almost too happy to eat; yet he had not

swallowed two mouthfuls before the sun rose unheeded, the lark sang

unheeded, and the roses sparkled with the dew that bowed yet lower

their heavy heads, all unheeded. By the time they had finished, Mr.

Lammie's gig was at the door, and they mounted and followed the

cart. Not even the recurring doubt and fear that hollowness was at

the heart of it all, for that God could not mean such reinless

gladness, prevented the truth of the present joy from sinking deep

into the lad's heart. In his mind he saw a boat moored to a rock,

with no one on board, heaving on the waters of a rising tide, and

waiting to bear him out on the sea of the unknown. The picture

arose of itself: there was no paradise of the west in his

imagination, as in that of a boy of the sixteenth century, to

authorize its appearance. It rose again and again; the dew

glittered as if the light were its own; the sun shone as he had

never seen him shine before; the very mare that sped them along held

up her head and stepped out as if she felt it the finest of

mornings. Had she also a future, poor old mare? Might there not be

a paradise somewhere? and if in the furthest star instead of

next-door America, why, so much the more might the Atlantis of the

nineteenth century surpass Manoa the golden of the seventeenth!

The gig and the cart reached the road together. One of the men who

had accompanied the cart took the gig; and they were left on the

road-side with Robert's trunk and box--the latter a present from

Miss Lammie.

Their places had been secured, and the guard knew where he had to

take them up. Long before the coach appeared, the notes of his

horn, as like the colour of his red coat as the blindest of men

could imagine, came echoing from the side of the heathery, stony

hill under which they stood, so that Robert turned wondering, as if

the chariot of his desires had been coming over the top of

Drumsnaig, to carry him into a heaven where all labour was delight.

But round the corner in front came the four-in-hand red mail

instead. She pulled up gallantly; the wheelers lay on their hind

quarters, and the leaders parted theirs from the pole; the boxes

were hoisted up; Mr. Lammie climbed, and Robert scrambled to his

seat; the horn blew; the coachman spake oracularly; the horses

obeyed; and away went the gorgeous symbol of sovereignty careering

through the submissive region. Nor did Robert's delight abate

during the journey--certainly not when he saw the blue line of the

sea in the distance, a marvel and yet a fact.

Mrs. Falconer had consulted the Misses Napier, who had many

acquaintances in Aberdeen, as to a place proper for Robert, and

suitable to her means. Upon this point Miss Letty, not without a

certain touch of design, as may appear in the course of my story,

had been able to satisfy her. In a small house of two floors and a

garret, in the old town, Mr. Lammie took leave of Robert.

It was from a garret window still, but a storm-window now that

Robert looked--eastward across fields and sand-hills, to the blue

expanse of waters--not blue like southern seas, but slaty blue, like

the eyes of northmen. It was rather dreary; the sun was shining

from overhead now, casting short shadows and much heat; the dew was

gone up, and the lark had come down; he was alone; the end of his

journey was come, and was not anything very remarkable. His

landlady interrupted his gaze to know what he would have for dinner,

but he declined to use any discretion in the matter. When she left

the room he did not return to the window, but sat down upon his box.

His eye fell upon the other, a big wooden cube. Of its contents he

knew nothing. He would amuse himself by making inquisition. It was

nailed up. He borrowed a screwdriver and opened it. At the top lay

a linen bag full of oatmeal; underneath that was a thick layer of

oat-cake; underneath that two cheeses, a pound of butter, and six

pots of jam, which ought to have tasted of roses, for it came from

the old garden where the roses lived in such sweet companionship

with the currant bushes; underneath that, &c.; and underneath, &c.,

a box which strangely recalled Shargar's garret, and one of the

closets therein. With beating heart he opened it, and lo, to his

marvel, and the restoration of all the fair day, there was the

violin which Dooble Sanny had left him when he forsook her for--some

one or other of the queer instruments of Fra Angelico's angels?

In a flutter of delight he sat down on his trunk again and played

the most mournful of tunes. Two white pigeons, which had been

talking to each other in the heat on the roof, came one on each side

of the window and peeped into the room; and out between them, as he

played, Robert saw the sea, and the blue sky above it. Is it any

wonder that, instead of turning to the lying pages and contorted

sentences of the Livy which he had already unpacked from his box, he

forgot all about school, and college, and bursary, and went on

playing till his landlady brought up his dinner, which he swallowed

hastily that he might return to the spells of his enchantress!

CHAPTER V.

THE COMPETITION.

I could linger with gladness even over this part of my hero's

history. If the school work, was dry it was thorough. If that

academy had no sweetly shadowing trees; if it did stand within a

parallelogram of low stone walls, containing a roughly-gravelled

court; if all the region about suggested hot stones and sand--beyond

still was the sea and the sky; and that court, morning and

afternoon, was filled with the shouts of eager boys, kicking the

football with mad rushings to and fro, and sometimes with wounds and

faintings--fit symbol of the equally resultless ambition with which

many of them would follow the game of life in the years to come.

Shock-headed Highland colts, and rough Lowland steers as many of

them were, out of that group, out of the roughest of them, would

emerge in time a few gentlemen--not of the type of your trim,

self-contained, clerical exquisite--but large-hearted, courteous

gentlemen, for whom a man may thank God. And if the master was stern

and hard, he was true; if the pupils feared him, they yet cared to

please him; if there might be found not a few more widely-read

scholars than he, it would be hard to find a better teacher.

Robert leaned to the collar and laboured, not greatly moved by

ambition, but much by the hope of the bursary and the college life

in the near distance. Not unfrequently he would rush into the thick

of the football game, fight like a maniac for one short burst, and

then retire and look on. He oftener regarded than mingled. He

seldom joined his fellows after school hours, for his work lay both

upon his conscience and his hopes; but if he formed no very deep

friendships amongst them, at least he made no enemies, for he was

not selfish, and in virtue of the Celtic blood in him was invariably

courteous. His habits were in some things altogether irregular. He

never went out for a walk; but sometimes, looking up from his Virgil

or his Latin version, and seeing the blue expanse in the distance

breaking into white under the viewless wing of the summer wind, he

would fling down his dictionary or his pen, rush from his garret,

and fly in a straight line, like a sea-gull weary of lake and river,

down to the waste shore of the great deep. This was all that stood

for the Arabian Nights of moon-blossomed marvel; all the rest was

Aberdeen days of Latin and labour.

Slowly the hours went, and yet the dreaded, hoped-for day came

quickly. The quadrangle of the stone-crowned college grew more

awful in its silence and emptiness every time Robert passed it; and

the professors' houses looked like the sentry-boxes of the angels of

learning, soon to come forth and judge the feeble mortals who dared

present a claim to their recognition. October faded softly by, with

its keen fresh mornings, and cold memorial green-horizoned evenings,

whose stars fell like the stray blossoms of a more heavenly world,

from some ghostly wind of space that had caught them up on its awful

shoreless sweep. November came, 'chill and drear,' with its

heartless, hopeless nothingness; but as if to mock the poor

competitors, rose, after three days of Scotch mist, in a lovely

'halcyon day' of 'St. Martin's summer,' through whose long shadows

anxious young faces gathered in the quadrangle, or under the arcade,

each with his Ainsworth's Dictionary, the sole book allowed, under

his arm. But when the sacrist appeared and unlocked the public

school, and the black-gowned professors walked into the room, and

the door was left open for the candidates to follow, then indeed a

great awe fell upon the assembly, and the lads crept into their

seats as if to a trial for life before a bench of the incorruptible.

They took their places; a portion of Robertson's History of

Scotland was given them to turn into Latin; and soon there was

nothing to be heard in the assembly but the turning of the leaves of

dictionaries, and the scratching of pens constructing the first

rough copy of the Latinized theme.

It was done. Four weary hours, nearly five, one or two of which

passed like minutes, the others as if each minute had been an hour,

went by, and Robert, in a kind of desperation, after a final reading

of the Latin, gave in his paper, and left the room. When he got

home, he asked his landlady to get him some tea. Till it was ready

he would take his violin. But even the violin had grown dull, and

would not speak freely. He returned to the torture--took out his

first copy, and went over it once more. Horror of horrors! a

maxie!--that is a maximus error. Mary Queen of Scots had been left

so far behind in the beginning of the paper, that she forgot the

rights of her sex in the middle of it, and in the accusative of a

future participle passive--I do not know if more modern grammarians

have a different name for the growth--had submitted to be dum, and

her rightful dam was henceforth and for ever debarred.

He rose, rushed out of the house, down through the garden, across

two fields and a wide road, across the links, and so to the moaning

lip of the sea--for it was moaning that night. From the last

bulwark of the sandhills he dropped upon the wet sands, and there he

paced up and down--how long, God only, who was watching him,

knew--with the low limitless form of the murmuring lip lying out and

out into the sinking sky like the life that lay low and hopeless

before him, for the want at most of twenty pounds a year (that was

the highest bursary then) to lift him into a region of possible

well-being. Suddenly a strange phenomenon appeared within him. The

subject hitherto became the object to a new birth of consciousness.

He began to look at himself. 'There's a sair bit in there,' he

said, as if his own bosom had been that of another mortal. 'What's

to be dune wi' 't? I doobt it maun bide it. Weel, the crater had

better bide it quaietly, and no cry oot. Lie doon, an' hand yer

tongue. Soror tua haud meretrix est, ye brute!' He burst out

laughing, after a doubtful and ululant fashion, I dare say; but he

went home, took up his auld wife, and played 'Tullochgorum' some

fifty times over, with extemporized variations.

The next day he had to translate a passage from Tacitus; after

executing which somewhat heartlessly, he did not open a Latin book

for a whole week. The very sight of one was disgusting to him. He

wandered about the New Town, along Union Street, and up and down the

stairs that led to the lower parts, haunted the quay, watched the

vessels, learned their forms, their parts and capacities, made

friends with a certain Dutch captain whom he heard playing the

violin in his cabin, and on the whole, notwithstanding the wretched

prospect before him, contrived to spend the week with considerable

enjoyment. Nor does an occasional episode of lounging hurt a life

with any true claims to the epic form.

The day of decision at length arrived. Again the black-robed powers

assembled, and again the hoping, fearing lads--some of them not

lads, men, and mere boys--gathered to hear their fate. Name after

name was called out;--a twenty pound bursary to the first, one of

seventeen to the next, three or four of fifteen and fourteen, and so

on, for about twenty, and still no Robert Falconer. At last,

lagging wearily in the rear, he heard his name, went up listlessly,

and was awarded five pounds. He crept home, wrote to his

grandmother, and awaited her reply. It was not long in coming; for

although the carrier was generally the medium of communication, Miss

Letty had contrived to send the answer by coach. It was to the

effect that his grandmother was sorry that he had not been more

successful, but that Mr. Innes thought it would be quite worth while

to try again, and he must therefore come home for another year.

This was mortifying enough, though not so bad as it might have been.

Robert began to pack his box. But before he had finished it he

shut the lid and sat upon it. To meet Miss St. John thus disgraced,

was more than he could bear. If he remained, he had a chance of

winning prizes at the end of the session, and that would more than

repair his honour. The five pound bursars were privileged in paying

half fees; and if he could only get some teaching, he could manage.

But who would employ a bejan when a magistrand might be had for

next to nothing? Besides, who would recommend him? The thought of

Dr. Anderson flashed into his mind, and he rushed from the house

without even knowing where he lived.

CHAPTER VI.

DR. ANDERSON AGAIN.

At the Post-office he procured the desired information at once. Dr.

Anderson lived in Union Street, towards the western end of it.

Away went Robert to find the house. That was easy. What a grand

house of smooth granite and wide approach it was! The great door

was opened by a man-servant, who looked at the country boy from head

to foot.

'Is the doctor in?' asked Robert.

'Yes.'

'I wad like to see him.'

'Wha will I say wants him?'

'Say the laddie he saw at Bodyfauld.'

The man left Robert in the hall, which was spread with tiger and

leopard skins, and had a bright fire burning in a large stove.

Returning presently, he led him through noiseless swing-doors

covered with cloth into a large library. Never had Robert conceived

such luxury. What with Turkey carpet, crimson curtains,

easy-chairs, grandly-bound books and morocco-covered writing-table,

it seemed the very ideal of comfort. But Robert liked the grandeur

too much to be abashed by it.

'Sit ye doon there,' said the servant, 'and the doctor 'ill be wi'

ye in ae minute.'

He was hardly out of the room before a door opened in the middle of

the books, and the doctor appeared in a long dressing-gown. He

looked inquiringly at Robert for one moment, then made two long

strides like a pair of eager compasses, holding out his hand.

'I'm Robert Faukner,' said the boy. 'Ye'll min', maybe, doctor, 'at

ye war verra kin' to me ance, and tellt me lots o' stories--at

Bodyfauld, ye ken.'

'I'm very glad to see you, Robert,' said Dr. Anderson. 'Of course I

remember you perfectly; but my servant did not bring your name, and

I did not know but it might be the other boy--I forget his name.'

'Ye mean Shargar, sir. It's no him.'

'I can see that,' said the doctor, laughing, 'although you are

altered. You have grown quite a man! I am very glad to see you,'

he repeated, shaking hands with him again. 'When did you come to

town?'

'I hae been at the grammer school i' the auld toon for the last

three months,' said Robert.

'Three months!' exclaimed Dr. Anderson. 'And never came to see me

till now! That was too bad of you, Robert.'

'Weel, ye see, sir, I didna ken better. An' I had a heap to do, an'

a' for naething, efter a'. But gin I had kent 'at ye wad like to

see me, I wad hae likit weel to come to ye.'

'I have been away most of the summer,' said the doctor; 'but I have

been at home for the last month. You haven't had your dinner, have

you?'

'Weel, I dinna exackly ken what to say, sir. Ye see, I wasna that

sharp-set the day, sae I had jist a mou'fu' o' breid and cheese.

I'm turnin' hungry, noo, I maun confess.'

The doctor rang the bell.

'You must stop and dine with me.--Johnston,' he continued, as his

servant entered, 'tell the cook that I have a gentleman to dinner

with me to-day, and she must be liberal.'

'Guidsake, sir!' said Robert, 'dinna set the woman agen me.'

He had no intention of saying anything humorous, but Dr. Anderson

laughed heartily.

'Come into my room till dinner-time,' he said, opening the door by

which he had entered.

To Robert's astonishment, he found himself in a room bare as that of

the poorest cottage. A small square window, small as the window in

John Hewson's, looked out upon a garden neatly kept, but now 'having

no adorning but cleanliness.' The place was just the benn end of a

cottage. The walls were whitewashed, the ceiling was of bare

boards, and the floor was sprinkled with a little white sand. The

table and chairs were of common deal, white and clean, save that the

former was spotted with ink. A greater contrast to the soft, large,

richly-coloured room they had left could hardly be imagined. A few

bookshelves on the wall were filled with old books. A fire blazed

cheerily in the little grate. A bed with snow-white coverlet stood

in a recess.

'This is the nicest room in the house, Robert,' said the doctor.

'When I was a student like you--'

Robert shook his head,

'I'm nae student yet,' he said; but the doctor went on:

'I had the benn end of my father's cottage to study in, for he

treated me like a stranger-gentleman when I came home from college.

The father respected the son for whose advantage he was working

like a slave from morning till night. My heart is sometimes sore

with the gratitude I feel to him. Though he's been dead for thirty

years--would you believe it, Robert?--well, I can't talk more about

him now. I made this room as like my father's benn end as I could,

and I am happier here than anywhere in the world.'

By this time Robert was perfectly at home. Before the dinner was

ready he had not only told Dr. Anderson his present difficulty, but

his whole story as far back as he could remember. The good man

listened eagerly, gazed at the boy with more and more of interest,

which deepened till his eyes glistened as he gazed, and when a

ludicrous passage intervened, welcomed the laughter as an excuse for

wiping them. When dinner was announced, he rose without a word and

led the way to the dining-room. Robert followed, and they sat down

to a meal simple enough for such a house, but which to Robert seemed

a feast followed by a banquet. For after they had done eating--on

the doctor's part a very meagre performance--they retired to his

room again, and then Robert found the table covered with a snowy

cloth, and wine and fruits arranged upon it.

It was far into the night before he rose to go home. As he passed

through a thick rain of pin-point drops, he felt that although those

cold granite houses, with glimmering dead face, stood like rows of

sepulchres, he was in reality walking through an avenue of homes.

Wet to the skin long before he reached Mrs. Fyvie's in the auld

toon, he was notwithstanding as warm as the under side of a bird's

wing. For he had to sit down and write to his grandmother informing

her that Dr. Anderson had employed him to copy for the printers a

book of his upon the Medical Boards of India, and that as he was

going to pay him for that and other work at a rate which would

secure him ten shillings a week, it would be a pity to lose a year

for the chance of getting a bursary next winter.

The doctor did want the manuscript copied; and he knew that the only

chance of getting Mrs. Falconer's consent to Robert's receiving any

assistance from him, was to make some business arrangement of the

sort. He wrote to her the same night, and after mentioning the

unexpected pleasure of Robert's visit, not only explained the

advantage to himself of the arrangement he had proposed, but set

forth the greater advantage to Robert, inasmuch as he would thus be

able in some measure to keep a hold of him. He judged that although

Mrs. Falconer had no great opinion of his religion, she would yet

consider his influence rather on the side of good than otherwise in

the case of a boy else abandoned to his own resources.

The end of it all was that his grandmother yielded, and Robert was

straightway a Bejan, or Yellow-beak.

Three days had he been clothed in the red gown of the Aberdeen

student, and had attended the Humanity and Greek class-rooms. On

the evening of the third day he was seated at his table preparing

his Virgil for the next, when he found himself growing very weary,

and no wonder, for, except the walk of a few hundred yards to and

from the college, he had had no open air for those three days. It

was raining in a persistent November fashion, and he thought of the

sea, away through the dark and the rain, tossing uneasily. Should

he pay it a visit? He sat for a moment,

This way and that dividing the swift mind,4

when his eye fell on his violin. He had been so full of his new

position and its requirements, that he had not touched it since the

session opened. Now it was just what he wanted. He caught it up

eagerly, and began to play. The power of the music seized upon him,

and he went on playing, forgetful of everything else, till a string

broke. It was all too short for further use. Regardless of the

rain or the depth of darkness to be traversed before he could find a

music-shop, he caught up his cap, and went to rush from the house.

His door opened immediately on the top step of the stair, without

any landing. There was a door opposite, to which likewise a few

steps led immediately up. The stairs from the two doors united a

little below. So near were the doors that one might stride across

the fork. The opposite door was open, and in it stood Eric Ericson.

CHAPTER VII.

ERIC ERICSON.

Robert sprang across the dividing chasm, clasped Ericson's hand in

both of his, looked up into his face, and stood speechless. Ericson

returned the salute with a still kindness--tender and still. His

face was like a gray morning sky of summer from whose level

cloud-fields rain will fall before noon.

'So it was you,' he said, 'playing the violin so well?'

'I was doin' my best,' answered Robert. 'But eh! Mr. Ericson, I wad

hae dune better gin I had kent ye was hearkenin'.'

'You couldn't do better than your best,' returned Eric, smiling.

'Ay, but yer best micht aye grow better, ye ken,' persisted Robert.

'Come into my room,' said Ericson. 'This is Friday night, and there

is nothing but chapel to-morrow. So we'll have talk instead of

work.'

In another moment they were seated by a tiny coal fire in a room one

side of which was the slope of the roof, with a large, low skylight

in it looking seawards. The sound of the distant waves, unheard in

Robert's room, beat upon the drum of the skylight, through all the

world of mist that lay between it and them--dimly, vaguely--but ever

and again with a swell of gathered force, that made the distant

tumult doubtful no more.

'I am sorry I have nothing to offer you,' said Ericson.

'You remind me of Peter and John at the Beautiful Gate of the

temple,' returned Robert, attempting to speak English like the

Northerner, but breaking down as his heart got the better of him.

'Eh! Mr. Ericson, gin ye kent what it is to me to see the face o'

ye, ye wadna speyk like that. Jist lat me sit an' leuk at ye. I

want nae mair.'

A smile broke up the cold, sad, gray light of the young eagle-face.

Stern at once and gentle when in repose, its smile was as the

summer of some lovely land where neither the heat nor the sun shall

smite them. The youth laid his hand upon the boy's head, then

withdrew it hastily, and the smile vanished like the sun behind a

cloud. Robert saw it, and as if he had been David before Saul, rose

instinctively and said,

'I'll gang for my fiddle.--Hoots! I hae broken ane o' the strings.

We maun bide till the morn. But I want nae fiddle mysel' whan I

hear the great water oot there.'

'You're young yet, my boy, or you might hear voices in that water--!

I've lived in the sound of it all my days. When I can't rest at

night, I hear a moaning and crying in the dark, and I lie and listen

till I can't tell whether I'm a man or some God-forsaken sea in the

sunless north.'

'Sometimes I believe in naething but my fiddle,' answered Robert.

'Yes, yes. But when it comes into you, my boy! You won't hear much

music in the cry of the sea after that. As long as you've got it at

arm's length, it's all very well. It's interesting then, and you

can talk to your fiddle about it, and make poetry about it,' said

Ericson, with a smile of self-contempt. 'But as soon as the real

earnest comes that is all over. The sea-moan is the cry of a

tortured world then. Its hollow bed is the cup of the world's pain,

ever rolling from side to side and dashing over its lip. Of all

that might be, ought to be, nothing to be had!--I could get music

out of it once. Look here. I could trifle like that once.'

He half rose, then dropped on his chair. But Robert's believing

eyes justified confidence, and Ericson had never had any one to talk

to. He rose again, opened a cupboard at his side, took out some

papers, threw them on the table, and, taking his hat, walked towards

the door.

'Which of your strings is broken?' he asked.

'The third,' answered Robert.

'I will get you one,' said Ericson; and before Robert could reply he

was down the stair. Robert heard him cough, then the door shut, and

he was gone in the rain and fog.

Bewildered, unhappy, ready to fly after him, yet irresolute, Robert

almost mechanically turned over the papers upon the little deal

table. He was soon arrested by the following verses, headed

A NOONDAY MELODY.

Everything goes to its rest;

The hills are asleep in the noon;

And life is as still in its nest

As the moon when she looks on a moon

In the depths of a calm river's breast

As it steals through a midnight in June.

The streams have forgotten the sea

In the dream of their musical sound;

The sunlight is thick on the tree,

And the shadows lie warm on the ground--

So still, you may watch them and see

Every breath that awakens around.

The churchyard lies still in the heat,

With its handful of mouldering bone;

As still as the long stalk of wheat

In the shadow that sits by the stone,

As still as the grass at my feet

When I walk in the meadows alone.

The waves are asleep on the main,

And the ships are asleep on the wave;

And the thoughts are as still in my brain

As the echo that sleeps in the cave;

All rest from their labour and pain--

Then why should not I in my grave?

His heart ready to burst with a sorrow, admiration, and devotion,

which no criticism interfered to qualify, Robert rushed out into the

darkness, and sped, fleet-footed, along the only path which Ericson

could have taken. He could not bear to be left in the house while

his friend was out in the rain.

He was sure of joining him before he reached the new town, for he

was fleet-footed, and there was a path only on one side of the way,

so that there was no danger of passing him in the dark. As he ran

he heard the moaning of the sea. There must be a storm somewhere,

away in the deep spaces of its dark bosom, and its lips muttered of

its far unrest. When the sun rose it would be seen misty and gray,

tossing about under the one rain cloud that like a thinner ocean

overspread the heavens--tossing like an animal that would fain lie

down and be at peace but could not compose its unwieldy strength.

Suddenly Robert slackened his speed, ceased running, stood, gazed

through the darkness at a figure a few yards before him.

An old wall, bowed out with age and the weight behind it, flanked

the road in this part. Doors in this wall, with a few steps in

front of them and more behind, led up into gardens upon a slope, at

the top of which stood the houses to which they belonged. Against

one of these doors the figure stood with its head bowed upon its

hands. When Robert was within a few feet, it descended and went on.

'Mr. Ericson!' exclaimed Robert. 'Ye'll get yer deith gin ye stan'

that gait i' the weet.'

'Amen,' said Ericson, turning with a smile that glimmered wan

through the misty night. Then changing his tone, he went on: 'What

are you after, Robert?'

'You,' answered Robert. 'I cudna bide to be left my lane whan I

micht be wi' ye a' the time--gin ye wad lat me. Ye war oot o' the

hoose afore I weel kent what ye was aboot. It's no a fit nicht for

ye to be oot at a', mair by token 'at ye're no the ablest to stan'

cauld an' weet.'

'I've stood a great deal of both in my time,' returned Ericson; 'but

come along. We'll go and get that fiddle-string.'

'Dinna ye think it wad be fully better to gang hame?' Robert

ventured to suggest.

'What would be the use? I'm in no mood for Plato to-night,' he

answered, trying hard to keep from shivering.

'Ye hae an ill cauld upo' ye,' persisted Robert; 'an' ye maun be as

weet 's a dishcloot.'

Ericson laughed--a strange, hollow laugh.

'Come along,' he said. 'A walk will do me good. We'll get the

string, and then you shall play to me. That will do me more good

yet.'

Robert ceased opposing him, and they walked together to the new

town. Robert bought the string, and they set out, as he thought, to

return.

But not yet did Ericson seem inclined to go home. He took the lead,

and they emerged upon the quay.

There were not many vessels. One of them was the Antwerp tub,

already known to Robert. He recognized her even in the dull light

of the quay lamps. Her captain being a prudent and well-to-do

Dutchman, never slept on shore; he preferred saving his money; and

therefore, as the friends passed, Robert caught sight of him walking

his own deck and smoking a long clay pipe before turning in.

'A fine nicht, capt'n,' said Robert.

'It does rain,' returned the captain. 'Will you come on board and

have one schnapps before you turn in?'

'I hae a frien' wi' me here,' said Robert, feeling his way.

'Let him come and be welcomed.'

Ericson making no objection, they went on board, and down into the

neat little cabin, which was all the roomier for the straightness of

the vessel's quarter. The captain got out a square,

coffin-shouldered bottle, and having respect to the condition of

their garments, neither of the young men refused his hospitality,

though Robert did feel a little compunction at the thought of the

horror it would have caused his grandmother. Then the Dutchman got

out his violin and asked Robert to play a Scotch air. But in the

middle of it his eyes fell on Ericson, and he stopped at once.

Ericson was sitting on a locker, leaning back against the side of

the vessel: his eyes were open and fixed, and he seemed quite

unconscious of what was passing. Robert fancied at first that the

hollands he had taken had gone to his head, but he saw at the same

moment, from his glass, that he had scarcely tasted the spirit. In

great alarm they tried to rouse him, and at length succeeded. He

closed his eyes, opened them again, rose up, and was going away.

'What's the maitter wi' ye, Mr. Ericson?' said Robert, in distress.

'Nothing, nothing,' answered Ericson, in a strange voice. 'I fell

asleep, I believe. It was very bad manners, captain. I beg your

pardon. I believe I am overtired.'

The Dutchman was as kind as possible, and begged Ericson to stay the

night and occupy his berth. But he insisted on going home, although

he was clearly unfit for such a walk. They bade the skipper

good-night, went on shore, and set out, Ericson leaning rather

heavily upon Robert's arm. Robert led him up Marischal Street.

The steep ascent was too much for Ericson. He stood still upon the

bridge and leaned over the wall of it. Robert stood beside, almost

in despair about getting him home.

'Have patience with me, Robert,' said Ericson, in his natural voice.

'I shall be better presently. I don't know what's come to me. If I

had been a Celt now, I should have said I had a touch of the second

sight. But I am, as far as I know, pure Northman.'

'What did you see?' asked Robert, with a strange feeling that miles

of the spirit world, if one may be allowed such a contradiction in

words, lay between him and his friend.

Ericson returned no answer. Robert feared he was going to have a

relapse; but in a moment more he lifted himself up and bent again to

the brae.

They got on pretty well till they were about the middle of the

Gallowgate.

'I can't,' said Ericson feebly, and half leaned, half fell against

the wall of a house.

'Come into this shop,' said Robert. 'I ken the man. He'll lat ye

sit doon.'

He managed to get him in. He was as pale as death. The bookseller

got a chair, and he sank into it. Robert was almost at his wit's

end. There was no such thing as a cab in Aberdeen for years and

years after the date of my story. He was holding a glass of water

to Ericson's lips,--when he heard his name, in a low earnest

whisper, from the door. There, round the door-cheek, peered the

white face and red head of Shargar.

'Robert! Robert!' said Shargar.

'I hear ye,' returned Robert coolly: he was too anxious to be

surprised at anything. 'Haud yer tongue. I'll come to ye in a

minute.'

Ericson recovered a little, refused the whisky offered by the

bookseller, rose, and staggered out.

'If I were only home!' he said. 'But where is home?'

'We'll try to mak ane,' returned Robert. 'Tak a haud o' me. Lay yer

weicht upo' me.--Gin it warna for yer len'th, I cud cairry ye weel

eneuch. Whaur's that Shargar?' he muttered to himself, looking up

and down the gloomy street.

But no Shargar was to be seen. Robert peered in vain into every

dark court they crept past, till at length he all but came to the

conclusion that Shargar was only 'fantastical.'

When they had reached the hollow, and were crossing then

canal-bridge by Mount Hooly, Ericson's strength again failed him,

and again he leaned upon the bridge. Nor had he leaned long before

Robert found that he had fainted. In desperation he began to hoist

the tall form upon his back, when he heard the quick step of a

runner behind him and the words--

'Gie 'im to me, Robert; gie 'im to me. I can carry 'im fine.'

'Haud awa' wi' ye,' returned Robert; and again Shargar fell behind.

For a few hundred yards he trudged along manfully; but his strength,

more from the nature of his burden than its weight, soon gave way.

He stood still to recover. The same moment Shargar was by his side

again.

'Noo, Robert,' he said, pleadingly.

Robert yielded, and the burden was shifted to Shargar's back.

How they managed it they hardly knew themselves; but after many

changes they at last got Ericson home, and up to his own room. He

had revived several times, but gone off again. In one of his

faints, Robert undressed him and got him into bed. He had so little

to cover him, that Robert could not help crying with misery. He

himself was well provided, and would gladly have shared with

Ericson, but that was hopeless. He could, however, make him warm in

bed. Then leaving Shargar in charge, he sped back to the new town

to Dr. Anderson. The doctor had his carriage out at once, wrapped

Robert in a plaid and brought him home with him.

Ericson came to himself, and seeing Shargar by his bedside, tried to

sit up, asking feebly,

'Where am I?'

'In yer ain bed, Mr. Ericson,' answered Shargar.

'And who are you?' asked Ericson again, bewildered.

Shargar's pale face no doubt looked strange under his crown of red

hair.

'Ow! I'm naebody.'

'You must be somebody, or else my brain's in a bad state,' returned

Ericson.

'Na, na, I'm naebody. Naething ava (at all). Robert 'll be hame in

ae meenit.--I'm Robert's tyke (dog),' concluded Shargar, with a

sudden inspiration.

This answer seemed to satisfy Ericson, for he closed his eyes and

lay still; nor did he speak again till Robert arrived with the

doctor.

Poor food, scanty clothing, undue exertion in travelling to and from

the university, hard mental effort against weakness, disquietude of

mind, all borne with an endurance unconscious of itself, had reduced

Eric Ericson to his present condition. Strength had given way at

last, and he was now lying in the low border wash of a dead sea of

fever.

The last of an ancient race of poor men, he had no relative but a

second cousin, and no means except the little he advanced him,

chiefly in kind, to be paid for when Eric had a profession. This

cousin was in the herring trade, and the chief assistance he gave

him was to send him by sea, from Wick to Aberdeen, a small barrel of

his fish every session. One herring, with two or three potatoes,

formed his dinner as long as the barrel lasted. But at Aberdeen or

elsewhere no one carried his head more erect than Eric Ericson--not

from pride, but from simplicity and inborn dignity; and there was

not a man during his curriculum more respected than he. An

excellent classical scholar--as scholarship went in those days--he

was almost the only man in the university who made his knowledge of

Latin serve towards an acquaintance with the Romance languages. He

had gained a small bursary, and gave lessons when he could.

But having no level channel for the outgoing of the waters of one of

the tenderest hearts that ever lived, those waters had sought to

break a passage upwards. Herein his experience corresponded in a

considerable degree to that of Robert; only Eric's more fastidious

and more instructed nature bred a thousand difficulties which he

would meet one by one, whereas Robert, less delicate and more

robust, would break through all the oppositions of theological

science falsely so called, and take the kingdom of heaven by force.

But indeed the ruins of the ever falling temple of theology had

accumulated far more heavily over Robert's well of life, than over

that of Ericson: the obstructions to his faith were those that

rolled from the disintegrating mountains of humanity, rather than

the rubbish heaped upon it by the careless masons who take the

quarry whence they hew the stones for the temple--built without

hands eternal in the heavens.

When Dr. Anderson entered, Ericson opened his eyes wide. The doctor

approached, and taking his hand began to feel his pulse. Then first

Ericson comprehended his visit.

'I can't,' he said, withdrawing his hand. 'I am not so ill as to

need a doctor.'

'My dear sir,' said Dr. Anderson, courteously, 'there will be no

occasion to put you to any pain.'

'Sir,' said Eric, 'I have no money.'

The doctor laughed.

'And I have more than I know how to make a good use of.'

'I would rather be left alone,' persisted Ericson, turning his face

away.

'Now, my dear sir,' said the doctor, with gentle decision, 'that is

very wrong. With what face can you offer a kindness when your turn

comes, if you won't accept one yourself?'

Ericson held out his wrist. Dr. Anderson questioned, prescribed,

and, having given directions, went home, to call again in the

morning.

And now Robert was somewhat in the position of the old woman who

'had so many children she didn't know what to do.' Dr. Anderson

ordered nourishment for Ericson, and here was Shargar upon his hands

as well! Shargar and he could share, to be sure, and exist: but for

Ericson--?

Not a word did Robert exchange with Shargar till he had gone to the

druggist's and got the medicine for Ericson, who, after taking it,

fell into a troubled sleep. Then, leaving the two doors open,

Robert joined Shargar in his own room. There he made up a good

fire, and they sat and dried themselves.

'Noo, Shargar,' said Robert at length, 'hoo cam ye here?'

His question was too like one of his grandmother's to be pleasant to

Shargar.

'Dinna speyk to me that gait, Robert, or I'll cut my throat' he

returned.

'Hoots! I maun ken a' aboot it,' insisted Robert, but with much

modified and partly convicted tone.

'Weel, I never said I wadna tell ye a' aboot it. The fac' 's

this--an' I'm no' up to the leein' as I used to be, Robert: I hae

tried it ower an' ower, but a lee comes rouch throw my thrapple

(windpipe) noo. Faith! I cud hae leed ance wi' onybody, barrin'

the de'il. I winna lee. I'm nae leein'. The fac's jist this: I

cudna bide ahin' ye ony langer.'

'But what, the muckle lang-tailed deevil! am I to do wi' ye?'

returned Robert, in real perplexity, though only pretended

displeasure.

'Gie me something to ate, an' I'll tell ye what to do wi' me,'

answered Shargar. 'I dinna care a scart (scratch) what it is.'

Robert rang the bell and ordered some porridge, and while it was

preparing, Shargar told his story--how having heard a rumour of

apprenticeship to a tailor, he had the same night dropped from the

gable window to the ground, and with three halfpence in his pocket

had wandered and begged his way to Aberdeen, arriving with one

halfpenny left.

'But what am I to do wi' ye?' said Robert once more, in as much

perplexity as ever.

'Bide till I hae tellt ye, as I said I wad,' answered Shargar.

'Dinna ye think I'm the haveless (careless and therefore helpless)

crater I used to be. I hae been in Aberdeen three days! Ay, an' I

hae seen you ilka day in yer reid goon, an' richt braw it is. Luik

ye here!'

He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out what amounted to two or

three shillings, chiefly in coppers, which he exposed with triumph

on the table.

'Whaur got ye a' that siller, man?' asked Robert.

'Here and there, I kenna whaur; but I hae gien the weicht o' 't for

't a' the same--rinnin' here an' rinnin' there, cairryin' boxes till

an' frae the smacks, an' doin' a'thing whether they bade me or no.

Yesterday mornin' I got thrippence by hingin' aboot the Royal afore

the coches startit. I luikit a' up and doon the street till I saw

somebody hine awa wi' a porkmanty. Till 'im I ran, an' he was an

auld man, an' maist at the last gasp wi' the weicht o' 't, an' gae

me 't to carry. An' wha duv ye think gae me a shillin' the verra

first nicht?--Wha but my brither Sandy?'

'Lord Rothie?'

'Ay, faith. I kent him weel eneuch, but little he kent me. There

he was upo' Black Geordie. He's turnin' auld noo.'

'Yer brither?'

'Na. He's young eneuch for ony mischeef; but Black Geordie. What on

earth gars him gang stravaguin' aboot upo' that deevil? I doobt

he's a kelpie, or a hell-horse, or something no canny o' that kin';

for faith! brither Sandy's no ower canny himsel', I'm thinkin'. But

Geordie--the aulder the waur set (inclined). An' sae I'm thinkin'

wi' his maister.'

'Did ye iver see yer father, Shargar?'

'Na. Nor I dinna want to see 'im. I'm upo' my mither's side. But

that's naething to the pint. A' that I want o' you 's to lat me

come hame at nicht, an' lie upo' the flure here. I sweir I'll lie

i' the street gin ye dinna lat me. I'll sleep as soun' 's Peter

MacInnes whan Maccleary's preachin'. An' I winna ate muckle--I hae

a dreidfu' pooer o' aitin'--an' a' 'at I gether I'll fess hame to

you, to du wi' 't as ye like.--Man, I cairriet a heap o' things the

day till the skipper o' that boat 'at ye gaed intil wi' Maister

Ericson the nicht. He's a fine chiel' that skipper!'

Robert was astonished at the change that had passed upon Shargar.

His departure had cast him upon his own resources, and allowed the

individuality repressed by every event of his history, even by his

worship of Robert, to begin to develop itself. Miserable for a few

weeks, he had revived in the fancy that to work hard at school would

give him some chance of rejoining Robert. Thence, too, he had

watched to please Mrs. Falconer, and had indeed begun to buy golden

opinions from all sorts of people. He had a hope in prospect. But

into the midst fell the whisper of the apprenticeship like a

thunderbolt out of a clear sky. He fled at once.

'Weel, ye can hae my bed the nicht,' said Robert, 'for I maun sit up

wi' Mr. Ericson.'

''Deed I'll hae naething o' the kin'. I'll sleep upo' the flure, or

else upo' the door-stane. Man, I'm no clean eneuch efter what I've

come throu sin' I drappit frae the window-sill i' the ga'le-room.

But jist len' me yer plaid, an' I'll sleep upo' the rug here as gin

I war i' Paradees. An' faith, sae I am, Robert. Ye maun gang to

yer bed some time the nicht forby (besides), or ye winna be fit for

yer wark the morn. Ye can jist gie me a kick, an' I'll be up afore

ye can gie me anither.'

Their supper arrived from below, and, each on one side of the fire,

they ate the porridge, conversing all the while about old times--for

the youngest life has its old times, its golden age--and old

adventures,--Dooble Sanny, Betty, &c., &c. There were but two

subjects which Robert avoided--Miss St. John and the Bonnie Leddy.

Shargar was at length deposited upon the little bit of hearthrug

which adorned rather than enriched the room, with Robert's plaid of

shepherd tartan around him, and an Ainsworth's dictionary under his

head for a pillow.

'Man, I fin' mysel' jist like a muckle colley (sheep-dog),' he said.

'Whan I close my een, I'm no sure 'at I'm no i' the inside o' yer

auld luckie-daiddie's kilt. The Lord preserve me frae ever sic a

fricht again as yer grannie an' Betty gae me the nicht they fand me

in 't! I dinna believe it's in natur' to hae sic a fricht twise in

ae lifetime. Sae I'll fa' asleep at ance, an' say nae mair--but as

muckle o' my prayers as I can min' upo' noo 'at grannie's no at my

lug.'

'Haud yer impidence, an' yer tongue thegither,' said Robert. 'Min'

'at my grannie's been the best frien' ye ever had.'

''Cep' my ain mither,' returned Shargar, with a sleepy doggedness in

his tone.

During their conference, Ericson had been slumbering. Robert had

visited him from time to time, but he had not awaked. As soon as

Shargar was disposed of, he took his candle and sat down by him. He

grew more uneasy. Robert guessed that the candle was the cause, and

put it out. Ericson was quieter. So Robert sat in the dark.

But the rain had now ceased. Some upper wind had swept the clouds

from the sky, and the whole world of stars was radiant over the

earth and its griefs.

'O God, where art thou?' he said in his heart, and went to his own

room to look out.

There was no curtain, and the blind had not been drawn down,

therefore the earth looked in at the storm-window. The sea neither

glimmered nor shone. It lay across the horizon like a low level

cloud, out of which came a moaning. Was this moaning all of the

earth, or was there trouble in the starry places too? thought

Robert, as if already he had begun to suspect the truth from

afar--that save in the secret place of the Most High, and in the

heart that is hid with the Son of Man in the bosom of the Father,

there is trouble--a sacred unrest--everywhere--the moaning of a tide

setting homewards, even towards the bosom of that Father.

CHAPTER VIII.

A HUMAN PROVIDENCE.

Robert kept himself thoroughly awake the whole night, and it was

well that he had not to attend classes in the morning. As the gray

of the world's reviving consciousness melted in at the window, the

things around and within him looked and felt ghastly. Nothing is

liker the gray dawn than the soul of one who has been watching by a

sick bed all the long hours of the dark, except, indeed, it be the

first glimmerings of truth on the mind lost in the dark of a godless

life.

Ericson had waked often, and Robert had administered his medicine

carefully. But he had been mostly between sleeping and waking, and

had murmured strange words, whose passing shadows rather than

glimmers roused the imagination of the youth as with messages from

regions unknown.

As the light came he found his senses going, and went to his own

room again to get a book that he might keep himself awake by reading

at the window. To his surprise Shargar was gone, and for a moment

he doubted whether he had not been dreaming all that had passed

between them the night before. His plaid was folded up and laid

upon a chair, as if it had been there all night, and his Ainsworth

was on the table. But beside it was the money Shargar had drawn

from his pockets.

About nine o'clock Dr. Anderson arrived, found Ericson not so much

worse as he had expected, comforted Robert, and told him he must go

to bed.

'But I cannot leave Mr. Ericson,' said Robert.

'Let your friend--what's his odd name?--watch him during the day.'

'Shargar, you mean, sir. But that's his nickname. His rale name

they say his mither says, is George Moray--wi' an o an' no a

u-r.--Do you see, sir?' concluded Robert significantly.

'No, I don't,' answered the doctor.

'They say he's a son o' the auld Markis's, that's it. His mither's

a randy wife 'at gangs aboot the country--a gipsy they say. There's

nae doobt aboot her. An' by a' accoonts the father's likly eneuch.'

'And how on earth did you come to have such a questionable

companion?'

'Shargar's as fine a crater as ever God made,' said Robert warmly.

'Ye'll alloo 'at God made him, doctor; though his father an' mither

thochtna muckle aboot him or God either whan they got him atween

them? An' Shargar couldna help it. It micht ha' been you or me for

that maitter, doctor.'

'I beg your pardon, Robert,' said Dr. Anderson quietly, although

delighted with the fervour of his young kinsman: 'I only wanted to

know how he came to be your companion.'

'I beg your pardon, doctor--but I thoucht ye was some scunnert at

it; an' I canna bide Shargar to be luikit doon upo'. Luik here,' he

continued, going to his box, and bringing out Shargar's little heap

of coppers, in which two sixpences obscurely shone, 'he brocht a'

that hame last nicht, an' syne sleepit upo' the rug i' my room

there. We'll want a' 'at he can mak an' me too afore we get Mr.

Ericson up again.'

'But ye haena tellt me yet,' said the doctor, so pleased with the

lad that he relapsed into the dialect of his youth, 'hoo ye cam to

forgather wi' 'im.'

'I tellt ye a' aboot it, doctor. It was a' my grannie's doin', God

bless her--for weel he may, an' muckle she needs 't.'

'Oh! yes; I remember now all your grandmother's part in the story,'

returned the doctor. 'But I still want to know how he came here.'

'She was gaein' to mak a taylor o' 'm: an' he jist ran awa', an' cam

to me.'

'It was too bad of him that--after all she had done for him.'

'Ow, 'deed no, doctor. Even whan ye boucht a man an' paid for him,

accordin' to the Jewish law, ye cudna mak a slave o' 'im for

a'thegither, ohn him seekin' 't himsel'.--Eh! gin she could only get

my father hame!' sighed Robert, after a pause.

'What should she want him home for?' asked Dr. Anderson, still

making conversation.

'I didna mean hame to Rothieden. I believe she cud bide never

seein' 'im again, gin only he wasna i' the ill place. She has awfu'

notions aboot burnin' ill sowls for ever an' ever. But it's no

hersel'. It's the wyte o' the ministers. Doctor, I do believe she

wad gang an' be brunt hersel' wi' a great thanksgivin', gin it wad

lat ony puir crater oot o' 't--no to say my father. An' I sair

misdoobt gin mony o' them 'at pat it in her heid wad do as muckle.

I'm some feared they're like Paul afore he was convertit: he wadna

lift a stane himsel', but he likit weel to stan' oot by an' luik

on.'

A deep sigh, almost a groan, from the bed, reminded them that they

were talking too much and too loud for a sick-room. It was followed

by the words, muttered, but articulate,

'What's the good when you don't know whether there's a God at all?'

''Deed, that's verra true, Mr. Ericson,' returned Robert. 'I wish ye

wad fin' oot an' tell me. I wad be blithe to hear what ye had to

say anent it--gin it was ay, ye ken.'

Ericson went on murmuring, but inarticulately now.

'This won't do at all, Robert, my boy,' said Dr. Anderson. 'You must

not talk about such things with him, or indeed about anything. You

must keep him as quiet as ever you can.'

'I thocht he was comin' till himsel',' returned Robert. 'But I will

tak care, I assure ye, doctor. Only I'm feared I may fa' asleep the

nicht, for I was dooms sleepy this mornin'.'

'I will send Johnston as soon as I get home, and you must go to bed

when he comes.'

''Deed, doctor, that winna do at a'. It wad be ower mony strange

faces a'thegither. We'll get Mistress Fyvie to luik till 'im the

day, an' Shargar canna work the morn, bein' Sunday. An' I'll gang

to my bed for fear o' doin' waur, though I doobt I winna sleep i'

the daylicht.'

Dr. Anderson was satisfied, and went home--cogitating much. This

boy, this cousin of his, made a vortex of good about him into which

whoever came near it was drawn. He seemed at the same time quite

unaware of anything worthy in his conduct. The good he did sprung

from some inward necessity, with just enough in it of the salt of

choice to keep it from losing its savour. To these cogitations of

Dr. Anderson, I add that there was no conscious exercise of religion

in it--for there his mind was all at sea. Of course I believe

notwithstanding that religion had much, I ought to say everything,

to do with it. Robert had not yet found in God a reason for being

true to his fellows; but, if God was leading him to be the man he

became, how could any good results of this leading be other than

religion? All good is of God. Robert began where he could. The

first table was too high for him; he began with the second. If a

man love his brother whom he hath seen, the love of God whom he hath

not seen, is not very far off. These results in Robert were the

first outcome of divine facts and influences--they were the buds of

the fruit hereafter to be gathered in perfect devotion. God be

praised by those who know religion to be the truth of humanity--its

own truth that sets it free--not binds, and lops, and mutilates it!

who see God to be the father of every human soul--the ideal Father,

not an inventor of schemes, or the upholder of a court etiquette for

whose use he has chosen to desecrate the name of justice!

To return to Dr. Anderson. I have had little opportunity of knowing

his history in India. He returned from it half-way down the hill of

life, sad, gentle, kind, and rich. Whence his sadness came, we need

not inquire. Some woman out in that fervid land may have darkened

his story--darkened it wronglessly, it may be, with coldness, or

only with death. But to return home without wife to accompany him

or child to meet him,--to sit by his riches like a man over a fire

of straws in a Siberian frost; to know that old faces were gone and

old hearts changed, that the pattern of things in the heavens had

melted away from the face of the earth, that the chill evenings of

autumn were settling down into longer and longer nights, and that no

hope lay any more beyond the mountains--surely this was enough to

make a gentle-minded man sad, even if the individual sorrows of his

history had gathered into gold and purple in the west. I say west

advisedly. For we are journeying, like our globe, ever towards the

east. Death and the west are behind us--ever behind us, and

settling into the unchangeable.

It was natural that he should be interested in the fine promise of

Robert, in whom he saw revived the hopes of his own youth, but in a

nature at once more robust and more ideal. Where the doctor was

refined, Robert was strong; where the doctor was firm with a

firmness he had cultivated, Robert was imperious with an

imperiousness time would mellow; where the doctor was generous and

careful at once, Robert gave his mite and forgot it. He was rugged

in the simplicity of his truthfulness, and his speech bewrayed him

as altogether of the people; but the doctor knew the hole of the pit

whence he had been himself digged. All that would fall away as the

spiky shell from the polished chestnut, and be reabsorbed in the

growth of the grand cone-flowering tree, to stand up in the sun and

wind of the years a very altar of incense. It is no wonder, I

repeat, that he loved the boy, and longed to further his plans. But

he was too wise to overwhelm him with a cataract of fortune instead

of blessing him with the merciful dew of progress.

'The fellow will bring me in for no end of expense,' he said,

smiling to himself, as he drove home in his chariot. 'The less he

means it the more unconscionable he will be. There's that

Ericson--but that isn't worth thinking of. I must do something for

that queer prot g of his, though--that Shargar. The fellow is as? ?

good as a dog, and that's saying not a little for him. I wonder if

he can learn--or if he takes after his father the marquis, who never

could spell. Well, it is a comfort to have something to do worth

doing. I did think of endowing a hospital; but I'm not sure that it

isn't better to endow a good man than a hospital. I'll think about

it. I won't say anything about Shargar either, till I see how he

goes on. I might give him a job, though, now and then. But where

to fall in with him--prowling about after jobs?'

He threw himself back in his seat, and laughed with a delight he had

rarely felt. He was a providence watching over the boys, who

expected nothing of him beyond advice for Ericson! Might there not

be a Providence that equally transcended the vision of men, shaping

to nobler ends the blocked-out designs of their rough-hewn marbles?

His thoughts wandered back to his friend the Brahmin, who died

longing for that absorption into deity which had been the dream of

his life: might not the Brahmin find the grand idea shaped to yet

finer issues than his aspiration had dared contemplate?--might he

not inherit in the purification of his will such an absorption as

should intensify his personality?

CHAPTER IX.

A HUMAN SOUL.

Ericson lay for several weeks, during which time Robert and Shargar

were his only nurses. They contrived, by abridging both rest and

labour, to give him constant attendance. Shargar went to bed early

and got up early, so as to let Robert have a few hours' sleep before

his classes began. Robert again slept in the evening, after Shargar

came home, and made up for the time by reading while he sat by his

friend. Mrs. Fyvie's attendance was in requisition only for the

hours when he had to be at lectures. By the greatest economy of

means, consisting of what Shargar brought in by jobbing about the

quay and the coach-offices, and what Robert had from Dr. Anderson

for copying his manuscript, they contrived to procure for Ericson

all that he wanted. The shopping of the two boys, in their utter

ignorance of such delicacies as the doctor told them to get for him,

the blunders they made as to the shops at which they were to be

bought, and the consultations they held, especially about the

preparing of the prescribed nutriment, afforded them many an amusing

retrospect in after years. For the house was so full of lodgers,

that Robert begged Mrs. Fyvie to give herself no trouble in the

matter. Her conscience, however, was uneasy, and she spoke to Dr.

Anderson; but he assured her that she might trust the boys. What

cooking they could not manage, she undertook cheerfully, and refused

to add anything to the rent on Shargar's account.

Dr. Anderson watched everything, the two boys as much as his

patient. He allowed them to work on, sending only the wine that was

necessary from his own cellar. The moment the supplies should begin

to fail, or the boys to look troubled, he was ready to do more.

About Robert's perseverance he had no doubt: Shargar's faithfulness

he wanted to prove.

Robert wrote to his grandmother to tell her that Shargar was with

him, working hard. Her reply was somewhat cold and offended, but

was inclosed in a parcel containing all Shargar's garments, and

ended with the assurance that as long as he did well she was ready

to do what she could.

Few English readers will like Mrs. Falconer; but her grandchild

considered her one of the noblest women ever God made; and I, from

his account, am of the same mind. Her care was fixed

To fill her odorous lamp with deeds of light,

And hope that reaps not shame.

And if one must choose between the how and the what, let me have the

what, come of the how what may. I know of a man so sensitive, that

he shuts his ears to his sister's griefs, because it spoils his

digestion to think of them.

One evening Robert was sitting by the table in Ericson's room. Dr.

Anderson had not called that day, and he did not expect to see him

now, for he had never come so late. He was quite at his ease,

therefore, and busy with two things at once, when the doctor opened

the door and walked in. I think it is possible that he came up

quietly with some design of surprising him. He found him with a

stocking on one hand, a darning needle in the other, and a Greek

book open before him. Taking no apparent notice of him, he walked

up to the bedside, and Robert put away his work. After his

interview with his patient was over, the doctor signed to him to

follow him to the next room. There Shargar lay on the rug already

snoring. It was a cold night in December, but he lay in his

under-clothing, with a single blanket round him.

'Good training for a soldier,' said the doctor; 'and so was your

work a minute ago, Robert.'

'Ay,' answered Robert, colouring a little; 'I was readin' a bit o'

the Anabasis.'

The doctor smiled a far-off sly smile.

'I think it was rather the Katabasis, if one might venture to judge

from the direction of your labours.'

'Weel,' answered Robert, 'what wad ye hae me do? Wad ye hae me lat

Mr. Ericson gang wi' holes i' the heels o' 's hose, whan I can mak

them a' snod, an' learn my Greek at the same time? Hoots, doctor!

dinna lauch at me. I was doin' nae ill. A body may please

themsel's--whiles surely, ohn sinned.'

'But it's such waste of time! Why don't you buy him new ones?'

''Deed that's easier said than dune. I hae eneuch ado wi' my siller

as 'tis; an' gin it warna for you, doctor, I do not ken what wad

come o' 's; for ye see I hae no richt to come upo' my grannie for

ither fowk. There wad be nae en' to that.'

'But I could lend you the money to buy him some stockings.'

'An' whan wad I be able to pay ye, do ye think, doctor? In anither

warl' maybe, whaur the currency micht be sae different there wad be

no possibility o' reckonin' the rate o' exchange. Na, na.'

'But I will give you the money if you like.'

'Na, na. You hae dune eneuch already, an' mony thanks. Siller's no

sae easy come by to be wastit, as lang's a darn 'll do. Forbye, gin

ye began wi' his claes, ye wadna ken whaur to haud; for it wad jist

be the new claith upo' the auld garment: ye micht as weel new cleed

him at ance.'

'And why not if I choose, Mr. Falconer?'

'Speir ye that at him, an' see what ye'll get--a luik 'at wad fess a

corbie (carrion crow) frae the lift (sky). I wadna hae ye try that.

Some fowk's poverty maun be han'let jist like a sair place, doctor.

He canna weel compleen o' a bit darnin'.--He canna tak that ill,'

repeated Robert, in a tone that showed he yet felt some anxiety on

the subject; 'but new anes! I wadna like to be by whan he fand that

oot. Maybe he micht tak them frae a wuman; but frae a man

body!--na, na; I maun jist darn awa'. But I'll mak them dacent

eneuch afore I hae dune wi' them. A fiddler has fingers.'

The doctor smiled a pleased smile; but when he got into his

carriage, again he laughed heartily.

The evening deepened into night. Robert thought Ericson was asleep.

But he spoke.

'Who is that at the street door?' he said.

They were at the top of the house, and there was no window to the

street. But Ericson's senses were preternaturally acute, as is

often the case in such illnesses.

'I dinna hear onybody,' answered Robert.

'There was somebody,' returned Ericson.

>From that moment he began to be restless, and was more feverish than

usual throughout the night.

Up to this time he had spoken little, was depressed with a suffering

to which he could give no name--not pain, he said--but such that he

could rouse no mental effort to meet it: his endurance was passive

altogether. This night his brain was more affected. He did not

rave, but often wandered; never spoke nonsense, but many words that

would have seemed nonsense to ordinary people: to Robert they seemed

inspired. His imagination, which was greater than any other of his

fine faculties, was so roused that he talked in verse--probably

verse composed before and now recalled. He would even pray

sometimes in measured lines, and go on murmuring petitions, till the

words of the murmur became undistinguishable, and he fell asleep.

But even in his sleep he would speak; and Robert would listen in

awe; for such words, falling from such a man, were to him as dim

breaks of coloured light from the rainbow walls of the heavenly

city.

'If God were thinking me,' said Ericson, 'ah! But if he be only

dreaming me, I shall go mad.'

Ericson's outside was like his own northern clime--dark, gentle, and

clear, with gray-blue seas, and a sun that seems to shine out of the

past, and know nothing of the future. But within glowed a volcanic

angel of aspiration, fluttering his half-grown wings, and ever

reaching towards the heights whence all things are visible, and

where all passions are safe because true, that is divine. Iceland

herself has her Hecla.

Robert listened with keenest ear. A mist of great meaning hung

about the words his friend had spoken. He might speak more. For

some minutes he listened in vain, and was turning at last towards

his book in hopelessness, when he did speak yet again: Robert's ear

soon detected the rhythmic motion of his speech.

'Come in the glory of thine excellence;

Rive the dense gloom with wedges of clear light;

And let the shimmer of thy chariot wheels

Burn through the cracks of night.--So slowly, Lord,

To lift myself to thee with hands of toil,

Climbing the slippery cliff of unheard prayer!

Lift up a hand among my idle days--

One beckoning finger. I will cast aside

The clogs of earthly circumstance, and run

Up the broad highways where the countless worlds

Sit ripening in the summer of thy love.'

Breathless for fear of losing a word, Robert yet remembered that he

had seen something like these words in the papers Ericson had given

him to read on the night when his illness began. When he had fallen

asleep and silent, he searched and found the poem from which I give

the following extracts. He had not looked at the papers since that

night.

A PRAYER.

O Lord, my God, how long

Shall my poor heart pant for a boundless joy?

How long, O mighty Spirit, shall I hear

The murmur of Truth's crystal waters slide

>From the deep caverns of their endless being,

But my lips taste not, and the grosser air

Choke each pure inspiration of thy will?

I would be a wind,

Whose smallest atom is a viewless wing,

All busy with the pulsing life that throbs

To do thy bidding; yea, or the meanest thing

That has relation to a changeless truth

Could I but be instinct with thee--each thought

The lightning of a pure intelligence,

And every act as the loud thunder-clap

Of currents warring for a vacuum.

Lord, clothe me with thy truth as with a robe.

Purge me with sorrow. I will bend my head,

And let the nations of thy waves pass over,

Bathing me in thy consecrated strength.

And let the many-voiced and silver winds

Pass through my frame with their clear influence.

O save me--I am blind; lo! thwarting shapes

Wall up the void before, and thrusting out

Lean arms of unshaped expectation, beckon

Down to the night of all unholy thoughts.

I have seen

Unholy shapes lop off my shining thoughts,

Which I had thought nursed in thine emerald light;

And they have lent me leathern wings of fear,

Of baffled pride and harrowing distrust;

And Godhead with its crown of many stars,

Its pinnacles of flaming holiness,

And voice of leaves in the green summer-time,

Has seemed the shadowed image of a self.

Then my soul blackened; and I rose to find

And grasp my doom, and cleave the arching deeps

Of desolation.

O Lord, my soul is a forgotten well;

Clad round with its own rank luxuriance;

A fountain a kind sunbeam searches for,

Sinking the lustre of its arrowy finger

Through the long grass its own strange virtue5

Hath blinded up its crystal eye withal:

Make me a broad strong river coming down

With shouts from its high hills, whose rocky hearts

Throb forth the joy of their stability

In watery pulses from their inmost deeps,

And I shall be a vein upon thy world,

Circling perpetual from the parent deep.

O First and Last, O glorious all in all,

In vain my faltering human tongue would seek

To shape the vesture of the boundless thought,

Summing all causes in one burning word;

Give me the spirit's living tongue of fire,

Whose only voice is in an attitude

Of keenest tension, bent back on itself

With a strong upward force; even as thy bow

Of bended colour stands against the north,

And, in an attitude to spring to heaven,

Lays hold of the kindled hills.

Most mighty One,

Confirm and multiply my thoughts of good;

Help me to wall each sacred treasure round

With the firm battlements of special action.

Alas my holy, happy thoughts of thee

Make not perpetual nest within my soul,

But like strange birds of dazzling colours stoop

The trailing glories of their sunward speed,

For one glad moment filling my blasted boughs

With the sunshine of their wings.

Make me a forest

Of gladdest life, wherein perpetual spring

Lifts up her leafy tresses in the wind.

Lo! now I see

Thy trembling starlight sit among my pines,

And thy young moon slide down my arching boughs

With a soft sound of restless eloquence.

And I can feel a joy as when thy hosts

Of trampling winds, gathering in maddened bands,

Roar upward through the blue and flashing day

Round my still depths of uncleft solitude.

Hear me, O Lord,

When the black night draws down upon my soul,

And voices of temptation darken down

The misty wind, slamming thy starry doors,

With bitter jests. 'Thou fool!' they seem to say

'Thou hast no seed of goodness in thee; all

Thy nature hath been stung right through and through.

Thy sin hath blasted thee, and made thee old.

Thou hadst a will, but thou hast killed it--dead--

And with the fulsome garniture of life

Built out the loathsome corpse. Thou art a child

Of night and death, even lower than a worm.

Gather the skirts up of thy shadowy self,

And with what resolution thou hast left,

Fall on the damned spikes of doom.'

O take me like a child,

If thou hast made me for thyself, my God,

And lead me up thy hills. I shall not fear

So thou wilt make me pure, and beat back sin

With the terrors of thine eye.

Lord hast thou sent

Thy moons to mock us with perpetual hope?

Lighted within our breasts the love of love,

To make us ripen for despair, my God?

Oh, dost thou hold each individual soul

Strung clear upon thy flaming rods of purpose?

Or does thine inextinguishable will

Stand on the steeps of night with lifted hand,

Filling the yawning wells of monstrous space

With mixing thought--drinking up single life

As in a cup? and from the rending folds

Of glimmering purpose, the gloom do all thy navied stars

Slide through the gloom with mystic melody,

Like wishes on a brow? Oh, is my soul,

Hung like a dew-drop in thy grassy ways,

Drawn up again into the rack of change,

Even through the lustre which created it?

O mighty one, thou wilt not smite me through

With scorching wrath, because my spirit stands

Bewildered in thy circling mysteries.

Here came the passage Robert had heard him repeat, and then the

following paragraph:

Lord, thy strange mysteries come thickening down

Upon my head like snow-flakes, shutting out

The happy upper fields with chilly vapour.

Shall I content my soul with a weak sense

Of safety? or feed my ravenous hunger with

Sore-purged hopes, that are not hopes, but fears

Clad in white raiment?

I know not but some thin and vaporous fog,

Fed with the rank excesses of the soul,

Mocks the devouring hunger of my life

With satisfaction: lo! the noxious gas

Feeds the lank ribs of gaunt and ghastly death

With double emptiness, like a balloon,

Borne by its lightness o'er the shining lands,

A wonder and a laughter.

The creeds lie in the hollow of men's hearts

Like festering pools glassing their own corruption:

The slimy eyes stare up with dull approval,

And answer not when thy bright starry feet

Move on the watery floors.

O wilt thou hear me when I cry to thee?

I am a child lost in a mighty forest;

The air is thick with voices, and strange hands

Reach through the dusk and pluck me by the skirts.

There is a voice which sounds like words from home,

But, as I stumble on to reach it, seems

To leap from rock to rock. Oh! if it is

Willing obliquity of sense, descend,

Heal all my wanderings, take me by the hand,

And lead me homeward through the shadows.

Let me not by my wilful acts of pride

Block up the windows of thy truth, and grow

A wasted, withered thing, that stumbles on

Down to the grave with folded hands of sloth

And leaden confidence.

There was more of it, as my type indicates. Full of faults, I have

given so much to my reader, just as it stood upon Ericson's blotted

papers, the utterance of a true soul 'crying for the light.' But I

give also another of his poems, which Robert read at the same time,

revealing another of his moods when some one of the clouds of holy

doubt and questioning love which so often darkened his sky, did at

length

Turn forth her silver lining on the night:

SONG.

They are blind and they are dead:

We will wake them as we go;

There are words have not been said;

There are sounds they do not know.

We will pipe and we will sing--

With the music and the spring,

Set their hearts a wondering.

They are tired of what is old:

We will give it voices new;

For the half hath not been told

Of the Beautiful and True.

Drowsy eyelids shut and sleeping!

Heavy eyes oppressed with weeping!

Flashes through the lashes leaping!

Ye that have a pleasant voice,

Hither come without delay;

Ye will never have a choice

Like to that ye have to-day:

Round the wide world we will go,

Singing through the frost and snow,

Till the daisies are in blow.

Ye that cannot pipe or sing,

Ye must also come with speed;

Ye must come and with you bring

Weighty words and weightier deed:

Helping hands and loving eyes,

These will make them truly wise--

Then will be our Paradise.

As Robert read, the sweetness of the rhythm seized upon him, and,

almost unconsciously, he read the last stanza aloud. Looking up

from the paper with a sigh of wonder and delight--there was the pale

face of Ericson gazing at him from the bed! He had risen on one

arm, looking like a dead man called to life against his will, who

found the world he had left already stranger to him than the one

into which he had but peeped.

'Yes,' he murmured; 'I could say that once. It's all gone now. Our

world is but our moods.'

He fell back on his pillow. After a little, he murmured again:

'I might fool myself with faith again. So it is better not. I

would not be fooled. To believe the false and be happy is the very

belly of misery. To believe the true and be miserable, is to be

true--and miserable. If there is no God, let me know it. I will

not be fooled. I will not believe in a God that does not exist.

Better be miserable because I am, and cannot help it.--O God!'

Yet in his misery, he cried upon God.

These words came upon Robert with such a shock of sympathy, that

they destroyed his consciousness for the moment, and when he thought

about them, he almost doubted if he had heard them. He rose and

approached the bed. Ericson lay with his eyes closed, and his face

contorted as by inward pain. Robert put a spoonful of wine to his

lips. He swallowed it, opened his eyes, gazed at the boy as if he

did not know him, closed them again, and lay still.

Some people take comfort from the true eyes of a dog--and a precious

thing to the loving heart is the love of even a dumb animal.6 What

comfort then must not such a boy as Robert have been to such a man

as Ericson! Often and often when he was lying asleep as Robert

thought, he was watching the face of his watcher. When the human

soul is not yet able to receive the vision of the God-man, God

sometimes--might I not say always?--reveals himself, or at least

gives himself, in some human being whose face, whose hands are the

ministering angels of his unacknowledged presence, to keep alive the

fire of love on the altar of the heart, until God hath provided the

sacrifice--that is, until the soul is strong enough to draw it from

the concealing thicket. Here were two, each thinking that God had

forsaken him, or was not to be found by him, and each the very love

of God, commissioned to tend the other's heart. In each was he

present to the other. The one thought himself the happiest of

mortals in waiting upon his big brother, whose least smile was joy

enough for one day; the other wondered at the unconscious goodness

of the boy, and while he gazed at his ruddy-brown face, believed in

God.

For some time after Ericson was taken ill, he was too depressed and

miserable to ask how he was cared for. But by slow degrees it

dawned upon him that a heart deep and gracious, like that of a

woman, watched over him. True, Robert was uncouth, but his

uncouthness was that of a half-fledged angel. The heart of the man

and the heart of the boy were drawn close together. Long before

Ericson was well he loved Robert enough to be willing to be indebted

to him, and would lie pondering--not how to repay him, but how to

return his kindness.

How much Robert's ambition to stand well in the eyes of Miss St.

John contributed to his progress I can only imagine; but certainly

his ministrations to Ericson did not interfere with his Latin and

Greek. I venture to think that they advanced them, for difficulty

adds to result, as the ramming of the powder sends the bullet the

further. I have heard, indeed, that when a carrier wants to help

his horse up hill, he sets a boy on his back.

Ericson made little direct acknowledgment to Robert: his tones, his

gestures, his looks, all thanked him; but he shrunk from words, with

the maidenly shamefacedness that belongs to true feeling. He would

even assume the authoritative, and send him away to his studies, but

Robert knew how to hold his own. The relation of elder brother and

younger was already established between them. Shargar likewise took

his share in the love and the fellowship, worshipping in that he

believed.

CHAPTER X.

A FATHER AND A DAUGHTER.

The presence at the street door of which Ericson's over-acute sense

had been aware on a past evening, was that of Mr. Lindsay, walking

home with bowed back and bowed head from the college library, where

he was privileged to sit after hours as long as he pleased over

books too big to be comfortably carried home to his cottage. He had

called to inquire after Ericson, whose acquaintance he had made in

the library, and cultivated until almost any Friday evening Ericson

was to be found seated by Mr. Lindsay's parlour fire.

As he entered the room that same evening, a young girl raised

herself from a low seat by the fire to meet him. There was a faint

rosy flush on her cheek, and she held a volume in her hand as she

approached her father. They did not kiss: kisses were not a legal

tender in Scotland then: possibly there has been a depreciation in

the value of them since they were.

'I've been to ask after Mr. Ericson,' said Mr. Lindsay.

'And how is he?' asked the girl.

'Very poorly indeed,' answered her father.

'I am sorry. You'll miss him, papa.'

'Yes, my dear. Tell Jenny to bring my lamp.'

'Won't you have your tea first, papa?'

'Oh yes, if it's ready.'

'The kettle has been boiling for a long time, but I wouldn't make

the tea till you came in.'

Mr. Lindsay was an hour later than usual, but Mysie was quite

unaware of that: she had been absorbed in her book, too much

absorbed even to ring for better light than the fire afforded. When

her father went to put off his long, bifurcated greatcoat, she

returned to her seat by the fire, and forgot to make the tea. It

was a warm, snug room, full of dark, old-fashioned, spider-legged

furniture; low-pitched, with a bay-window, open like an ear to the

cries of the German Ocean at night, and like an eye during the day

to look out upon its wide expanse. This ear or eye was now

curtained with dark crimson, and the room, in the firelight, with

the young girl for a soul to it, affected one like an ancient book

in which he reads his own latest thought.

Mysie was nothing over the middle height--delicately-fashioned, at

once slender and round, with extremities neat as buds. Her

complexion was fair, and her face pale, except when a flush, like

that of a white rose, overspread it. Her cheek was lovelily curved,

and her face rather short. But at first one could see nothing for

her eyes. They were the largest eyes; and their motion reminded one

of those of Sordello in the Purgatorio:

E nel muover degli occhi onesta e tarda:

they seemed too large to move otherwise than with a slow turning

like that of the heavens. At first they looked black, but if one

ventured inquiry, which was as dangerous as to gaze from the

battlements of Elsinore, he found them a not very dark brown. In

her face, however, especially when flushed, they had all the effect

of what Milton describes as

Quel sereno fulgor d'amabil nero.

A wise observer would have been a little troubled in regarding her

mouth. The sadness of a morbid sensibility hovered about it--the

sign of an imagination wrought upon from the centre of self. Her

lips were neither thin nor compressed--they closed lightly, and were

richly curved; but there was a mobility almost tremulous about the

upper lip that gave sign of the possibility of such an oscillation

of feeling as might cause the whole fabric of her nature to rock

dangerously.

The moment her father re-entered, she started from her stool on the

rug, and proceeded to make the tea. Her father took no notice of

her neglect, but drew a chair to the table, helped himself to a

piece of oat-cake, hastily loaded it with as much butter as it could

well carry, and while eating it forgot it and everything else in the

absorption of a volume he had brought in with him from his study, in

which he was tracing out some genealogical thread of which he

fancied he had got a hold. Mysie was very active now, and lost the

expression of far-off-ness which had hitherto characterized her

countenance; till, having poured out the tea, she too plunged at

once into her novel, and, like her father, forgot everything and

everybody near her.

Mr. Lindsay was a mild, gentle man, whose face and hair seemed to

have grown gray together. He was very tall, and stooped much. He

had a mouth of much sensibility, and clear blue eyes, whose light

was rarely shed upon any one within reach except his daughter--they

were so constantly bent downwards, either on the road as he walked,

or on his book as he sat. He had been educated for the church, but

had never risen above the position of a parish school-master. He

had little or no impulse to utterance, was shy, genial, and, save in

reading, indolent. Ten years before this point of my history he had

been taken up by an active lawyer in Edinburgh, from information

accidentally supplied by Mr. Lindsay himself, as the next heir to a

property to which claim was laid by the head of a county family of

wealth. Probabilities were altogether in his favour, when he gave

up the contest upon the offer of a comfortable annuity from the

disputant. To leave his schooling and his possible estate together,

and sit down comfortably by his own fireside, with the means of

buying books, and within reach of a good old library--that of King's

College by preference--was to him the sum of all that was desirable.

The income offered him was such that he had no doubt of laying

aside enough for his only child, Mysie; but both were so ill-fitted

for saving, he from looking into the past, she from looking

into--what shall I call it? I can only think of negatives--what was

neither past, present, nor future, neither material nor eternal,

neither imaginative in any true sense, nor actual in any sense, that

up to the present hour there was nothing in the bank, and only the

money for impending needs in the house. He could not be called a

man of learning; he was only a great bookworm; for his reading lay

all in the nebulous regions of history. Old family records,

wherever he could lay hold upon them, were his favourite dishes;

old, musty books, that looked as if they knew something everybody

else had forgotten, made his eyes gleam, and his white

taper-fingered hand tremble with eagerness. With such a book in his

grasp he saw something ever beckoning him on, a dimly precious

discovery, a wonderful fact just the shape of some missing fragment

in the mosaic of one of his pictures of the past. To tell the

truth, however, his discoveries seldom rounded themselves into

pictures, though many fragments of the minutely dissected map would

find their places, whereupon he rejoiced like a mild giant refreshed

with soda-water. But I have already said more about him than his

place justifies; therefore, although I could gladly linger over the

portrait, I will leave it. He had taught his daughter next to

nothing. Being his child, he had the vague feeling that she

inherited his wisdom, and that what he knew she knew. So she sat

reading novels, generally trashy ones, while he knew no more of what

was passing in her mind than of what the Admirable Crichton might,

at the moment, be disputing with the angels.

I would not have my reader suppose that Mysie's mind was corrupted.

It was so simple and childlike, leaning to what was pure, and

looking up to what was noble, that anything directly bad in the

books she happened--for it was all haphazard--to read, glided over

her as a black cloud may glide over a landscape, leaving it sunny as

before.

I cannot therefore say, however, that she was nothing the worse. If

the darkening of the sun keep the fruits of the earth from growing,

the earth is surely the worse, though it be blackened by no deposit

of smoke. And where good things do not grow, the wild and possibly

noxious will grow more freely. There may be no harm in the yellow

tanzie--there is much beauty in the red poppy; but they are not good

for food. The result in Mysie's case would be this--not that she

would call evil good and good evil, but that she would take the

beautiful for the true and the outer shows of goodness for goodness

itself--not the worst result, but bad enough, and involving an awful

amount of suffering and possibly of defilement. He who thinks to

climb the hill of happiness thus, will find himself floundering in

the blackest bog that lies at the foot of its precipices. I say he,

not she, advisedly. All will acknowledge it of the woman: it is as

true of the man, though he may get out easier. Will he? I say,

checking myself. I doubt it much. In the world's eye, yes; but in

God's? Let the question remain unanswered.

When he had eaten his toast, and drunk his tea, apparently without

any enjoyment, Mr. Lindsay rose with his book in his hand, and

withdrew to his study.

He had not long left the room when Mysie was startled by a loud

knock at the back door, which opened on a lane, leading along the

top of the hill. But she had almost forgotten it again, when the

door of the room opened, and a gentleman entered without any

announcement--for Jenny had never heard of the custom. When she saw

him, Mysie started from her seat, and stood in visible

embarrassment. The colour went and came on her lovely face, and her

eyelids grew very heavy. She had never seen the visitor before:

whether he had ever seen her before, I cannot certainly say. She

felt herself trembling in his presence, while he advanced with

perfect composure. He was a man no longer young, but in the full

strength and show of manhood--the Baron of Rothie. Since the time

of my first description of him, he had grown a moustache, which

improved his countenance greatly, by concealing his upper lip with

its tusky curves. On a girl like Mysie, with an imagination so

cultivated, and with no opportunity of comparing its fancies with

reality, such a man would make an instant impression.

'I beg your pardon, Miss--Lindsay, I presume?--for intruding upon

you so abruptly. I expected to see your father--not one of the

graces.'

She blushed all the colour of her blood now. The baron was quite

enough like the hero of whom she had just been reading to admit of

her imagination jumbling the two. Her book fell. He lifted it and

laid it on the table. She could not speak even to thank him. Poor

Mysie was scarcely more than sixteen.

'May I wait here till your father is informed of my visit?' he

asked.

Her only answer was to drop again upon her low stool.

Now Jenny had left it to Mysie to acquaint her father with the fact

of the baron's presence; but before she had time to think of the

necessity of doing something, he had managed to draw her into

conversation. He was as great a hypocrite as ever walked the earth,

although he flattered himself that he was none, because he never

pretended to cultivate that which he despised--namely, religion.

But he was a hypocrite nevertheless; for the falser he knew

himself, the more honour he judged it to persuade women of his

truth.

It is unnecessary to record the slight, graceful, marrowless talk

into which he drew Mysie, and by which he both bewildered and

bewitched her. But at length she rose, admonished by her inborn

divinity, to seek her father. As she passed him, the baron took her

hand and kissed it. She might well tremble. Even such contact was

terrible. Why? Because there was no love in it. When the sense of

beauty which God had given him that he might worship, awoke in Lord

Rothie, he did not worship, but devoured, that he might, as he

thought, possess! The poison of asps was under those lips. His

kiss was as a kiss from the grave's mouth, for his throat was an

open sepulchre. This was all in the past, reader. Baron Rothie was

a foam-flake of the court of the Prince Regent. There are no such

men now-a-days! It is a shame to speak of such, and therefore they

are not! Decency has gone so far to abolish virtue. Would to God

that a writer could be decent and honest! St. Paul counted it a

shame to speak of some things, and yet he did speak of them--because

those to whom he spoke did them.

Lord Rothie had, in five minutes, so deeply interested Mr. Lindsay

in a question of genealogy, that he begged his lordship to call

again in a few days, when he hoped to have some result of research

to communicate.

One of the antiquarian's weaknesses, cause and result both of his

favourite pursuits, was an excessive reverence for rank. Had its

claims been founded on mediated revelation, he could not have

honoured it more. Hence when he communicated to his daughter the

name of their visitor, it was 'with bated breath and whispering

humbleness,' which deepened greatly the impression made upon her by

the presence and conversation of the baron. Mysie was in danger.

Shargar was late that evening, for he had a job that detained him.

As he handed over his money to Robert, he said,

'I saw Black Geordie the nicht again, stan'in' at a back door, an'

Jock Mitchell, upo' Reid Rorie, haudin' him.'

'Wha's Jock Mitchell?' asked Robert.

'My brither Sandy's ill-faured groom,' answered Shargar. 'Whatever

mischeef Sandy's up till, Jock comes in i' the heid or tail o' 't.'

'I wonner what he's up till noo.'

'Faith! nae guid. But I aye like waur to meet Sandy by himsel' upo'

that reekit deevil o' his. Man, it's awfu' whan Black Geordie turns

the white o' 's ee, an' the white o' 's teeth upo' ye. It's a' the

white 'at there is about 'im.'

'Wasna yer brither i' the airmy, Shargar?'

'Ow, 'deed ay. They tell me he was at Watterloo. He's a cornel, or

something like that.'

'Wha tellt ye a' that?'

'My mither whiles,' answered Shargar.

CHAPTER XI.

ROBERT'S VOW.

Ericson was recovering slowly. He could sit up in bed the greater

part of the day, and talk about getting out of it. He was able to

give Robert an occasional help with his Greek, and to listen with

pleasure to his violin. The night-watching grew less needful, and

Ericson would have dispensed with it willingly, but Robert would not

yet consent.

But Ericson had seasons of great depression, during which he could

not away with music, or listen to the words of the New Testament.

During one of these Robert had begun to read a chapter to him, in

the faint hope that he might draw some comfort from it.

'Shut the book,' he said. 'If it were the word of God to men, it

would have brought its own proof with it.'

'Are ye sure it hasna?' asked Robert.

'No,' answered Ericson. 'But why should a fellow that would give his

life--that's not much, but it's all I've got--to believe in God, not

be able? Only I confess that God in the New Testament wouldn't

satisfy me. There's no help. I must just die, and go and

see.--She'll be left without anybody. 'What does it matter? She

would not mind a word I said. And the God they talk about will just

let her take her own way. He always does.'

He had closed his eyes and forgotten that Robert heard him. He

opened them now, and fixed them on him with an expression that

seemed to ask, 'Have I been saying anything I ought not?'

Robert knelt by the bedside, and said, slowly, with strongly

repressed emotion,

'Mr. Ericson, I sweir by God, gin there be ane, that gin ye dee,

I'll tak up what ye lea' ahin' ye. Gin there be onybody ye want

luikit efter, I'll luik efter her. I'll do what I can for her to

the best o' my abeelity, sae help me God--aye savin' what I maun do

for my ain father, gin he be in life, to fess (bring) him back to

the richt gait, gin there be a richt gait. Sae ye can think aboot

whether there's onything ye wad like to lippen till me.'

A something grew in Ericson's eyes as Robert spoke. Before he had

finished, they beamed on the boy.

'I think there must be a God somewhere after all,' he said, half

soliloquizing. 'I should be sorry you hadn't a God, Robert. Why

should I wish it for your sake? How could I want one for myself if

there never was one? If a God had nothing to do with my making, why

should I feel that nobody but God can set things right? Ah! but he

must be such a God as I could imagine--altogether, absolutely true

and good. If we came out of nothing, we could not invent the idea

of a God--could we, Robert? Nothing would be our God. If we come

from God, nothing is more natural, nothing so natural, as to want

him, and when we haven't got him, to try to find him.--What if he

should be in us after all, and working in us this way? just this

very way of crying out after him?'

'Mr. Ericson,' cried Robert, 'dinna say ony mair 'at ye dinna

believe in God. Ye duv believe in 'im--mair, I'm thinkin', nor

onybody 'at I ken, 'cep', maybe, my grannie--only hers is a some

queer kin' o' a God to believe in. I dinna think I cud ever manage

to believe in him mysel'.'

Ericson sighed and was silent. Robert remained kneeling by his

bedside, happier, clearer-headed, and more hopeful than he had ever

been. What if all was right at the heart of things--right, even as

a man, if he could understand, would say was right; right, so that a

man who understood in part could believe it to be ten times more

right than he did understand! Vaguely, dimly, yet joyfully, Robert

saw something like this in the possibility of things. His heart was

full, and the tears filled his eyes. Ericson spoke again.

'I have felt like that often for a few moments,' he said; 'but

always something would come and blow it away. I remember one spring

morning--but if you will bring me that bundle of papers, I will show

you what, if I can find it, will let you understand--'

Robert rose, went to the cupboard, and brought the pile of loose

leaves. Ericson turned them over, and, Robert was glad to see, now

and then sorted them a little. At length he drew out a sheet,

carelessly written, carelessly corrected, and hard to read.

'It is not finished, or likely to be,' he said, as he put the paper

in Robert's hand.

'Won't you read it to me yourself, Mr. Ericson?' suggested Robert.

'I would sooner put it in the fire,' he answered--'it's fate,

anyhow. I don't know why I haven't burnt them all long ago.

Rubbish, and diseased rubbish! Read it yourself, or leave it.'

Eagerly Robert took it, and read. The following was the best he

could make of it:

Oh that a wind would call

>From the depths of the leafless wood!

Oh that a voice would fall

On the ear of my solitude!

Far away is the sea,

With its sound and its spirit-tone:

Over it white clouds flee,

But I am alone, alone.

Straight and steady and tall

The trees stand on their feet;

Fast by the old stone wall

The moss grows green and sweet;

But my heart is full of fears,

For the sun shines far away;

And they look in my face through tears,

And the light of a dying day.

My heart was glad last night,

As I pressed it with my palm;

Its throb was airy and light

As it sang some spirit-psalm;

But it died away in my breast

As I wandered forth to-day--

As a bird sat dead on its nest,

While others sang on the spray.

O weary heart of mine,

Is there ever a truth for thee?

Will ever a sun outshine

But the sun that shines on me?

Away, away through the air

The clouds and the leaves are blown;

And my heart hath need of prayer,

For it sitteth alone, alone.

And Robert looked with sad reverence at Ericson,--nor ever thought

that there was one who, in the face of the fact, and in recognition

of it, had dared say, 'Not a sparrow shall fall on the ground

without your Father.' The sparrow does fall--but he who sees it is

yet the Father.

And we know only the fall, and not the sparrow.

CHAPTER XII.

THE GRANITE CHURCH.

The next day was Sunday. Robert sat, after breakfast, by his

friend's bed.

'You haven't been to church for a long time, Robert: wouldn't you

like to go to-day?' said Ericson.

'I dinna want to lea' you, Mr. Ericson; I can bide wi' ye a' day the

day, an' that's better nor goin' to a' the kirks in Aberdeen.'

'I should like you to go to-day, though; and see if, after all,

there may not be a message for us. If the church be the house of

God, as they call it, there should be, now and then at least, some

sign of a pillar of fire about it, some indication of the presence

of God whose house it is. I wish you would go and see. I haven't

been to church for a long time, except to the college-chapel, and I

never saw anything more than a fog there.'

'Michtna the fog be the torn-edge like, o' the cloody pillar?'

suggested Robert.

'Very likely,' assented Ericson; 'for, whatever truth there may be

in Christianity, I'm pretty sure the mass of our clergy have never

got beyond Judaism. They hang on about the skirts of that cloud for

ever.'

'Ye see, they think as lang 's they see the fog, they hae a grup o'

something. But they canna get a grup o' the glory that excelleth,

for it's not to luik at, but to lat ye see a' thing.'

Ericson regarded him with some surprise. Robert hastened to be

honest.

'It's no that I ken onything aboot it, Mr. Ericson. I was only

bletherin' (talking nonsense)--rizzonin' frae the twa symbols o' the

cloud an' the fire--kennin' nothing aboot the thing itsel'. I'll

awa' to the kirk, an' see what it's like. Will I gie ye a buik

afore I gang?'

'No, thank you. I'll just lie quiet till you come back--if I can.'

Robert instructed Shargar to watch for the slightest sound from the

sick-room, and went to church.

As he approached the granite cathedral, the only one in the world, I

presume, its stern solidity, so like the country and its men, laid

hold of his imagination for the first time. No doubt the necessity

imposed by the unyielding material had its share, and that a large

one, in the character of the building: whence else that simplest of

west windows, seven lofty, narrow slits of light, parted by granite

shafts of equal width, filling the space between the corner

buttresses of the nave, and reaching from door to roof? whence else

the absence of tracery in the windows--except the severely gracious

curves into which the mullions divide?--But this cause could not

have determined those towers, so strong that they might have borne

their granite weight soaring aloft, yet content with the depth of

their foundation, and aspiring not. The whole aspect of the

building is an outcome, an absolute blossom of the northern nature.

There is but the nave of the church remaining. About 1680, more

than a century after the Reformation, the great tower fell,

destroying the choir, chancel, and transept, which have never been

rebuilt. May the reviving faith of the nation in its own history,

and God at the heart of it, lead to the restoration of this grand

old monument of the belief of their fathers. Deformed as the

interior then was with galleries, and with Gavin Dunbar's flat

ceiling, an awe fell upon Robert as he entered it. When in after

years he looked down from between the pillars of the gallery, that

creeps round the church through the thickness of the wall, like an

artery, and recalled the service of this Sunday morning, he felt

more strongly than ever that such a faith had not reared that

cathedral. The service was like the church only as a dead body is

like a man. There was no fervour in it, no aspiration. The great

central tower was gone.

That morning prayers and sermon were philosophically dull, and

respectable as any after-dinner speech. Nor could it well be

otherwise: one of the favourite sayings of its minister was, that a

clergyman is nothing but a moral policeman. As such, however, he

more resembled one of Dogberry's watch. He could not even preach

hell with any vigour; for as a gentleman he recoiled from the

vulgarity of the doctrine, yielding only a few feeble words on the

subject as a sop to the Cerberus that watches over the dues of the

Bible--quite unaware that his notion of the doctrine had been drawn

from the 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 consolation that.'

'Sma' eneuch,' responded Robert. 'I cudna help thinkin' I kent mony

a tyke (dog) that God had made wi' mair o' what I wad ca' the divine

natur' in him nor a' that Dr. Soulis made oot to be in God himsel'.

He had no ill intentions wi' us--it amuntit to that. He wasna

ill-willy, as the bairns say. But the doctor had some sair wark, I

thoucht, to mak that oot, seein' we war a' the children o' wrath,

accordin' to him, born in sin, and inheritin' the guilt o' Adam's

first trespass. I dinna think Dr. Soulis cud say that God had dune

the best he cud for 's. But he never tried to say onything like

that. He jist made oot that he was a verra respectable kin' o' a

God, though maybe no a'thing we micht wuss. We oucht to be thankfu'

that he gae's a wee blink o' a chance o' no bein' brunt to a'

eternity, wi' nae chance ava. I dinna say that he said that, but

that's what it a' seemed to me to come till. He said a hantle aboot

the care o' Providence, but a' the gude that he did seemed to me to

be but a haudin' aff o' something ill that he had made as weel. Ye

wad hae thocht the deevil had made the warl', and syne God had

pitten us intil 't, and jist gied a bit wag o' 's han' whiles to

haud the deevil aff o' 's whan he was like to destroy the breed

a'thegither. For the grace that he spak aboot, that was less nor

the nature an' the providence. I cud see unco little o' grace intil

't.'

Here Ericson broke in--fearful, apparently, lest his boyfriend

should be actually about to deny the God in whom he did not himself

believe.

'Robert,' he said solemnly, 'one thing is certain: if there be a God

at all, he is not like that. If there be a God at all, we shall

know him by his perfection--his grand perfect truth, fairness,

love--a love to make life an absolute good--not a mere accommodation

of difficulties, not a mere preponderance of the balance on the side

of well-being. Love only could have been able to create. But they

don't seem jealous for the glory of God, those men. They don't mind

a speck, or even a blot, here and there upon him. The world doesn't

make them miserable. They can get over the misery of their

fellow-men without being troubled about them, or about the God that

could let such things be.7 They represent a God who does wonderfully

well, on the whole, after a middling fashion. I want a God who

loves perfectly. He may kill; he may torture even; but if it be for

love's sake, Lord, here am I. Do with me as thou wilt.'

Had Ericson forgotten that he had no proof of such a God? The next

moment the intellectual demon was awake.

'But what's the good of it all?' he said. 'I don't even know that

there is anything outside of me.'

'Ye ken that I'm here, Mr. Ericson,' suggested Robert.

'I know nothing of the sort. You may be another phantom--only

clearer.'

'Ye speik to me as gin ye thocht me somebody.'

'So does the man to his phantoms, and you call him mad. It is but a

yielding to the pressure of constant suggestion. I do not know--I

cannot know if there is anything outside of me.'

'But gin there warna, there wad be naebody for ye to love, Mr.

Ericson.'

'Of course not.'

'Nor naebody to love you, Mr. Ericson.'

'Of course not.'

'Syne ye wad be yer ain God, Mr. Ericson.'

'Yes. That would follow.'

'I canna imagine a waur hell--closed in amo' naething--wi' naething

a' aboot ye, luikin' something a' the time--kennin' 'at it 's a' a

lee, and nae able to win clear o' 't.'

'It is hell, my boy, or anything worse you can call it.'

'What for suld ye believe that, than, Mr. Ericson? I wadna believe

sic an ill thing as that. I dinna think I cud believe 't, gin ye

war to pruv 't to me.'

'I don't believe it. Nobody could prove that either, even if it

were so. I am only miserable that I can't prove the contrary.'

'Suppose there war a God, Mr. Ericson, do ye think ye bude (behoved)

to be able to pruv that? Do ye think God cud stan' to be pruved as

gin he war something sma' eneuch to be turned roon' and roon', and

luikit at upo' ilka side? Gin there war a God, wadna it jist be

sae--that we cudna prove him to be, I mean?'

'Perhaps. That is something. I have often thought of that. But

then you can't prove anything about it.'

'I canna help thinkin' o' what Mr. Innes said to me ance. I was but

a laddie, but I never forgot it. I plaguit him sair wi' wantin' to

unnerstan' ilka thing afore I wad gang on wi' my questons (sums).

Says he, ae day, "Robert, my man, gin ye will aye unnerstan' afore

ye du as ye're tellt, ye'll never unnerstan' onything. But gin ye

du the thing I tell ye, ye'll be i' the mids o' 't afore ye ken 'at

ye're gaein' intil 't." I jist thocht I wad try him. It was at

lang division that I boglet maist. Weel, I gaed on, and I cud du

the thing weel eneuch, ohn made ae mistak. And aye I thocht the

maister was wrang, for I never kent the rizzon o' a' that beginnin'

at the wrang en', an' takin' doon an' substrackin', an' a' that. Ye

wad hardly believe me, Mr. Ericson: it was only this verra day, as I

was sittin' i' the kirk--it was a lang psalm they war singin'--that

ane wi' the foxes i' the tail o' 't--lang division came into my heid

again; and first aye bit glimmerin' o' licht cam in, and syne

anither, an' afore the psalm was dune I saw throu' the haill process

o' 't. But ye see, gin I hadna dune as I was tauld, and learnt a'

aboot hoo it was dune aforehan', I wad hae had naething to gang

rizzonin' aboot, an' wad hae fun' oot naething.'

'That's good, Robert. But when a man is dying for food, he can't

wait.'

'He micht try to get up and luik, though. He needna bide in 's bed

till somebody comes an' sweirs till him 'at he saw a haddie

(haddock) i' the press.'

'I have been looking, Robert--for years.'

'Maybe, like me, only for the rizzon o' 't, Mr. Ericson--gin ye'll

forgie my impidence.'

'But what's to be done in this case, Robert? Where's the work that

you can do in order to understand? Where's your long division,

man?'

'Ye're ayont me noo. I canna tell that, Mr. Ericson. It canna be

gaein' to the kirk, surely. Maybe it micht be sayin' yer prayers

and readin' yer Bible.'

Ericson did not reply, and the conversation dropped. Is it strange

that neither of these disciples should have thought of turning to

the story of Jesus, finding some word that he had spoken, and

beginning to do that as a first step towards a knowledge of the

doctrine that Jesus was the incarnate God, come to visit his

people--a very unlikely thing to man's wisdom, yet an idea that has

notwithstanding ascended above man's horizon, and shown itself the

grandest idea in his firmament?

In the evening Ericson asked again for his papers, from which he

handed Robert the following poem:--

WORDS IN THE NIGHT.

I woke at midnight, and my heart,

My beating heart said this to me:

Thou seest the moon how calm and bright

The world is fair by day and night,

But what is that to thee?

One touch to me--down dips the light

Over the land and sea.

All is mine, all is my own!

Toss the purple fountain high!

The breast of man is a vat of stone;

I am alive, I, only I!

One little touch and all is dark;

The winter with its sparkling moons

The spring with all her violets,

The crimson dawns and rich sunsets,

The autumn's yellowing noons.

I only toss my purple jets,

And thou art one that swoons

Upon a night of gust and roar,

Shipwrecked among the waves, and seems

Across the purple hills to roam;

Sweet odours touch him from the foam,

And downward sinking still he dreams

He walks the clover field at home,

And hears the rattling teams.

All is mine; all is my own!

Toss the purple fountain high!

The breast of man is a vat of stone;

I am alive, I, only I!

Thou hast beheld a throated fountain spout

Full in the air, and in the downward spray

A hovering Iris span the marble tank,

Which as the wind came, ever rose and sank

Violet and red; so my continual play

Makes beauty for the Gods with many a prank

Of human excellence, while they,

Weary of all the noon, in shadows sweet

Supine and heavy-eyed rest in the boundless heat:

Let the world's fountain play!

Beauty is pleasant in the eyes of Jove;

Betwixt the wavering shadows where he lies

He marks the dancing column with his eyes

Celestial, and amid his inmost grove

Upgathers all his limbs, serenely blest,

Lulled by the mellow noise of the great world's unrest.

One heart beats in all nature, differing

But in the work it works; its doubts and clamours

Are but the waste and brunt of instruments

Wherewith a work is done; or as the hammers

On forge Cyclopean plied beneath the rents

Of lowest Etna, conquering into shape

The hard and scattered ore:

Choose thou narcotics, and the dizzy grape

Outworking passion, lest with horrid crash

Thy life go from thee in a night of pain.

So tutoring thy vision, shall the flash

Of dove white-breasted be to thee no more

Than a white stone heavy upon the plain.

Hark the cock crows loud!

And without, all ghastly and ill,

Like a man uplift in his shroud,

The white white morn is propped on the hill;

And adown from the eaves, pointed and chill,

The icicles 'gin to glitter;

And the birds with a warble short and shrill,

Pass by the chamber-window still--

With a quick uneasy twitter.

Let me pump warm blood, for the cold is bitter;

And wearily, wearily, one by one,

Men awake with the weary sun.

Life is a phantom shut in thee;

I am the master and keep the key;

So let me toss thee the days of old,

Crimson and orange and green and gold;

So let me fill thee yet again

With a rush of dreams from my spout amain;

For all is mine; all is my own;

Toss the purple fountain high!

The breast of man is a vat of stone;

And I am alive, I, only I.

Robert having read, sat and wept in silence. Ericson saw him, and

said tenderly,

'Robert, my boy, I'm not always so bad as that. Read this

one--though I never feel like it now. Perhaps it may come again

some day, though. I may once more deceive myself and be happy.'

'Dinna say that, Mr. Ericson. That's waur than despair. That's

flat unbelief. Ye no more ken that ye're deceivin' yersel' than ye

ken that ye're no doin' 't.'

Ericson did not reply; and Robert read the following sonnet aloud,

feeling his way delicately through its mazes:--

Lie down upon the ground, thou hopeless one!

Press thy face in the grass, and do not speak.

Dost feel the green globe whirl? Seven times a week

Climbeth she out of darkness to the sun,

Which is her god; seven times she doth not shun

Awful eclipse, laying her patient cheek

Upon a pillow ghost-beset with shriek

Of voices utterless which rave and run

Through all the star-penumbra, craving light

And tidings of the dawn from East and West.

Calmly she sleepeth, and her sleep is blest

With heavenly visions, and the joy of Night

Treading aloft with moons. Nor hath she fright

Though cloudy tempests beat upon her breast.

Ericson turned his face to the wall, and Robert withdrew to his own

chamber.

CHAPTER XIII.

SHARGAR'S ARM.

Not many weeks passed before Shargar knew Aberdeen better than most

Aberdonians. From the Pier-head to the Rubislaw Road, he knew, if

not every court, yet every thoroughfare and short cut. And Aberdeen

began to know him. He was very soon recognized as trustworthy, and

had pretty nearly as much to do as he could manage. Shargar,

therefore, was all over the city like a cracker, and could have told

at almost any hour where Dr. Anderson was to be found--generally in

the lower parts of it, for the good man visited much among the poor;

giving them almost exclusively the benefit of his large experience.

Shargar delighted in keeping an eye upon the doctor, carefully

avoiding to show himself.

One day as he was hurrying through the Green (a non virendo) on a

mission from the Rothieden carrier, he came upon the doctor's

chariot standing in one of the narrowest streets, and, as usual,

paused to contemplate the equipage and get a peep of the owner. The

morning was very sharp. There was no snow, but a cold fog, like

vaporized hoar-frost, filled the air. It was weather in which the

East Indian could not venture out on foot, else he could have

reached the place by a stair from Union Street far sooner than he

could drive thither. His horses apparently liked the cold as little

as himself. They had been moving about restlessly for some time

before the doctor made his appearance. The moment he got in and

shut the door, one of them reared, while the other began to haul on

his traces, eager for a gallop. Something about the chain gave way,

the pole swerved round under the rearing horse, and great confusion

and danger would have ensued, had not Shargar rushed from his coign

of vantage, sprung at the bit of the rearing horse, and dragged him

off the pole, over which he was just casting his near leg. As soon

as his feet touched the ground he too pulled, and away went the

chariot and down went Shargar. But in a moment more several men had

laid hold of the horses' heads, and stopped them.

'Oh Lord!' cried Shargar, as he rose with his arm dangling by his

side, 'what will Donal' Joss say? I'm like to swarf (faint). Haud

awa' frae that basket, ye wuddyfous (withy-fowls, gallows-birds),'

he cried, darting towards the hamper he had left in the entry of a

court, round which a few ragged urchins had gathered; but just as he

reached it he staggered and fell. Nor did he know anything more

till he found the carriage stopping with himself and the hamper

inside it.

As soon as the coachman had got his harness put to rights, the

doctor had driven back to see how the lad had fared, for he had felt

the carriage go over something. They had found him lying beside his

hamper, had secured both, and as a preliminary measure were

proceeding to deliver the latter.

'Whaur am I? whaur the deevil am I?' cried Shargar, jumping up and

falling back again.

'Don't you know me, Moray?' said the doctor, for he felt shy of

calling the poor boy by his nickname: he had no right to do so.

'Na, I dinna ken ye. Lat me awa'.--I beg yer pardon, doctor: I

thocht ye was ane o' thae wuddyfous rinnin' awa' wi' Donal' Joss's

basket. Eh me! sic a stoun' i' my airm! But naebody ca's me Moray.

They a' ca' me Shargar. What richt hae I to be ca'd Moray?' added

the poor boy, feeling, I almost believe for the first time, the

stain upon his birth. Yet ye had as good a right before God to be

called Moray as any other son of that worthy sire, the Baron of

Rothie included. Possibly the trumpet-blowing angels did call him

Moray, or some better name.

'The coachman will deliver your parcel, Moray,' said the doctor,

this time repeating the name with emphasis.

'Deil a bit o' 't!' cried Shargar. 'He daurna lea' his box wi' thae

deevils o' horses. What gars he keep sic horses, doctor? They'll

play some mischeef some day.'

'Indeed, they've played enough already, my poor boy. They've broken

your arm.'

'Never min' that. That's no muckle. Ye're welcome, doctor, to my

twa airms for what ye hae dune for Robert an' that lang-leggit

frien' o' his--the Lord forgie me--Mr. Ericson. But ye maun jist

pay him what I canna mak for a day or twa, till 't jines again--to

haud them gaein', ye ken.--It winna be muckle to you, doctor,' added

Shargar, beseechingly.

'Trust me for that, Moray,' returned Dr. Anderson. 'I owe you a good

deal more than that. My brains might have been out by this time.'

'The Lord be praised!' said Shargar, making about his first

profession of Christianity. 'Robert 'ill think something o' me noo.'

During this conversation the coachman sat expecting some one to

appear from the shop, and longing to pitch into the 'camstary'

horse, but not daring to lift his whip beyond its natural angle. No

one came. All at once Shargar knew where he was.

'Guid be here! we're at Donal's door! Guid day to ye, doctor; an'

I'm muckle obleeged to ye. Maybe, gin ye war comin' oor gait, the

morn, or the neist day, to see Maister Ericson, ye wad tie up my

airm, for it gangs wallopin' aboot, an' that canna be guid for the

stickin' o' 't thegither again.'

'My poor boy! you don't think I'm going to leave you here, do you?'

said the doctor, proceeding to open the carriage-door.

'But whaur's the hamper?' said Shargar, looking about him in dismay.

'The coachman has got it on the box,' answered the doctor.

'Eh! that'll never do. Gin thae rampaugin' brutes war to tak a

start again, what wad come o' the bit basket? I maun get it doon

direckly.'

'Sit still. I will get it down, and deliver it myself.' As he

spoke the doctor got out.

'Tak care o' 't, sir; tak care o' 't. William Walker said there was

a jar o' drained hinney i' the basket; an' the bairns wad miss 't

sair gin 't war spult.'

'I will take good care of it,' responded the doctor.

He delivered the basket, returned to the carriage, and told the

coachman to drive home.

'Whaur are ye takin' me till?' exclaimed Shargar. 'Willie hasna

payed me for the parcel.'

'Never mind Willie. I'll pay you,' said the doctor.

'But Robert wadna like me to tak siller whaur I did nae wark for

't,' objected Shargar. 'He's some pernickety (precise)--Robert. But

I'll jist say 'at ye garred me, doctor. Maybe that 'll saitisfee

him. An' faith! I'm queer aboot my left fin here.'

'We'll soon set it all right,' said the doctor.

When they reached his house he led the way to his surgery, and there

put the broken limb in splints. He then told Johnston to help the

patient to bed.

'I maun gang hame,' objected Shargar. 'What wad Robert think?'

'I will tell him all about it,' said the doctor.

'Yersel, sir?' stipulated Shargar.

'Yes, myself.'

'Afore nicht?'

'Directly,' answered the doctor, and Shargar yielded.

'But what will Robert say?' were his last words, as he fell asleep,

appreciating, no doubt, the superiority of the bed to his usual lair

upon the hearthrug.

Robert was delighted to hear how well Shargar had acquitted himself.

Followed a small consultation about him; for the accident had

ripened the doctor's intentions concerning the outcast.

'As soon as his arm is sound again, he shall go to the

grammar-school,' he said.

'An' the college?' asked Robert.

'I hope so,' answered the doctor. 'Do you think he will do well? He

has plenty of courage, at all events, and that is a fine thing.'

'Ow ay,' answered Robert; 'he's no ill aff for smeddum

(spirit)--that is, gin it be for ony ither body. He wad never lift

a han' for himsel'; an' that's what garred me tak till him sae

muckle. He's a fine crater. He canna gang him lane, but he'll gang

wi' onybody--and haud up wi' him.'

'What do you think him fit for, then?'

Now Robert had been building castles for Shargar out of the hopes

which the doctor's friendliness had given him. Therefore he was

ready with his answer.

'Gin ye cud ensure him no bein' made a general o', he wad mak a

gran' sojer. Set's face foret, and say "quick mairch," an' he'll ca

his bagonet throu auld Hornie. But lay nae consequences upo' him,

for he cudna stan' unner them.'

Dr. Anderson laughed, but thought none the less, and went home to

see how his patient was getting on.

CHAPTER XIV.

MYSIE'S FACE.

Meantime Ericson grew better. A space of hard, clear weather, in

which everything sparkled with frost and sunshine, did him good.

But not yet could he use his brain. He turned with dislike even

from his friend Plato. He would sit in bed or on his chair by the

fireside for hours, with his hands folded before him, and his

eyelids drooping, and let his thoughts flow, for he could not think.

And that these thoughts flowed not always with other than sweet

sounds over the stones of question, the curves of his lip would

testify to the friendly, furtive glance of the watchful Robert.

None but the troubled mind knows its own consolations; and I

believe the saddest life has its own presence--however it may be

unrecognized as such--of the upholding Deity. Doth God care for the

hairs that perish from our heads? To a mind like Ericson's the

remembered scent, the recurring vision of a flower loved in

childhood, is enough to sustain anxiety with beauty, for the lovely

is itself healing and hope-giving, because it is the form and

presence of the true. To have such a presence is to be; and while a

mind exists in any high consciousness, the intellectual trouble that

springs from the desire to know its own life, to be assured of its

rounded law and security, ceases, for the desire itself falls into

abeyance.

But although Ericson was so weak, he was always able and ready to

help Robert in any difficulty not unfrequently springing from his

imperfect preparation in Greek; for while Mr. Innes was an excellent

Latin scholar, his knowledge of Greek was too limited either to

compel learning or inspire enthusiasm, And with the keen instinct he

possessed in everything immediate between man and man, Robert would

sometimes search for a difficulty in order to request its solution;

for then Ericson would rouse himself to explain as few men could

have explained: where a clear view was to be had of anything,

Ericson either had it or knew that he had it not. Hence Robert's

progress was good; for one word from a wise helper will clear off a

whole atmosphere of obstructions.

At length one day when Robert came home he found him seated at the

table, with his slate, working away at the Differential Calculus.

After this he recovered more rapidly, and ere another week was over

began to attend one class a day. He had been so far in advance

before, that though he could not expect prizes, there was no fear of

his passing.

One morning, Robert, coming out from a lecture, saw Ericson in the

quadrangle talking to an elderly gentleman. When they met in the

afternoon Ericson told him that that was Mr. Lindsay, and that he

had asked them both to spend the evening at his house. Robert would

go anywhere to be with his friend.

He got out his Sunday clothes, and dressed himself with anxiety: he

had visited scarcely at all, and was shy and doubtful. He then sat

down to his books, till Ericson came to his door--dressed, and hence

in Robert's eyes ceremonial--a stately, graceful gentleman. Renewed

awe came upon him at the sight, and renewed gratitude. There was a

flush on Ericson's cheek, and a fire in his eye. Robert had never

seen him look so grand. But there was a something about him that

rendered him uneasy--a look that made Ericson seem strange, as if

his life lay in some far-off region.

'I want you to take your violin with you, Robert,' he said.

'Hoots!' returned Robert, 'hoo can I do that? To tak her wi' me the

first time I gang to a strange hoose, as gin I thocht a'body wad

think as muckle o' my auld wife as I do mysel'! That wadna be

mainners--wad it noo, Mr. Ericson?'

'But I told Mr. Lindsay that you could play well. The old gentleman

is fond of Scotch tunes, and you will please him if you take it.'

'That maks a' the differ,' answered Robert.

'Thank you,' said Ericson, as Robert went towards his instrument;

and, turning, would have walked from the house without any

additional protection.

'Whaur are ye gaein' that gait, Mr. Ericson? Tak yer plaid, or

ye'll be laid up again, as sure's ye live.'

'I'm warm enough,' returned Ericson.

'That's naething. The cauld 's jist lyin' i' the street like a

verra deevil to get a grup o' ye. Gin ye dinna pit on yer plaid, I

winna tak my fiddle.'

Ericson yielded; and they set out together.

I will account for Ericson's request about the violin.

He went to the episcopal church on Sundays, and sat where he could

see Mysie--sat longing and thirsting ever till the music returned.

Yet the music he never heard; he watched only its transmutation

into form, never taking his eyes off Mysie's face. Reflected thence

in a metamorphosed echo, he followed all its changes. Never was one

powerless to produce it more strangely responsive to its influence.

She had no voice; she had never been taught the use of any

instrument. A world of musical feeling was pent up in her, and

music raised the suddener storms in her mobile nature, that she was

unable to give that feeling utterance. The waves of her soul dashed

the more wildly against their shores, inasmuch as those shores were

precipitous, and yielded no outlet to the swelling waters. It was

that his soul might hover like a bird of Paradise over the lovely

changes of her countenance, changes more lovely and frequent than

those of an English May, that Ericson persuaded Robert to take his

violin.

The last of the sunlight was departing, and a large full moon was

growing through the fog on the horizon. The sky was almost clear of

clouds, and the air was cold and penetrating. Robert drew Eric's

plaid closer over his chest. Eric thanked him lightly, but his

voice sounded eager; and it was with a long hasty stride that he

went up the hill through the gathering of the light frosty mist. He

stopped at the stair upon which Robert had found him that memorable

night. They went up. The door had been left on the latch for their

entrance. They went up more steps between rocky walls. When in

after years he read the Purgatorio, as often as he came to one of

its ascents, Robert saw this stair with his inward eye. At the top

of the stair was the garden, still ascending, and at the top of the

garden shone the glow of Mr. Lindsay's parlour through the

red-curtained window. To Robert it shone a refuge for Ericson from

the night air; to Ericson it shone the casket of the richest jewel

of the universe. Well might the ruddy glow stream forth to meet

him! Only in glowing red could such beauty be rightly closed. With

trembling hand he knocked at the door.

They were shown at once into the parlour. Mysie was putting away

her book as they entered, and her back was towards them. When she

turned, it seemed even to Robert as if all the light in the room

came only from her eyes. But that light had been all gathered out

of the novel she had just laid down. She held out her hand to Eric,

and her sweet voice was yet more gentle than wont, for he had been

ill. His face flushed at the tone. But although she spoke kindly,

he could hardly have fancied that she showed him special favour.

Robert stood with his violin under his arm, feeling as awkward as if

he had never handled anything more delicate than a pitchfork. But

Mysie sat down to the table, and began to pour out the tea, and he

came to himself again. Presently her father entered. His greeting

was warm and mild and sleepy. He had come from poring over

Spotiswood, in search of some Will o' the wisp or other, and had

grown stupid from want of success. But he revived after a cup of

tea, and began to talk about northern genealogies; and Ericson did

his best to listen. Robert wondered at the knowledge he displayed:

he had been tutor the foregoing summer in one of the oldest and

poorest, and therefore proudest families in Caithness. But all the

time his host talked Ericson's eyes hovered about Mysie, who sat

gazing before her with look distraught, with wide eyes and

scarce-moving eyelids, beholding something neither on sea or shore;

and Mr. Lindsay would now and then correct Ericson in some egregious

blunder; while Mysie would now and then start awake and ask Robert

or Ericson to take another cup of tea. Before the sentence was

finished, however, she would let it die away, speaking the last

words mechanically, as her consciousness relapsed into dreamland.

Had not Robert been with Ericson, he would have found it wearisome

enough; and except things took a turn, Ericson could hardly be

satisfied with the pleasure of the evening. Things did take a turn.

'Robert has brought his fiddle,' said Ericson, as the tea was

removed.

'I hope he will be kind enough to play something,' said Mr. Lindsay.

'I'll do that,' answered Robert, with alacrity. 'But ye maunna

expec' ower muckle, for I'm but a prentice-han',' he added, as he

got the instrument ready.

Before he had drawn the bow once across it, attention awoke in

Mysie's eyes; and before he had finished playing, Ericson must have

had quite as much of the 'beauty born of murmuring sound' as was

good for him. Little did Mysie think of the sky of love, alive with

silent thoughts, that arched over her. The earth teems with love

that is unloved. The universe itself is one sea of infinite love,

from whose consort of harmonies if a stray note steal across the

sense, it starts bewildered.

Robert played better than usual. His touch grew intense, and put on

all its delicacy, till it was like that of the spider, which, as

Pope so admirably says,

Feels at each thread, and lives along the line.

And while Ericson watched its shadows, the music must have taken

hold of him too; for when Robert ceased, he sang a wild ballad of

the northern sea, to a tune strange as itself. It was the only time

Robert ever heard him sing. Mysie's eyes grew wider and wider as

she listened. When it was over,

'Did ye write that sang yersel', Mr. Ericson?' asked Robert.

'No,' answered Ericson. 'An old shepherd up in our parts used to say

it to me when I was a boy.'

'Didna he sing 't?' Robert questioned further.

'No, he didn't. But I heard an old woman crooning it to a child in

a solitary cottage on the shore of Stroma, near the Swalchie

whirlpool, and that was the tune she sang it to, if singing it could

be called.'

'I don't quite understand it, Mr. Ericson,' said Mysie. 'What does

it mean?'

'There was once a beautiful woman lived there-away,' began

Ericson.--But I have not room to give the story as he told it,

embellishing it, no doubt, as with such a mere tale was lawful

enough, from his own imagination. The substance was that a young

man fell in love with a beautiful witch, who let him go on loving

her till he cared for nothing but her, and then began to kill him by

laughing at him. For no witch can fall in love herself, however

much she may like to be loved. She mocked him till he drowned

himself in a pool on the seashore. Now the witch did not know that;

but as she walked along the shore, looking for things, she saw his

hand lying over the edge of a rocky basin. Nothing is more useful

to a witch than the hand of a man, so she went to pick it up. When

she found it fast to an arm, she would have chopped it off, but

seeing whose it was, she would, for some reason or other best known

to a witch, draw off his ring first. For it was an enchanted ring

which she had given him to bewitch his love, and now she wanted both

it and the hand to draw to herself the lover of a young maiden whom

she hated. But the dead hand closed its fingers upon hers, and her

power was powerless against the dead. And the tide came rushing up,

and the dead hand held her till she was drowned. She lies with her

lover to this day at the bottom of the Swalchie whirlpool; and when

a storm is at hand, strange moanings rise from the pool, for the

youth is praying the witch lady for her love, and she is praying him

to let go her hand.

While Ericson told the story the room still glimmered about Robert

as if all its light came from Mysie's face, upon which the

flickering firelight alone played. Mr. Lindsay sat a little back

from the rest, with an amused expression: legends of such sort did

not come within the scope of his antiquarian reach, though he was

ready enough to believe whatever tempted his own taste, let it be as

destitute of likelihood as the story of the dead hand. When Ericson

ceased, Mysie gave a deep sigh, and looked full of thought, though I

daresay it was only feeling. Mr. Lindsay followed with an old tale

of the Sinclairs, of which he said Ericson's reminded him, though

the sole association was that the foregoing was a Caithness story,

and the Sinclairs are a Caithness family. As soon as it was over,

Mysie, who could not hide all her impatience during its lingering

progress, asked Robert to play again. He took up his violin, and

with great expression gave the air of Ericson's ballad two or three

times over, and then laid down the instrument. He saw indeed that

it was too much for Mysie, affecting her more, thus presented after

the story, than the singing of the ballad itself. Thereupon

Ericson, whose spirits had risen greatly at finding that he could

himself secure Mysie's attention, and produce the play of soul in

feature which he so much delighted to watch, offered another story;

and the distant rush of the sea, borne occasionally into the

'grateful gloom' upon the cold sweep of a February wind, mingled

with one tale after another, with which he entranced two of his

audience, while the third listened mildly content.

The last of the tales Ericson told was as follows:--

'One evening-twilight in spring, a young English student, who had

wandered northwards as far as the outlying fragments of Scotland

called the Orkney and Shetland islands, found himself on a small

island of the latter group, caught in a storm of wind and hail,

which had come on suddenly. It was in vain to look about for any

shelter; for not only did the storm entirely obscure the landscape,

but there was nothing around him save a desert moss.

'At length, however, as he walked on for mere walking's sake, he

found himself on the verge of a cliff, and saw, over the brow of it,

a few feet below him, a ledge of rock, where he might find some

shelter from the blast, which blew from behind. Letting himself

down by his hands, he alighted upon something that crunched beneath

his tread, and found the bones of many small animals scattered about

in front of a little cave in the rock, offering the refuge he

sought, He went in, and sat upon a stone. The storm increased in

violence, and as the darkness grew he became uneasy, for he did not

relish the thought of spending the night in the cave. He had parted

from his companions on the opposite side of the island, and it added

to his uneasiness that they must be full of apprehension about him.

At last there came a lull in the storm, and the same instant he

heard a footfall, stealthy and light as that of a wild beast, upon

the bones at the mouth of the cave. He started up in some fear,

though the least thought might have satisfied him that there could

be no very dangerous animals upon the island. Before he had time to

think, however, the face of a woman appeared in the opening.

Eagerly the wanderer spoke. She started at the sound of his voice.

He could not see her well, because she was turned towards the

darkness of the cave.

'"Will you tell me how to find my way across the moor to Shielness?"

he asked.

'"You cannot find it to-night," she answered, in a sweet tone, and

with a smile that bewitched him, revealing the whitest of teeth.

'"What am I to do, then?" he asked.

'"My mother will give you shelter, but that is all she has to

offer."

'"And that is far more than I expected a minute ago," he replied. "I

shall be most grateful."

'She turned in silence and left the cave. The youth followed.

'She was barefooted, and her pretty brown feet went catlike over the

sharp stones, as she led the way down a rocky path to the shore.

Her garments were scanty and torn, and her hair blew tangled in the

wind. She seemed about five-and-twenty, lithe and small. Her long

fingers kept clutching and pulling nervously at her skirts as she

went. Her face was very gray in complexion, and very worn, but

delicately formed, and smooth-skinned. Her thin nostrils were

tremulous as eyelids, and her lips, whose curves were faultless, had

no colour to give sign of indwelling blood. What her eyes were like

he could not see, for she had never lifted the delicate films of her

eyelids.

'At the foot of the cliff they came upon a little hut leaning

against it, and having for its inner apartment a natural hollow

within it. Smoke was spreading over the face of the rock, and the

grateful odour of food gave hope to the hungry student. His guide

opened the door of the cottage; he followed her in, and saw a woman

bending over a fire in the middle of the floor. On the fire lay a

large fish boiling. The daughter spoke a few words, and the mother

turned and welcomed the stranger. She had an old and very wrinkled,

but honest face, and looked troubled. She dusted the only chair in

the cottage, and placed it for him by the side of the fire, opposite

the one window, whence he saw a little patch of yellow sand over

which the spent waves spread themselves out listlessly. Under this

window was a bench, upon which the daughter threw herself in an

unusual posture, resting her chin upon her hand. A moment after the

youth caught the first glimpse of her blue eyes. They were fixed

upon him with a strange look of greed, amounting to craving, but as

if aware that they belied or betrayed her, she dropped them

instantly. The moment she veiled them, her face, notwithstanding

its colourless complexion, was almost beautiful.

'When the fish was ready the old woman wiped the deal table,

steadied it upon the uneven floor, and covered it with a piece of

fine table-linen. She then laid the fish on a wooden platter, and

invited the guest to help himself. Seeing no other provision, he

pulled from his pocket a hunting-knife, and divided a portion from

the fish, offering it to the mother first.

'"Come, my lamb," said the old woman; and the daughter approached

the table. But her nostrils and mouth quivered with disgust.

'The next moment she turned and hurried from the hut.

'"She doesn't like fish," said the old woman, "and I haven't

anything else to give her."

'"She does not seem in good health," he rejoined.

'The woman answered only with a sigh, and they ate their fish with

the help of a little rye-bread. As they finished their supper, the

youth heard the sound as of the pattering of a dog's feet upon the

sand close to the door; but ere he had time to look out of the

window, the door opened and the young woman entered. She looked

better, perhaps from having just washed her face. She drew a stool

to the corner of the fire opposite him. But as she sat down, to his

bewilderment, and even horror, the student spied a single drop of

blood on her white skin within her torn dress. The woman brought

out a jar of whisky, put a rusty old kettle on the fire, and took

her place in front of it. As soon as the water boiled, she

proceeded to make some toddy in a wooden bowl.

'Meantime the youth could not take his eyes off the young woman, so

that at length he found himself fascinated, or rather bewitched.

She kept her eyes for the most part veiled with the loveliest

eyelids fringed with darkest lashes, and he gazed entranced; for the

red glow of the little oil-lamp covered all the strangeness of her

complexion. But as soon as he met a stolen glance out of those eyes

unveiled, his soul shuddered within him. Lovely face and craving

eyes alternated fascination and repulsion.

'The mother placed the bowl in his hands. He drank sparingly, and

passed it to the girl. She lifted it to her lips, and as she

tasted--only tasted it--looked at him. He thought the drink must

have been drugged and have affected his brain. Her hair smoothed

itself back, and drew her forehead backwards with it; while the

lower part of her face projected towards the bowl, revealing, ere

she sipped, her dazzling teeth in strange prominence. But the same

moment the vision vanished; she returned the vessel to her mother,

and rising, hurried out of the cottage.

'Then, the old woman pointed to a bed of heather in one corner with

a murmured apology; and the student, wearied both with the fatigues

of the day and the strangeness of the night, threw himself upon it,

wrapped in his cloak. The moment he lay down, the storm began

afresh, and the wind blew so keenly through the crannies of the hut,

that it was only by drawing his cloak over his head that he could

protect himself from its currents. Unable to sleep, he lay

listening to the uproar which grew in violence, till the spray was

dashing against the window. At length the door opened, and the

young woman came in, made up the fire, drew the bench before it, and

lay down in the same strange posture, with her chin propped on her

hand and elbow, and her face turned towards the youth. He moved a

little; she dropped her head, and lay on her face, with her arms

crossed beneath her forehead. The mother had disappeared.

'Drowsiness crept over him. A movement of the bench roused him, and

he fancied he saw some four-footed creature as tall as a large dog

trot quietly out of the door. He was sure he felt a rush of cold

wind. Gazing fixedly through the darkness, he thought he saw the

eyes of the damsel encountering his, but a glow from the falling

together of the remnants of the fire, revealed clearly enough that

the bench was vacant. Wondering what could have made her go out in

such a storm, he fell fast asleep.

'In the middle of the night he felt a pain in his shoulder, came

broad awake, and saw the gleaming eyes and grinning teeth of some

animal close to his face. Its claws were in his shoulder, and its

mouth was in the act of seeking his throat. Before it had fixed its

fangs, however, he had its throat in one hand, and sought his knife

with the other. A terrible struggle followed; but regardless of the

tearing claws, he found and opened his knife. He had made one

futile stab, and was drawing it for a surer, when, with a spring of

the whole body, and one wildly-contorted effort, the creature

twisted its neck from his hold, and with something betwixt a scream

and a howl, darted from him. Again he heard the door open; again

the wind blew in upon him, and it continued blowing; a sheet of

spray dashed across the floor, and over his face. He sprung from

his couch and bounded to the door.

'It was a wild night--dark, but for the flash of whiteness from the

waves as they broke within a few yards of the cottage; the wind was

raving, and the rain pouring down the air. A gruesome sound as of

mingled weeping and howling came from somewhere in the dark. He

turned again into the hut and closed the door, but could find no way

of securing it.

'The lamp was nearly out, and he could not be certain whether the

form of the young woman was upon the bench or not. Overcoming a

strong repugnance, he approached it, and put out his hands--there

was nothing there. He sat down and waited for the daylight: he

dared not sleep any more.

'When the day dawned at length, he went out yet again, and looked

around. The morning was dim and gusty and gray. The wind had

fallen, but the waves were tossing wildly. He wandered up and down

the little strand, longing for more light.

'At length he heard a movement in the cottage. By and by the voice

of the old woman called to him from the door.

'"You're up early, sir. I doubt you didn't sleep well."

'"Not very well," he answered. "But where is your daughter?"

'"She's not awake yet," said the mother. "I'm afraid I have but a

poor breakfast for you. But you'll take a dram and a bit of fish.

It's all I've got."

'Unwilling to hurt her, though hardly in good appetite, he sat down

at the table. While they were eating the daughter came in, but

turned her face away and went to the further end of the hut. When

she came forward after a minute or two, the youth saw that her hair

was drenched, and her face whiter than before. She looked ill and

faint, and when she raised her eyes, all their fierceness had

vanished, and sadness had taken its place. Her neck was now covered

with a cotton handkerchief. She was modestly attentive to him, and

no longer shunned his gaze. He was gradually yielding to the

temptation of braving another night in the hut, and seeing what

would follow, when the old woman spoke.

'"The weather will be broken all day, sir," she said. "You had

better be going, or your friends will leave without you."

'Ere he could answer, he saw such a beseeching glance on the face of

the girl, that he hesitated, confused. Glancing at the mother, he

saw the flash of wrath in her face. She rose and approached her

daughter, with her hand lifted to strike her. The young woman

stooped her head with a cry. He darted round the table to interpose

between them. But the mother had caught hold of her; the

handkerchief had fallen from her neck; and the youth saw five blue

bruises on her lovely throat--the marks of the four fingers and the

thumb of a left hand. With a cry of horror he rushed from the

house, but as he reached the door he turned. His hostess was lying

motionless on the floor, and a huge gray wolf came bounding after

him.'

An involuntary cry from Mysie interrupted the story-teller. He

changed his tone at once.

'I beg your pardon, Miss Lindsay, for telling you such a horrid

tale. Do forgive me. I didn't mean to frighten you more than a

little.'

'Only a case of lycanthropia,' remarked Mr. Lindsay, as coolly as if

that settled everything about it and lycanthropia, horror and all,

at once.

'Do tell us the rest,' pleaded Mysie, and Ericson resumed.

'There was no weapon at hand; and if there had been, his inborn

chivalry would never have allowed him to harm a woman even under the

guise of a wolf. Instinctively, he set himself firm, leaning a

little forward, with half outstretched arms, and hands curved ready

to clutch again at the throat upon which he had left those pitiful

marks. But the creature as she sprang eluded his grasp, and just as

he expected to feel her fangs, he found a woman weeping on his

bosom, with her arms around his neck. The next instant, the gray

wolf broke from him, and bounded howling up the cliff. Recovering

himself as he best might, the youth followed, for it was the only

way to the moor above, across which he must now make his way to find

his companions.

'All at once he heard the sound of a crunching of bones--not as if a

creature was eating them, but as if they were ground by the teeth of

rage and disappointment: looking up, he saw close above him the

mouth of the little cavern in which he had taken refuge the day

before. Summoning all his resolution, he passed it slowly and

softly. From within came the sounds of a mingled moaning and

growling.

'Having reached the top, he ran at full speed for some distance

across the moor before venturing to look behind him. When at length

he did so he saw, against the sky, the girl standing on the edge of

the cliff, wringing her hands. One solitary wail crossed the space

between. She made no attempt to follow him, and he reached the

opposite shore in safety.'

Mysie tried to laugh, but succeeded badly. Robert took his violin,

and its tones had soon swept all the fear from her face, leaving in

its stead a trouble that has no name--the trouble of wanting one

knows not what--or how to seek it.

It was now time to go home. Mysie gave each an equally warm

good-night and thanks, Mr. Lindsay accompanied them to the door, and

the students stepped into the moonlight. Across the links the sound

of the sea came with a swell.

As they went down the garden, Ericson stopped. Robert thought he

was looking back to the house, and went on. When Ericson joined

him, he was pale as death.

'What is the maitter wi' ye, Mr. Ericson?' he asked in terror.

'Look there!' said Ericson, pointing, not to the house, but to the

sky.

Robert looked up. Close about the moon were a few white clouds.

Upon these white clouds, right over the moon, and near as the

eyebrow to an eye, hung part of an opalescent halo, bent into the

rude, but unavoidable suggestion of an eyebrow; while, close around

the edge of the moon, clung another, a pale storm-halo. To this

pale iris and faint-hued eyebrow the full moon itself formed the

white pupil: the whole was a perfect eye of ghastly death, staring

out of the winter heaven. The vision may never have been before,

may never have been again, but this Ericson and Robert saw that

night.

CHAPTER XV.

THE LAST OF THE COALS.

The next Sunday Robert went with Ericson to the episcopal chapel,

and for the first time in his life heard the epic music of the

organ. It was a new starting-point in his life. The worshipping

instrument flooded his soul with sound, and he stooped beneath it as

a bather on the shore stoops beneath the broad wave rushing up the

land. But I will not linger over this portion of his history. It

is enough to say that he sought the friendship of the organist, was

admitted to the instrument; touched, trembled, exulted; grew

dissatisfied, fastidious, despairing; gathered hope and tried again,

and yet again; till at last, with constantly-recurring fits of

self-despite, he could not leave the grand creature alone. It

became a rival even to his violin. And once before the end of

March, when the organist was ill, and another was not to be had, he

ventured to occupy his place both at morning and evening service.

Dr. Anderson kept George Moray in bed for a few days, after which he

went about for a while with his arm in a sling. But the season of

bearing material burdens was over for him now. Dr. Anderson had an

interview with the master of the grammar-school; a class was

assigned to Moray, and with a delight, resting chiefly on his social

approximation to Robert, which in one week elevated the whole

character of his person and countenance and bearing, George Moray

bent himself to the task of mental growth. Having good helpers at

home, and his late-developed energy turning itself entirely into the

new channel, he got on admirably. As there was no other room to be

had in Mrs. Fyvie's house, he continued for the rest of the session

to sleep upon the rug, for he would not hear of going to another

house. The doctor had advised Robert to drop the nickname as much

as possible; but the first time he called him Moray, Shargar

threatened to cut his throat, and so between the two the name

remained.

I presume that by this time Doctor Anderson had made up his mind to

leave his money to Robert, but thought it better to say nothing

about it, and let the boy mature his independence. He had him often

to his house. Ericson frequently accompanied him; and as there was

a good deal of original similarity between the doctor and Ericson,

the latter soon felt his obligation no longer a burden. Shargar

likewise, though more occasionally, made one of the party, and soon

began, in his new circumstances, to develop the manners of a

gentleman. I say develop advisedly, for Shargar had a deep humanity

in him, as abundantly testified by his devotion to Robert, and

humanity is the body of which true manners is the skin and ordinary

manifestation: true manners are the polish which lets the internal

humanity shine through, just as the polish on marble reveals its

veined beauty. Many talks did the elderly man hold with the three

youths, and his experience of life taught Ericson and Robert much,

especially what he told them about his Brahmin friend in India.

Moray, on the other hand, was chiefly interested in his tales of

adventure when on service in the Indian army, or engaged in the

field sports of that region so prolific in monsters. His gipsy

blood and lawless childhood, spent in wandering familiarity with

houseless nature, rendered him more responsive to these than the

others, and his kindled eye and pertinent remarks raised in the

doctor's mind an early question whether a commission in India might

not be his best start in life.

Between Ericson and Robert, as the former recovered his health,

communication from the deeper strata of human need became less

frequent. Ericson had to work hard to recover something of his

leeway; Robert had to work hard that prizes might witness for him to

his grandmother and Miss St. John. To the latter especially, as I

think I have said before, he was anxious to show well, wiping out

the blot, as he considered it, of his all but failure in the matter

of a bursary. For he looked up to her as to a goddess who just came

near enough to the earth to be worshipped by him who dwelt upon it.

The end of the session came nigh. Ericson passed his examinations

with honour. Robert gained the first Greek and third Latin prize.

The evening of the last day arrived, and on the morrow the students

would be gone--some to their homes of comfort and idleness, others

to hard labour in the fields; some to steady reading, perhaps to

school again to prepare for the next session, and others to be

tutors all the summer months, and return to the wintry city as to

freedom and life. Shargar was to remain at the grammar-school.

That last evening Robert sat with Ericson in his room. It was a

cold night--the night of the last day of March. A bitter wind blew

about the house, and dropped spiky hailstones upon the skylight.

The friends were to leave on the morrow, but to leave together; for

they had already sent their boxes, one by the carrier to Rothieden,

the other by a sailing vessel to Wick, and had agreed to walk

together as far as Robert's home, where he was in hopes of inducing

his friend to remain for a few days if he found his grandmother

agreeable to the plan. Shargar was asleep on the rug for the last

time, and Robert had brought his coal-scuttle into Ericson's room to

combine their scanty remains of well-saved fuel in a common glow,

over which they now sat.

'I wonder what my grannie 'ill say to me,' said Robert.

'She'll be very glad to see you, whatever she may say,' remarked

Ericson.

'She'll say "Noo, be dooce," the minute I hae shacken hands wi'

her,' said Robert.

'Robert,' returned Ericson solemnly, 'if I had a grandmother to go

home to, she might box my ears if she liked--I wouldn't care. You

do not know what it is not to have a soul belonging to you on the

face of the earth. It is so cold and so lonely!'

'But you have a cousin, haven't you?' suggested Robert.

Ericson laughed, but good-naturedly.

'Yes,' he answered, 'a little man with a fishy smell, in a blue

tail-coat with brass buttons, and a red and black nightcap.'

'But,' Robert ventured to hint, 'he might go in a kilt and

top-boots, like Satan in my grannie's copy o' the Paradise Lost, for

onything I would care.'

'Yes, but he's just like his looks. The first thing he'll do the

next morning after I go home, will be to take me into his office, or

shop, as he calls it, and get down his books, and show me how many

barrels of herring I owe him, with the price of each. To do him

justice, he only charges me wholesale.'

'What'll he do that for?'

'To urge on me the necessity of diligence, and the choice of a

profession,' answered Ericson, with a smile of mingled sadness and

irresolution. 'He will set forth what a loss the interest of the

money is, even if I should pay the principal; and remind me that

although he has stood my friend, his duty to his own family imposes

limits. And he has at least a couple of thousand pounds in the

county bank. I don't believe he would do anything for me but for

the honour it will be to the family to have a professional man in

it. And yet my father was the making of him.'

'Tell me about your father. What was he?'

'A gentle-minded man, who thought much and said little. He farmed

the property that had been his father's own, and is now leased by my

fishy cousin afore mentioned.'

'And your mother?'

'She died just after I was born, and my father never got over it.'

'And you have no brothers or sisters?'

'No, not one. Thank God for your grandmother, and do all you can to

please her.'

A silence followed, during which Robert's heart swelled and heaved

with devotion to Ericson; for notwithstanding his openness, there

was a certain sad coldness about him that restrained Robert from

letting out all the tide of his love. The silence became painful,

and he broke it abruptly.

'What are you going to be, Mr. Ericson?'

'I wish you could tell me, Robert. What would you have me to be?

Come now.'

Robert thought for a moment.

'Weel, ye canna be a minister, Mr. Ericson, 'cause ye dinna believe

in God, ye ken,' he said simply.

'Don't say that, Robert,' Ericson returned, in a tone of pain with

which no displeasure was mingled. 'But you are right. At best I

only hope in God; I don't believe in him.'

'I'm thinkin' there canna be muckle differ atween houp an' faith,'

said Robert. 'Mony a ane 'at says they believe in God has unco

little houp o' onything frae 's han', I'm thinkin'.'

My reader may have observed a little change for the better in

Robert's speech. Dr. Anderson had urged upon him the necessity of

being able at least to speak English; and he had been trying to

modify the antique Saxon dialect they used at Rothieden with the

newer and more refined English. But even when I knew him, he would

upon occasion, especially when the subject was religion or music,

fall back into the broadest Scotch. It was as if his heart could

not issue freely by any other gate than that of his grandmother

tongue.

Fearful of having his last remark contradicted--for he had an

instinctive desire that it should lie undisturbed where he had cast

it in the field of Ericson's mind, he hurried to another question.

'What for shouldna ye be a doctor?'

'Now you'll think me a fool, Robert, if I tell you why.'

'Far be it frae me to daur think sic a word, Mr. Ericson!' said

Robert devoutly.

'Well, I'll tell you, whether or not,' returned Ericson. 'I could, I

believe, amputate a living limb with considerable coolness; but put

a knife in a dead body I could not.'

'I think I know what you mean. Then you must he a lawyer.'

'A lawyer! O Lord!' said Ericson.

'Why not?' asked Robert, in some wonderment; for he could not

imagine Ericson acting from mere popular prejudice or fancy.

'Just think of spending one's life in an atmosphere of squabbles.

It's all very well when one gets to be a judge and dispense

justice; but--well, it's not for me. I could not do the best for my

clients. And a lawyer has nothing to do with the kingdom of

heaven--only with his clients. He must be a party-man. He must

secure for one so often at the loss of the rest. My duty and my

conscience would always be at strife.'

'Then what will you be, Mr. Ericson?'

'To tell the truth, I would rather be a watchmaker than anything

else I know. I might make one watch that would go right, I suppose,

if I lived long enough. But no one would take an apprentice of my

age. So I suppose I must be a tutor, knocked about from one house

to another, patronized by ex-pupils, and smiled upon as harmless by

mammas and sisters to the end of the chapter. And then something of

a pauper's burial, I suppose. Che sara sara.'

Ericson had sunk into one of his worst moods. But when he saw

Robert looking unhappy, he changed his tone, and would be--what he

could not be--merry.

'But what's the use of talking about it?' he said. 'Get your fiddle,

man, and play The Wind that shakes the Barley.'

'No, Mr. Ericson,' answered Robert; 'I have no heart for the fiddle.

I would rather have some poetry.'

'Oh!--Poetry!' returned Ericson, in a tone of contempt--yet not very

hearty contempt.

'We're gaein' awa', Mr. Ericson,' said Robert; 'an' the Lord 'at we

ken naething aboot alane kens whether we'll ever meet again i' this

place. And sae--'

'True enough, my boy,' interrupted Ericson. 'I have no need to

trouble myself about the future. I believe that is the real secret

of it after all. I shall never want a profession or anything else.'

'What do you mean, Mr. Ericson?' asked Robert, in half-defined

terror.

'I mean, my boy, that I shall not live long. I know that--thank

God!'

'How do you know it?'

'My father died at thirty, and my mother at six-and-twenty, both of

the same disease. But that's not how I know it.'

'How do you know it then?'

Ericson returned no answer. He only said--

'Death will be better than life. One thing I don't like about it

though,' he added, 'is the coming on of unconsciousness. I cannot

bear to lose my consciousness even in sleep. It is such a terrible

thing!'

'I suppose that's ane o' the reasons that we canna be content

withoot a God,' responded Robert. 'It's dreidfu' to think even o'

fa'in' asleep withoot some ane greater an' nearer than the me

watchin' ower 't. But I'm jist sayin' ower again what I hae read in

ane o' your papers, Mr. Ericson. Jist lat me luik.'

Venturing more than he had ever yet ventured, Robert rose and went

to the cupboard where Ericson's papers lay. His friend did not

check him. On the contrary, he took the papers from his hand, and

searched for the poem indicated.

'I'm not in the way of doing this sort of thing, Robert,' he said.

'I know that,' answered Robert.

And Ericson read.

SLEEP.

Oh, is it Death that comes

To have a foretaste of the whole?

To-night the planets and the stars

Will glimmer through my window-bars,

But will not shine upon my soul.

For I shall lie as dead,

Though yet I am above the ground;

All passionless, with scarce a breath,

With hands of rest and eyes of death,

I shall be carried swiftly round.

Or if my life should break

The idle night with doubtful gleams

Through mossy arches will I go,

Through arches ruinous and low,

And chase the true and false in dreams.

Why should I fall asleep?

When I am still upon my bed,

The moon will shine, the winds will rise,

And all around and through the skies

The light clouds travel o'er my head.

O, busy, busy things!

Ye mock me with your ceaseless life;

For all the hidden springs will flow,

And all the blades of grass will grow,

When I have neither peace nor strife.

And all the long night through,

The restless streams will hurry by;

And round the lands, with endless roar,

The white waves fall upon the shore,

And bit by bit devour the dry.

Even thus, but silently,

Eternity, thy tide shall flow--

And side by side with every star

Thy long-drawn swell shall bear me far,

An idle boat with none to row.

My senses fail with sleep;

My heart beats thick; the night is noon;

And faintly through its misty folds

I hear a drowsy clock that holds

Its converse with the waning moon.

Oh, solemn mystery!

That I should be so closely bound

With neither terror nor constraint

Without a murmur of complaint,

And lose myself upon such ground!

'Rubbish!' said Ericson, as he threw down the sheets, disgusted with

his own work, which so often disappoints the writer, especially if

he is by any chance betrayed into reading it aloud.

'Dinna say that, Mr. Ericson,' returned Robert. 'Ye maunna say that.

Ye hae nae richt to lauch at honest wark, whether it be yer ain or

ony ither body's. The poem noo--'

'Don't call it a poem,' interrupted Ericson. 'It's not worthy of the

name.'

'I will ca' 't a poem,' persisted Robert; 'for it's a poem to me,

whatever it may be to you. An' hoo I ken 'at it's a poem is jist

this: it opens my een like music to something I never saw afore.'

'What is that?' asked Ericson, not sorry to be persuaded that there

might after all be some merit in the productions painfully despised

of himself.

'Jist this: it's only whan ye dinna want to fa' asleep 'at it luiks

fearsome to ye. An' maybe the fear o' death comes i' the same way:

we're feared at it 'cause we're no a'thegither ready for 't; but

whan the richt time comes, it'll be as nat'ral as fa'in' asleep whan

we're doonricht sleepy. Gin there be a God to ca' oor Father in

heaven, I'm no thinkin' that he wad to sae mony bonny tunes pit a

scraich for the hinder end. I'm thinkin', gin there be onything in

't ava--ye ken I'm no sayin', for I dinna ken--we maun jist lippen

till him to dee dacent an' bonny, an' nae sic strange awfu' fash

aboot it as some fowk wad mak a religion o' expeckin'.'

Ericson looked at Robert with admiration mingled with something akin

to merriment.

'One would think it was your grandfather holding forth, Robert,' he

said. 'How came you to think of such things at your age?'

'I'm thinkin',' answered Robert, 'ye warna muckle aulder nor mysel'

whan ye took to sic things, Mr. Ericson. But, 'deed, maybe my

luckie-daddie (grandfather) pat them i' my heid, for I had a heap

ado wi' his fiddle for a while. She's deid noo.'

Not understanding him, Ericson began to question, and out came the

story of the violins. They talked on till the last of their coals

was burnt out, and then they went to bed.

Shargar had undertaken to rouse them early, that they might set out

on their long walk with a long day before them. But Robert was

awake before Shargar. The all but soulless light of the dreary

season awoke him, and he rose and looked out. Aurora, as aged now

as her loved Tithonus, peered, gray-haired and desolate, over the

edge of the tossing sea, with hardly enough of light in her dim eyes

to show the broken crests of the waves that rushed shorewards before

the wind of her rising. Such an east wind was the right breath to

issue from such a pale mouth of hopeless revelation as that which

opened with dead lips across the troubled sea on the far horizon.

While he gazed, the east darkened; a cloud of hail rushed against

the window; and Robert retreated to his bed. But ere he had fallen

asleep, Ericson was beside him; and before he was dressed, Ericson

appeared again, with his stick in his hand. They left Shargar still

asleep, and descended the stairs, thinking to leave the house

undisturbed. But Mrs. Fyvie was watching for them, and insisted on

their taking the breakfast she had prepared. They then set out on

their journey of forty miles, with half a loaf in their pockets, and

money enough to get bread and cheese, and a bottle of the poorest

ale, at the far-parted roadside inns.

When Shargar awoke, he wept in desolation, then crept into Robert's

bed, and fell fast asleep again.

CHAPTER XVI.

A STRANGE NIGHT.

The youths had not left the city a mile behind, when a thick

snowstorm came on. It did not last long, however, and they fought

their way through it into a glimpse of sun. To Robert, healthy,

powerful, and except at rare times, hopeful, it added to the

pleasure of the journey to contend with the storm, and there was a

certain steely indifference about Ericson that carried him through.

They trudged on steadily for three hours along a good turnpike

road, with great black masses of cloud sweeping across the sky,

which now sent them a glimmer of sunlight, and now a sharp shower of

hail. The country was very dreary--a succession of undulations

rising into bleak moorlands, and hills whose heather would in autumn

flush the land with glorious purple, but which now looked black and

cheerless, as if no sunshine could ever warm them. Now and then the

moorland would sweep down to the edge of the road, diversified with

dark holes from which peats were dug, and an occasional quarry of

gray granite. At one moment endless pools would be shining in the

sunlight, and the next the hail would be dancing a mad fantastic

dance all about them: they pulled their caps over their brows, bent

their heads, and struggled on.

At length they reached their first stage, and after a meal of bread

and cheese and an offered glass of whisky, started again on their

journey. They did not talk much, for their force was spent on their

progress.

After some consultation whether to keep the road or take a certain

short cut across the moors, which would lead them into it again with

a saving of several miles, the sun shining out with a little

stronger promise than he had yet given, they resolved upon the

latter. But in the middle of the moorland the wind and the hail

came on with increased violence, and they were glad to tack from one

to another of the huge stones that lay about, and take a short

breathing time under the lee of each; so that when they recovered

the road, they had lost as many miles in time and strength as they

had saved in distance. They did not give in, however, but after

another rest and a little more refreshment, started again.

The evening was now growing dusk around them, and the fatigue of the

day was telling so severely on Ericson, that when in the twilight

they heard the blast of a horn behind them, and turning saw the two

flaming eyes of a well-known four-horse coach come fluctuating

towards them, Robert insisted on their getting up and riding the

rest of the way.

'But I can't afford it,' said Ericson.

'But I can,' said Robert.

'I don't doubt it,' returned Ericson. 'But I owe you too much

already.'

'Gin ever we win hame--I mean to the heart o' hame--ye can pay me

there.'

'There will be no need then.'

'Whaur's the need than to mak sic a wark aboot a saxpence or twa

atween this and that? I thocht ye cared for naething that time or

space or sense could grip or measure. Mr. Ericson, ye're no half

sic a philosopher as ye wad set up for.--Hillo!'

Ericson laughed a weary laugh, and as the coach stopped in obedience

to Robert's hail, he scrambled up behind.

The guard knew Robert, was pitiful over the condition of the

travellers, would have put them inside, but that there was a lady

there, and their clothes were wet, got out a great horse-rug and

wrapped Robert in it, put a spare coat of his own, about an inch

thick, upon Ericson, drew out a flask, took a pull at it, handed it

to his new passengers, and blew a vigorous blast on his long horn,

for they were approaching a desolate shed where they had to change

their weary horses for four fresh thorough-breds.

Away they went once more, careering through the gathering darkness.

It was delightful indeed to have to urge one weary leg past the

other no more, but be borne along towards food, fire, and bed. But

their adventures were not so nearly over as they imagined. Once

more the hail fell furiously--huge hailstones, each made of many,

half-melted and welded together into solid lumps of ice. The

coachman could scarcely hold his face to the shower, and the blows

they received on their faces and legs, drove the thin-skinned,

high-spirited horses nearly mad. At length they would face it no

longer. At a turn in the road, where it crossed a brook by a bridge

with a low stone wall, the wind met them right in the face with

redoubled vehemence; the leaders swerved from it, and were just

rising to jump over the parapet, when the coachman, whose hands were

nearly insensible with cold, threw his leg over the reins, and

pulled them up. One of the leaders reared, and fell backwards; one

of the wheelers kicked vigorously; a few moments, and in spite of

the guard at their heads, all was one struggling mass of bodies and

legs, with a broken pole in the midst. The few passengers got down;

and Robert, fearing that yet worse might happen and remembering the

lady, opened the door. He found her quite composed. As he helped

her out,

'What is the matter?' asked the voice dearest to him in the

world--the voice of Miss St. John.

He gave a cry of delight. Wrapped in the horse-cloth, Miss St. John

did not know him.

'What is the matter?' she repeated.

'Ow, naething, mem--naething. Only I doobt we winna get ye hame the

nicht.'

'Is it you, Robert?' she said, gladly recognizing his voice.

'Ay, it's me, and Mr. Ericson. We'll tak care o' ye, mem.'

'But surely we shall get home!'

Robert had heard the crack of the breaking pole.

''Deed, I doobt no.'

'What are we to do, then?'

'Come into the lythe (shelter) o' the bank here, oot o' the gait o'

thae brutes o' horses,' said Robert, taking off his horse-cloth and

wrapping her in it.

The storm hissed and smote all around them. She took Robert's arm.

Followed by Ericson, they left the coach and the struggling horses,

and withdrew to a bank that overhung the road. As soon as they were

out of the wind, Robert, who had made up his mind, said,

'We canna be mony yairds frae the auld hoose o' Bogbonnie. We micht

win throu the nicht there weel eneuch. I'll speir at the gaird, the

minute the horses are clear. We war 'maist ower the brig, I heard

the coachman say.'

'I know quite well where the old house is,' said Ericson. 'I went in

the last time I walked this way.'

'Was the door open?' asked Robert.

'I don't know,' answered Ericson. 'I found one of the windows open

in the basement.'

'We'll get the len' o' ane o' the lanterns, an' gang direckly. It

canna be mair nor the breedth o' a rig or twa frae the burn.'

'I can take you by the road,' said Ericson.

'It will be very cold,' said Miss St. John,--already shivering,

partly from disquietude.

'There's timmer eneuch there to haud 's warm for a twalmonth,' said

Robert.

He went back to the coach. By this time the horses were nearly

extricated. Two of them stood steaming in the lamplight, with their

sides going at twenty bellows' speed. The guard would not let him

have one of the coach lamps, but gave him a small lantern of his

own. When he returned with it, he found Ericson and Miss St. John

talking together.

Ericson led the way, and the others followed.

'Whaur are ye gaein', gentlemen?' asked the guard, as they passed

the coach.

'To the auld hoose,' answered Robert.

'Ye canna do better. I maun bide wi' the coch till the lave gang

back to Drumheid wi' the horses, on' fess anither pole. Faith,

it'll be weel into the mornin' or we win oot o' this. Tak care hoo

ye gang. There's holes i' the auld hoose, I doobt.'

'We'll tak gude care, ye may be sure, Hector,' said Robert, as they

left the bridge.

The house to which Ericson was leading them was in the midst of a

field. There was just light enough to show a huge mass standing in

the dark, without a tree or shelter of any sort. When they reached

it, all that Miss St. John could distinguish was a wide broken stair

leading up to the door, with glimpses of a large, plain, ugly,

square front. The stones of the stair sloped and hung in several

directions; but it was plain to a glance that the place was

dilapidated through extraordinary neglect, rather than by the usual

wear of time. In fact, it belonged only to the beginning of the

preceding century, somewhere in Queen Anne's time. There was a

heavy door to it, but fortunately for Miss St. John, who would not

quite have relished getting in at the window of which Ericson had

spoken, it stood a little ajar. The wind roared in the gap and

echoed in the empty hall into which they now entered. Certainly

Robert was right: there was wood enough to keep them warm; for that

hall, and every room into which they went, from top to bottom of the

huge house, was lined with pine. No paint-brush had ever passed

upon it. Neither was there a spot to be seen upon the grain of the

wood: it was clean as the day when the house was finished, only it

had grown much browner. A close gallery, with window-frames which

had never been glazed, at one story's height, leading across from

the one side of the first floor to the other, looked down into the

great echoing hall, which rose in the centre of the building to the

height of two stories; but this was unrecognizable in the poor light

of the guard's lantern. All the rooms on every floor opened each

into the other;--but why should I give such a minute description,

making my reader expect a ghost story, or at least a nocturnal

adventure? I only want him to feel something of what our party felt

as they entered this desolate building, which, though some hundred

and twenty years old, bore not a single mark upon the smooth floors

or spotless walls to indicate that article of furniture had ever

stood in it, or human being ever inhabited it. There was a strange

and unusual horror about the place--a feeling quite different from

that belonging to an ancient house, however haunted it might be. It

was like a body that had never had a human soul in it. There was no

sense of a human history about it. Miss St. John's feeling of

eeriness rose to the height when, in wandering through the many

rooms in search of one where the windows were less broken, she came

upon one spot in the floor. It was only a hole worn down through

floor after floor, from top to bottom, by the drip of the rains from

the broken roof: it looked like the disease of the desolate place,

and she shuddered.

Here they must pass the night, with the wind roaring awfully through

the echoing emptiness, and every now and then the hail clashing

against what glass remained in the windows. They found one room

with the window well boarded up, for until lately some care had been

taken of the place to keep it from the weather. There Robert left

his companions, who presently heard the sounds of tearing and

breaking below, necessity justifying him in the appropriation of

some of the wood-work for their own behoof. He tore a panel or two

from the walls, and returning with them, lighted a fire on the empty

hearth, where, from the look of the stone and mortar, certainly

never fire had blazed before. The wood was dry as a bone, and burnt

up gloriously.

Then first Robert bethought himself that they had nothing to eat.

He himself was full of merriment, and cared nothing about eating;

for had he not Miss St. John and Ericson there? but for them

something must be provided. He took his lantern and went back

through the storm. The hail had ceased, but the wind blew

tremendously. The coach stood upon the bridge like a stranded

vessel, its two lamps holding doubtful battle with the wind, now

flaring out triumphantly, now almost yielding up the ghost. Inside,

the guard was snoring in defiance of the pother o'er his head.

'Hector! Hector!' cried Robert.

'Ay, ay,' answered Hector. 'It's no time to wauken yet.'

'Hae ye nae basket, Hector, wi' something to eat in 't--naething

gaein' to Rothieden 'at a body micht say by yer leave till?'

'Ow! it's you, is 't?' returned Hector, rousing himself. 'Na. Deil

ane. An' gin I had, I daurna gie ye 't.'

'I wad mak free to steal 't, though, an' tak my chance,' said

Robert. 'But ye say ye hae nane?'

'Nane, I tell ye. Ye winna hunger afore the mornin', man.'

'I'll stan' hunger as weel 's you ony day, Hector. It's no for

mysel'. There's Miss St. John.'

'Hoots!' said Hector, peevishly, for he wanted to go to sleep again,

'gang and mak luve till her. Nae lass 'll think o' meat as lang 's

ye do that. That 'll haud her ohn hungert.'

The words were like blasphemy in Robert's ear. He make love to Miss

St. John! He turned from the coach-door in disgust. But there was

no place he knew of where anything could be had, and he must return

empty-handed.

The light of the fire shone through a little hole in the boards that

closed the window. His lamp had gone out, but, guided by that, he

found the road again, and felt his way up the stairs. When he

entered the room he saw Miss St. John sitting on the floor, for

there was nowhere else to sit, with the guard's coat under her. She

had taken off her bonnet. Her back leaned against the side of the

chimney, and her eyes were bent thoughtfully on the ground. In

their shine Robert read instinctively that Ericson had said

something that had set her thinking. He lay on the floor at some

distance, leaning on his elbow, and his eye had the flash in it that

indicates one who has just ceased speaking. They had not found his

absence awkward at least.

'I hae been efter something to eat,' said Robert; 'but I canna fa'

in wi' onything. We maun jist tell stories or sing sangs, as fowk

do in buiks, or else Miss St. John 'ill think lang.'

They did sing songs, and they did tell stories. I will not trouble

my reader with more than the sketch of one which Robert told--the

story of the old house wherein they sat--a house without a history,

save the story of its no history. It had been built for the

jointure-house of a young countess, whose husband was an old man. A

lover to whom she had turned a deaf ear had left the country,

begging ere he went her acceptance of a lovely Italian grayhound.

She was weak enough to receive the animal. Her husband died the

same year, and before the end of it the dog went mad, and bit her.

According to the awful custom of the time they smothered her

between two feather-beds, just as the house of Bogbonnie was ready

to receive her furniture, and become her future dwelling. No one

had ever occupied it.

If Miss St. John listened to story and song without as much show of

feeling as Mysie Lindsay would have manifested, it was not that she

entered into them less deeply. It was that she was more, not felt

less.

Listening at her window once with Robert, Eric Ericson had heard

Mary St. John play: this was their first meeting. Full as his mind

was of Mysie, he could not fail to feel the charm of a noble,

stately womanhood that could give support, instead of rousing

sympathy for helplessness. There was in the dignified simplicity of

Mary St. John that which made every good man remember his mother;

and a good man will think this grand praise, though a fast girl will

take it for a doubtful compliment.

Seeing her begin to look weary, the young men spread a couch for her

as best they could, made up the fire, and telling her they would be

in the hall below, retired, kindled another fire, and sat down to

wait for the morning. They held a long talk. At length Robert fell

asleep on the floor.

Ericson rose. One of his fits of impatient doubt was upon him. In

the dying embers of the fire he strode up and down the waste hall,

with the storm raving around it. He was destined to an early death;

he would leave no one of his kin to mourn for him; the girl whose

fair face had possessed his imagination, would not give one sigh to

his memory, wandering on through the regions of fancy all the same;

and the death-struggle over, he might awake in a godless void,

where, having no creative power in himself, he must be tossed about,

a conscious yet helpless atom, to eternity. It was not annihilation

he feared, although he did shrink from the thought of

unconsciousness; it was life without law that he dreaded, existence

without the bonds of a holy necessity, thought without faith, being

without God.

For all her fatigue Miss St. John could not sleep. The house

quivered in the wind which howled more and more madly through its

long passages and empty rooms; and she thought she heard cries in

the midst of the howling. In vain she reasoned with herself: she

could not rest. She rose and opened the door of her room, with a

vague notion of being nearer to the young men.

It opened upon the narrow gallery, already mentioned as leading from

one side of the first floor to the other at mid-height along the end

of the hall. The fire below shone into this gallery, for it was

divided from the hall only by a screen of crossing bars of wood,

like unglazed window-frames, possibly intended to hold glass. Of

the relation of the passage to the hall Mary St. John knew nothing,

till, approaching the light, she found herself looking down into the

red dusk below. She stood riveted; for in the centre of the hall,

with his hands clasped over his head like the solitary arch of a

ruined Gothic aisle, stood Ericson.

His agony had grown within him--the agony of the silence that

brooded immovable throughout the infinite, whose sea would ripple to

no breath of the feeble tempest of his prayers. At length it broke

from him in low but sharp sounds of words.

'O God,' he said, 'if thou art, why dost thou not speak? If I am

thy handiwork--dost thou forget that which thou hast made?'

He paused, motionless, then cried again:

'There can be no God, or he would hear.'

'God has heard me!' said a full-toned voice of feminine tenderness

somewhere in the air. Looking up, Ericson saw the dim form of Mary

St. John half-way up the side of the lofty hall. The same moment

she vanished--trembling at the sound of her own voice.

Thus to Ericson as to Robert had she appeared as an angel.

And was she less of a divine messenger because she had a human body,

whose path lay not through the air? The storm of misery folded its

wings in Eric's bosom, and, at the sound of her voice, there was a

great calm. Nor if we inquire into the matter shall we find that

such an effect indicated anything derogatory to the depth of his

feelings or the strength of his judgment. It is not through the

judgment that a troubled heart can be set at rest. It needs a

revelation, a vision; a something for the higher nature that breeds

and infolds the intellect, to recognize as of its own, and lay hold

of by faithful hope. And what fitter messenger of such hope than

the harmonious presence of a woman, whose form itself tells of

highest law, and concord, and uplifting obedience; such a one whose

beauty walks the upper air of noble loveliness; whose voice, even in

speech, is one of the 'sphere-born harmonious sisters? The very

presence of such a being gives Unbelief the lie, deep as the throat

of her lying. Harmony, which is beauty and law, works necessary

faith in the region capable of truth. It needs the intervention of

no reasoning. It is beheld. This visible Peace, with that voice of

woman's truth, said, 'God has heard me!' What better testimony

could an angel have brought him? Or why should an angel's testimony

weigh more than such a woman's? The mere understanding of a man

like Ericson would only have demanded of an angel proof that he was

an angel, proof that angels knew better than he did in the matter in

question, proof that they were not easy-going creatures that took

for granted the rumours of heaven. The best that a miracle can do

is to give hope; of the objects of faith it can give no proof; one

spiritual testimony is worth a thousand of them. For to gain the

sole proof of which these truths admit, a man must grow into harmony

with them. If there are no such things he cannot become conscious

of a harmony that has no existence; he cannot thus deceive himself;

if there are, they must yet remain doubtful until the harmony

between them and his own willing nature is established. The

perception of this harmony is their only and incommunicable proof.

For this process time is needful; and therefore we are saved by

hope. Hence it is no wonder that before another half-hour was over,

Ericson was asleep by Robert's side.

They were aroused in the cold gray light of the morning by the blast

of Hector's horn. Miss St. John was ready in a moment. The coach

was waiting for them at the end of the grassy road that led from the

house. Hector put them all inside. Before they reached Rothieden

the events of the night began to wear the doubtful aspect of a

dream. No allusion was made to what had occurred while Robert

slept; but all the journey Ericson felt towards Miss St. John as

Wordsworth felt towards the leech-gatherer, who, he says, was

like a man from some far region sent,

To give me human strength, by apt admonishment.

And Robert saw a certain light in her eyes which reminded him of how

she looked when, having repented of her momentary hardness towards

him, she was ministering to his wounded head.

CHAPTER XVII.

HOME AGAIN.

When Robert opened the door of his grandmother's parlour, he found

the old lady seated at breakfast. She rose, pushed back her chair,

and met him in the middle of the room; put her old arms round him,

offered her smooth white cheek to him, and wept. Robert wondered

that she did not look older; for the time he had been away seemed an

age, although in truth only eight months.

'Hoo are ye, laddie?' she said. 'I'm richt glaid, for I hae been

thinkin' lang to see ye. Sit ye doon.'

Betty rushed in, drying her hands on her apron. She had not heard

him enter.

'Eh losh!' she cried, and put her wet apron to her eyes. 'Sic a man

as ye're grown, Robert! A puir body like me maunna be speykin to ye

noo.'

'There's nae odds in me, Betty,' returned Robert.

''Deed but there is. Ye're sax feet an' a hairy ower, I s'

warran'.'

'I said there was nae odds i' me, Betty,' persisted Robert,

laughing.

'I kenna what may be in ye,' retorted Betty; 'but there's an unco'

odds upo' ye.'

'Haud yer tongue, Betty,' said her mistress. 'Ye oucht to ken better

nor stan' jawin' wi' young men. Fess mair o' the creamy cakes.'

'Maybe Robert wad like a drappy o' parritch.'

'Onything, Betty,' said Robert. 'I'm at deith's door wi' hunger.'

'Rin, Betty, for the cakes. An' fess a loaf o' white breid; we

canna bide for the parritch.'

Robert fell to his breakfast, and while he ate--somewhat

ravenously--he told his grandmother the adventures of the night, and

introduced the question whether he might not ask Ericson to stay a

few days with him.

'Ony frien' o' yours, laddie,' she replied, qualifying her words

only with the addition--'gin he be a frien'.--Whaur is he noo?'

'He's up at Miss Naper's.'

'Hoots! What for didna ye fess him in wi' ye?--Betty!'

'Na, na, grannie. The Napers are frien's o' his. We maunna

interfere wi' them. I'll gang up mysel' ance I hae had my

brakfast.'

'Weel, weel, laddie. Eh! I'm blythe to see ye! Hae ye gotten ony

prizes noo?'

'Ay have I. I'm sorry they're nae baith o' them the first. But I

hae the first o' ane an' the third o' the ither.'

'I am pleased at that, Robert. Ye'll be a man some day gin ye haud

frae drink an' frae--frae leein'.'

'I never tellt a lee i' my life, grannie.'

'Na. I dinna think 'at ever ye did.--An' what's that crater Shargar

aboot?'

'Ow, jist gaein' to be a croon o' glory to ye, grannie. He vroucht

like a horse till Dr. Anderson took him by the han', an' sent him to

the schuil. An' he's gaein' to mak something o' 'im, or a' be dune.

He's a fine crater, Shargar.'

'He tuik a munelicht flittin' frae here,' rejoined the old lady, in

a tone of offence. 'He micht hae said gude day to me, I think.'

'Ye see he was feart at ye, grannie.'

'Feart at me, laddie! Wha ever was feart at me? I never feart

onybody i' my life.'

So little did the dear old lady know that she was a terror to her

neighbourhood!--simply because, being a law to herself, she would

therefore be a law to other people,--a conclusion that cannot be

concluded.

Mrs. Falconer's courtesy did not fail. Her grandson had ceased to

be a child; her responsibility had in so far ceased; her conscience

was relieved at being rid of it; and the humanity of her great heart

came out to greet the youth. She received Ericson with perfect

hospitality, made him at home as far as the stately respect she

showed him would admit of his being so, and confirmed in him the

impression of her which Robert had given him. They held many talks

together; and such was the circumspection of Ericson that, not

saying a word he did not believe, he so said what he did believe, or

so avoided the points upon which they would have differed seriously,

that although his theology was of course far from satisfying her,

she yet affirmed her conviction that the root of the matter was in

him. This distressed Ericson, however, for he feared he must have

been deceitful, if not hypocritical.

It was with some grumbling that the Napiers, especially Miss Letty,

parted with him to Mrs. Falconer. The hearts of all three had so

taken to the youth, that he found himself more at home in that

hostelry than anywhere else in the world. Miss Letty was the only

one that spoke lightly of him--she even went so far as to make

good-natured game of him sometimes--all because she loved him more

than the others--more indeed than she cared to show, for fear of

exposing 'an old woman's ridiculous fancy,' as she called her

predilection.--'A lang-leggit, prood, landless laird,' she would

say, with a moist glimmer in her loving eyes, 'wi' the maist

ridiculous feet ye ever saw--hardly room for the five taes atween

the twa! Losh!'

When Robert went forth into the streets, he was surprised to find

how friendly every one was. Even old William MacGregor shook him

kindly by the hand, inquired after his health, told him not to study

too hard, informed him that he had a copy of a queer old book that

he would like to see, &c., &c. Upon reflection Robert discovered

the cause: though he had scarcely gained a bursary, he had gained

prizes; and in a little place like Rothieden--long may there be such

places!--everybody with any brains at all took a share in the

distinction he had merited.

Ericson stayed only a few days. He went back to the twilight of the

north, his fishy cousin, and his tutorship at Sir Olaf Petersen's.

Robert accompanied him ten miles on his journey, and would have

gone further, but that he was to play on his violin before Miss St.

John the next day for the first time.

When he told his grandmother of the appointment he had made, she

only remarked, in a tone of some satisfaction,

'Weel, she's a fine lass, Miss St. John; and gin ye tak to ane

anither, ye canna do better.'

But Robert's thoughts were so different from Mrs. Falconer's that he

did not even suspect what she meant. He no more dreamed of marrying

Miss St. John than of marrying his forbidden grandmother. Yet she

was no loss at this period the ruling influence of his life; and if

it had not been for the benediction of her presence and power, this

part of his history too would have been torn by inward troubles. It

is not good that a man should batter day and night at the gate of

heaven. Sometimes he can do nothing else, and then nothing else is

worth doing; but the very noise of the siege will sometimes drown

the still small voice that calls from the open postern. There is a

door wide to the jewelled wall not far from any one of us, even when

he least can find it.

Robert, however, notwithstanding the pedestal upon which Miss St.

John stood in his worshipping regard, began to be aware that his

feeling towards her was losing something of its placid flow, and I

doubt whether Miss St. John did not now and then see that in his

face which made her tremble a little, and doubt whether she stood on

safe ground with a youth just waking into manhood--tremble a little,

not for herself, but for him. Her fear would have found itself more

than justified, if she had surprised him kissing her glove, and then

replacing it where he had found it, with the air of one consciously

guilty of presumption.

Possibly also Miss St. John may have had to confess to herself that

had she not had her history already, and been ten years his senior,

she might have found no little attraction in the noble bearing and

handsome face of young Falconer. The rest of his features had now

grown into complete harmony of relation with his whilom premature

and therefore portentous nose; his eyes glowed and gleamed with

humanity, and his whole countenance bore self-evident witness of

being a true face and no mask, a revelation of his individual being,

and not a mere inheritance from a fine breed of fathers and mothers.

As it was, she could admire and love him without danger of falling

in love with him; but not without fear lest he should not assume the

correlative position. She saw no way of prevention, however,

without running a risk of worse. She shrunk altogether from putting

on anything; she abhorred tact, and pretence was impracticable with

Mary St. John. She resolved that if she saw any definite ground for

uneasiness she would return to England, and leave any impression she

might have made to wear out in her absence and silence. Things did

not seem to render this necessary yet.

Meantime the violin of the dead shoemaker blended its wails with the

rich harmonies of Mary St. John's piano, and the soul of Robert went

forth upon the level of the sound and hovered about the beauty of

his friend. Oftener than she approved was she drawn by Robert's

eagerness into these consorts.

But the heart of the king is in the hands of the Lord.

While Robert thus once more for a season stood behind the cherub

with the flaming sword, Ericson was teaching two stiff-necked youths

in a dreary house in the midst of one of the moors of Caithness.

One day he had a slight attack of blood-spitting, and welcomed it

as a sign from what heaven there might be beyond the grave.

He had not received the consolation of Miss St. John without,

although unconsciously, leaving something in her mind in return. No

human being has ever been allowed to occupy the position of a pure

benefactor. The receiver has his turn, and becomes the giver. From

her talk with Ericson, and even more from the influence of his sad

holy doubt, a fresh touch of the actinism of the solar truth fell

upon the living seed in her heart, and her life burst forth afresh,

began to bud in new questions that needed answers, and new prayers

that sought them.

But she never dreamed that Robert was capable of sympathy with such

thoughts and feelings: he was but a boy. Nor in power of dealing

with truth was he at all on the same level with her, for however

poor he might have considered her theories, she had led a life

hitherto, had passed through sorrow without bitterness, had done her

duty without pride, had hoped without conceit of favour, had, as she

believed, heard the voice of God saying, 'This is the way.' Hence

she was not afraid when the mists of prejudice began to rise from

around her path, and reveal a country very different from what she

had fancied it. She was soon able to perceive that it was far more

lovely and full of righteousness and peace than she had supposed.

But this anticipates; only I shall have less occasion to speak of

Miss St. John by the time she has come into this purer air of the

uphill road.

Robert was happier than he ever could have expected to be in his

grandmother's house. She treated him like an honoured guest, let

him do as he would, and go where he pleased. Betty kept the

gable-room in the best of order for him, and, pattern of housemaids,

dusted his table without disturbing his papers. For he began to

have papers; nor were they occupied only with the mathematics to

which he was now giving his chief attention, preparing, with the

occasional help of Mr. Innes, for his second session.

He had fits of wandering, though; visited all the old places; spent

a week or two more than once at Bodyfauld; rode Mr. Lammie's

half-broke filly; revelled in the glories of the summer once more;

went out to tea occasionally, or supped with the school-master; and,

except going to church on Sunday, which was a weariness to every

inch of flesh upon his bones, enjoyed everything.

CHAPTER XVIII.

A GRAVE OPENED.

One thing that troubled Robert on this his return home, was the

discovery that the surroundings of his childhood had deserted him.

There they were, as of yore, but they seemed to have nothing to say

to him--no remembrance of him. It was not that everything looked

small and narrow; it was not that the streets he saw from his new

quarters, the gable-room, were awfully still after the roar of

Aberdeen, and a passing cart seemed to shudder at the loneliness of

the noise itself made; it was that everything seemed to be conscious

only of the past and care nothing for him now. The very chairs with

their inlaid backs had an embalmed look, and stood as in a dream.

He could pass even the walled-up door without emotion, for all the

feeling that had been gathered about the knob that admitted him to

Mary St. John, had transferred itself to the brass bell-pull at her

street-door.

But one day, after standing for a while at the window, looking down

on the street where he had first seen the beloved form of Ericson, a

certain old mood began to revive in him. He had been working at

quadratic equations all the morning; he had been foiled in the

attempt to find the true algebraic statement of a very tough

question involving various ratios; and, vexed with himself, he had

risen to look out, as the only available zeitvertreib. It was one

of those rainy days of spring which it needs a hopeful mood to

distinguish from autumnal ones--dull, depressing, persistent: there

might be sunshine in Mercury or Venus--but on the earth could be

none, from his right hand round by India and America to his left;

and certainly there was none between--a mood to which all sensitive

people are liable who have not yet learned by faith in the

everlasting to rule their own spirits. Naturally enough his

thoughts turned to the place where he had suffered most--his old

room in the garret. Hitherto he had shrunk from visiting it; but

now he turned away from the window, went up the steep stairs, with

their one sharp corkscrew curve, pushed the door, which clung

unwillingly to the floor, and entered. It was a nothing of a

place--with a window that looked only to heaven. There was the

empty bedstead against the wall, where he had so often kneeled,

sending forth vain prayers to a deaf heaven! Had they indeed been

vain prayers, and to a deaf heaven? or had they been prayers which a

hearing God must answer not according to the haste of the praying

child, but according to the calm course of his own infinite law of

love?

Here, somehow or other, the things about him did not seem so much

absorbed in the past, notwithstanding those untroubled rows of

papers bundled in red tape. True, they looked almost awful in their

lack of interest and their non-humanity, for there is scarcely

anything that absolutely loses interest save the records of money;

but his mother's workbox lay behind them. And, strange to say, the

side of that bed drew him to kneel down: he did not yet believe that

prayer was in vain. If God had not answered him before, that gave

no certainty that he would not answer him now. It was, he found,

still as rational as it had ever been to hope that God would answer

the man that cried to him. This came, I think, from the fact that

God had been answering him all the time, although he had not

recognized his gifts as answers. Had he not given him Ericson, his

intercourse with whom and his familiarity with whose doubts had done

anything but quench his thirst after the higher life? For

Ericson's, like his own, were true and good and reverent doubts, not

merely consistent with but in a great measure springing from

devoutness and aspiration. Surely such doubts are far more precious

in the sight of God than many beliefs?

He kneeled and sent forth one cry after the Father, arose, and

turned towards the shelves, removed some of the bundles of letters,

and drew out his mother's little box.

There lay the miniature, still and open-eyed as he had left it.

There too lay the bit of paper, brown and dry, with the hymn and

the few words of sorrow written thereon. He looked at the portrait,

but did not open the folded paper. Then first he thought whether

there might not be something more in the box: what he had taken for

the bottom seemed to be a tray. He lifted it by two little ears of

ribbon, and there, underneath, lay a letter addressed to his father,

in the same old-fashioned handwriting as the hymn. It was sealed

with brown wax, full of spangles, impressed with a bush of

something--he could not tell whether rushes or reeds or flags. Of

course he dared not open it. His holy mother's words to his erring

father must be sacred even from the eyes of their son. But what

other or fitter messenger than himself could bear it to its

destination? It was for this that he had been guided to it.

For years he had regarded the finding of his father as the first

duty of his manhood: it was as if his mother had now given her

sanction to the quest, with this letter to carry to the husband who,

however he might have erred, was yet dear to her. He replaced it in

the box, but the box no more on the forsaken shelf with its dreary

barricade of soulless records. He carried it with him, and laid it

in the bottom of his box, which henceforth he kept carefully locked:

there lay as it were the pledge of his father's salvation, and his

mother's redemption from an eternal grief.

He turned to his equation: it had cleared itself up; he worked it

out in five minutes. Betty came to tell him that the dinner was

ready, and he went down, peaceful and hopeful, to his grandmother.

While at home he never worked in the evenings: it was bad enough to

have to do so at college. Hence nature had a chance with him again.

Blessings on the wintry blasts that broke into the first youth of

Summer! They made him feel what summer was! Blessings on the

cheerless days of rain, and even of sleet and hail, that would shove

the reluctant year back into January. The fair face of Spring, with

her tears dropping upon her quenchless smiles, peeped in suppressed

triumph from behind the growing corn and the budding sallows on the

river-bank. Nay, even when the snow came once more in defiance of

calendars, it was but a background from which the near genesis

should 'stick fiery off.'

In general he had a lonely walk after his lesson with Miss St. John

was over: there was no one at Rothieden to whom his heart and

intellect both were sufficiently drawn to make a close friendship

possible. He had companions, however: Ericson had left his papers

with him. The influence of these led him into yet closer sympathy

with Nature and all her moods; a sympathy which, even in the stony

heart of London, he not only did not lose but never ceased to feel.

Even there a breath of wind would not only breathe upon him, it

would breathe into him; and a sunset seen from the Strand was lovely

as if it had hung over rainbow seas. On his way home he would often

go into one of the shops where the neighbours congregated in the

evenings, and hold a little talk; and although, with Miss St. John

filling his heart, his friend's poems his imagination, and geometry

and algebra his intellect, great was the contrast between his own

inner mood and the words by which he kept up human relations with

his townsfolk, yet in after years he counted it one of the greatest

blessings of a lowly birth and education that he knew hearts and

feelings which to understand one must have been young amongst them.

He would not have had a chance of knowing such as these if he had

been the son of Dr. Anderson and born in Aberdeen.

CHAPTER XIX.

ROBERT MEDIATES.

One lovely evening in the first of the summer Miss St. John had

dismissed him earlier than usual, and he had wandered out for a

walk. After a round of a couple of miles, he returned by a

fir-wood, through which went a pathway. He had heard Mary St. John

say that she was going to see the wife of a labourer who lived at

the end of this path. In the heart of the trees it was growing very

dusky; but when he came to a spot where they stood away from each

other a little space, and the blue sky looked in from above with one

cloud floating in it from which the rose of the sunset was fading,

he seated himself on a little mound of moss that had gathered over

an ancient stump by the footpath, and drew out his friend's papers.

Absorbed in his reading, he was not aware of an approach till the

rustle of silk startled him. He lifted up his eyes, and saw Miss

St. John a few yards from him on the pathway. He rose.

'It's almost too dark to read now, isn't it, Robert?' she said.

'Ah!' said. Robert, 'I know this writing so well that I could read

it by moonlight. I wish I might read some of it to you. You would

like it.'

'May I ask whose it is, then? Poetry, too!'

'It's Mr. Ericson's. But I'm feared he wouldna like me to read it

to anybody but myself. And yet--'

'I don't think he would mind me,' returned Miss St. John. 'I do know

him a little. It is not as if I were quite a stranger, you know.

Did he tell you not?'

'No. But then he never thought of such a thing. I don't know if

it's fair, for they are carelessly written, and there are words and

lines here and there that I am sure he would alter if he cared for

them ae hair.'

'Then if he doesn't care for them, he won't mind my hearing them.

There!' she said, seating herself on the stump. 'You sit down on

the grass and read me--one at least.'

'You'll remember they were never intended to be read?' urged Robert,

not knowing what he was doing, and so fulfilling his destiny.

'I will be as jealous of his honour as ever you can wish,' answered

Miss St. John gaily.

Robert laid himself on the grass at her feet, and read:--

MY TWO GENIUSES.

One is a slow and melancholy maid:

I know not if she cometh from the skies,

Or from the sleepy gulfs, but she will rise

Often before me in the twilight shade

Holding a bunch of poppies, and a blade

Of springing wheat: prostrate my body lies

Before her on the turf, the while she ties

A fillet of the weed about my head;

And in the gaps of sleep I seem to hear

A gentle rustle like the stir of corn,

And words like odours thronging to my ear:

'Lie still, beloved, still until the morn;

Lie still with me upon this rolling sphere,

Still till the judgment--thou art faint and worn.'

The other meets me in the public throng:

Her hair streams backward from her loose attire;

She hath a trumpet and an eye of fire;

She points me downward steadily and long--

'There is thy grave--arise, my son, be strong!

Hands are upon thy crown; awake, aspire

To immortality; heed not the lyre

Of the enchantress, nor her poppy-song;

But in the stillness of the summer calm,

Tremble for what is godlike in thy being.

Listen awhile, and thou shalt hear the psalm

Of victory sung by creatures past thy seeing;

And from far battle-fields there comes the neighing

Of dreadful onset, though the air is balm.'

Maid with the poppies, must I let thee go?

Alas! I may not; thou art likewise dear;

I am but human, and thou hast a tear,

When she hath nought but splendour, and the glow

Of a wild energy that mocks the flow

Of the poor sympathies which keep us here.

Lay past thy poppies, and come twice as near,

And I will teach thee, and thou too shalt grow;

And thou shalt walk with me in open day

Through the rough thoroughfares with quiet grace;

And the wild-visaged maid shall lead the way,

Timing her footsteps to a gentler pace,

As her great orbs turn ever on thy face,

Drinking in draughts of loving help alway.

Miss St. John did not speak.

'War ye able to follow him?' asked Robert.

'Quite, I assure you,' she answered, with a tremulousness in her

voice which delighted Robert as evidence of his friend's success.

'But they're nae a' so easy to follow, I can tell ye, mem. Just

hearken to this,' he said, with some excitement.

When the storm was proudest,

And the wind was loudest,

I heard the hollow caverns drinking down below;

When the stars were bright,

And the ground was white,

I heard the grasses springing underneath the snow.

Many voices spake--

The river to the lake,

The iron-ribbed sky was talking to the sea;

And every starry spark

Made music with the dark,

And said how bright and beautiful everything must be.

'That line, mem,' remarked Robert, ''s only jist scrattit in, as gin

he had no intention o' leavin' 't, an' only set it there to keep

room for anither. But we'll jist gang on wi' the lave o' 't. I

ouchtna to hae interruppit it.'

When the sun was setting,

All the clouds were getting

Beautiful and silvery in the rising moon;

Beneath the leafless trees

Wrangling in the breeze,

I could hardly see them for the leaves of June.

When the day had ended,

And the night descended,

I heard the sound of streams that I heard not through the day

And every peak afar,

Was ready for a star,

And they climbed and rolled around until the morning gray.

Then slumber soft and holy

Came down upon me slowly;

And I went I know not whither, and I lived I know not how;

My glory had been banished,

For when I woke it vanished,

But I waited on it's coming, and I am waiting now.

'There!' said Robert, ending, 'can ye mak onything o' that, Miss St.

John?'

'I don't say I can in words,' she answered; 'but I think I could put

it all into music.'

'But surely ye maun hae some notion o' what it's aboot afore you can

do that.'

'Yes; but I have some notion of what it's about, I think. Just lend

it to me; and by the time we have our next lesson, you will see

whether I'm not able to show you I understand it. I shall take good

care of it,' she added, with a smile, seeing Robert's reluctance to

part with it. 'It doesn't matter my having it, you know, now that

you've read it to me, I want to make you do it justice.--But it's

quite time I were going home. Besides, I really don't think you can

see to read any more.'

'Weel, it's better no to try, though I hae them maistly upo' my

tongue: I might blunder, and that wad blaud them.--Will you let me

go home with you?' he added, in pure tremulous English.

'Certainly, if you like,' she answered; and they walked towards the

town.

Robert opened the fountain of his love for Ericson, and let it gush

like a river from a hillside. He talked on and on about him, with

admiration, gratitude, devotion. And Miss St. John was glad of the

veil of the twilight over her face as she listened, for the boy's

enthusiasm trembled through her as the wind through an 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 evening of a

market-day, when the shopkeepers, their labours over, would be

standing in a speculative mood at their doors, surrounded by groups

of friends and neighbours, felt shy of showing herself on the square

with Robert, and proposed that they should part, giving as a

by-the-bye reason that she had a little shopping to do as she went

home. Too simple to suspect the real reason, but with a heart that

delighted in obedience, Robert bade her good-night at once, and took

another way.

As he passed the door of Merson the haberdasher's shop, there stood

William MacGregor, the weaver, looking at nothing and doing nothing.

We have seen something of him before: he was a remarkable compound

of good nature and bad temper. People were generally afraid of him,

because he had a biting satire at his command, amounting even to

wit, which found vent in verse--not altogether despicable even from

a literary point of view. The only person he, on his part, was

afraid of, was his own wife; for upon her, from lack of

apprehension, his keenest irony fell, as he said, like water on a

duck's back, and in respect of her he had, therefore, no weapon of

offence to strike terror withal. Her dulness was her defence. He

liked Robert. When he saw him, he wakened up, laid hold of him by

the button, and drew him in.

'Come in, lad,' he said, 'an' tak a pinch. I'm waitin' for Merson.'

As he spoke he took from his pocket his mull, made of the end of a

ram's horn, and presented it to Robert, who accepted the pledge of

friendship. While he was partaking, MacGregor drew himself with

some effort upon the counter, saying in a half-comical,

half-admonitory tone,

'Weel, and hoo's the mathematics, Robert?'

'Thrivin',' answered Robert, falling into his humour.

'Weel, that's verra weel. Duv ye min', Robert, hoo, whan ye was

aboot the age o' aucht year aul', ye cam to me ance at my shop aboot

something yer gran'mither, honest woman, wantit, an' I, by way o'

takin' my fun o' ye, said to ye, "Robert, ye hae grown desperate;

ye're a man clean; ye hae gotten the breeks on." An' says ye, "Ay,

Mr. MacGregor, I want naething noo but a watch an' a wife"?'

'I doobt I've forgotten a' aboot it, Mr. MacGregor,' answered

Robert. 'But I've made some progress, accordin' to your story, for

Dr. Anderson, afore I cam hame, gae me a watch. An' a fine crater

it is, for it aye does its best, an' sae I excuse its shortcomin's.'

'There's just ae thing, an' nae anither,' returned the manufacturer,

'that I cannot excuse in a watch. Gin a watch gangs ower fest, ye

fin' 't oot. Gin she gangs ower slow, ye fin' 't oot, an' ye can

aye calculate upo' 't correck eneuch for maitters sublunairy, as Mr.

Maccleary says. An' gin a watch stops a'thegither, ye ken it's

failin', an' ye ken whaur it sticks, an' a' 'at ye say 's "Tut, tut,

de'il hae 't for a watch!" But there's ae thing that God nor man

canna bide in a watch, an' that's whan it stan's still for a

bittock, an' syne gangs on again. Ay, ay! tic, tic, tic! wi' a fair

face and a leein' hert. It wad gar ye believe it was a' richt, and

time for anither tum'ler, whan it's twal o'clock, an' the kirkyaird

fowk thinkin' aboot risin'. Fegs, I had a watch o' my father's, an'

I regairdit it wi' a reverence mair like a human bein': the second

time it played me that pliskie, I dang oot its guts upo' the

loupin'-on-stane at the door o' the chop. But lat the watch sit:

whaur's the wife? Ye canna be a man yet wantin' the wife--by yer

ain statement.'

'The watch cam unsoucht, Mr. MacGregor, an' I'm thinkin' sae maun

the wife,' answered Robert, laughing.

'Preserve me for ane frae a wife that comes unsoucht,' returned the

weaver. 'But, my lad, there may be some wives that winna come whan

they are soucht. Preserve me frae them too!--Noo, maybe ye dinna

ken what I mean--but tak ye tent what ye're aboot. Dinna ye think

'at ilka bonnie lass 'at may like to haud a wark wi' ye 's jist

ready to mairry ye aff han' whan ye say, "Noo, my dawtie."--An' ae

word mair, Robert: Young men, especially braw lads like yersel', 's

unco ready to fa' in love wi' women fit to be their mithers. An'

sae ye see--'

He was interrupted by the entrance of a girl. She had a shawl over

her head, notwithstanding it was summer weather, and crept in

hesitatingly, as if she were not quite at one with herself as to her

coming purchase. Approaching a boy behind the counter on the

opposite side of the shop, she asked for something, and he proceeded

to serve her. Robert could not help thinking, from the one glimpse

of her face he had got through the dusk, that he had seen her

before. Suddenly the vision of an earthen floor with a pool of

brown sunlight upon it, bare feet, brown hair, and soft eyes,

mingled with a musk odour wafted from Arabian fairyland, rose before

him: it was Jessie Hewson.

'I ken that lassie,' he said, and moved to get down from the counter

on which he too had seated himself.

'Na, na,' whispered the manufacturer, laying, like the Ancient

Mariner, a brown skinny hand of restraint upon Robert's arm--'na,

na, never heed her. Ye maunna speyk to ilka lass 'at ye ken.--Poor

thing! she's been doin' something wrang, to gang slinkin' aboot i'

the gloamin' like a baukie (bat), wi' her plaid ower her heid.

Dinna fash wi' her.'

'Nonsense!' returned Robert, with indignation. 'What for shouldna I

speik till her? She's a decent lassie--a dochter o' James Hewson,

the cottar at Bodyfauld. I ken her fine.'

He said this in a whisper; but the girl seemed to hear it, for she

left the shop with a perturbation which the dimness of the late

twilight could not conceal. Robert hesitated no longer, but

followed her, heedless of the louder expostulations of MacGregor.

She was speeding away down the street, but he took longer strides

than she, and was almost up with her, when she drew her shawl closer

about her head, and increased her pace.

'Jessie!' said Robert, in a tone of expostulation. But she made no

answer. Her head sunk lower on her bosom, and she hurried yet

faster. He gave a long stride or two and laid his hand on her

shoulder. She stood still, trembling.

'Jessie, dinna ye ken me--Robert Faukner? Dinna be feart at me.

What's the maitter wi' ye, 'at ye winna speik till a body? Hoo's

a' the fowk at hame?'

She burst out crying, cast one look into Robert's face, and fled.

What a change was in that face? The peach-colour was gone from her

cheek; it was pale and thin. Her eyes were hollow, with dark

shadows under them, the shadows of a sad sunset. A foreboding of

the truth arose in his heart, and the tears rushed up into his eyes.

The next moment the eidolon of Mary St. John, moving gracious and

strong, clothed in worship and the dignity which is its own defence,

appeared beside that of Jessie Hewson, her bowed head shaken with

sobs, and her weak limbs urged to ungraceful flight. As if walking

in the vision of an eternal truth, he went straight to Captain

Forsyth's door.

'I want to speak to Miss St. John, Isie,' said Robert.

'She'll be doon in a minit.'

'But isna yer mistress i' the drawin'-room?--I dinna want to see

her.'

'Ow, weel,' said the girl, who was almost fresh from the country,

'jist rin up the stair, an' chap at the door o' her room.'

With the simplicity of a child, for what a girl told him to do must

be right, Robert sped up the stair, his heart going like a

fire-engine. He had never approached Mary's room from this side,

but instinct or something else led him straight to her door. He

knocked.

'Come in,' she said, never doubting it was the maid, and Robert

entered.

She was brushing her hair by the light of a chamber candle. Robert

was seized with awe, and his limbs trembled. He could have kneeled

before her--not to beg forgiveness, he did not think of that--but to

worship, as a man may worship a woman. It is only a strong, pure

heart like Robert's that ever can feel all the inroad of the divine

mystery of womanhood. But he did not kneel. He had a duty to

perform. A flush rose in Miss St. John's face, and sank away,

leaving it pale. It was not that she thought once of her own

condition, with her hair loose on her shoulders, but, able only to

conjecture what had brought him thither, she could not but regard

Robert's presence with dismay. She stood with her ivory brush in

her right hand uplifted, and a great handful of hair in her left.

She was soon relieved, however, although what with his contemplated

intercession, the dim vision of Mary's lovely face between the

masses of her hair, and the lavender odour that filled the

room--perhaps also a faint suspicion of impropriety sufficient to

give force to the rest--Robert was thrown back into the abyss of his

mother-tongue, and out of this abyss talked like a Behemoth.

'Robert!' said Mary, in a tone which, had he not been so eager after

his end, he might have interpreted as one of displeasure.

'Ye maun hearken till me, mem.--Whan I was oot at Bodyfauld,' he

began methodically, and Mary, bewildered, gave one hasty brush to

her handful of hair and again stood still: she could imagine no

connection between this meeting and their late parting--'Whan I was

was oot at Bodyfauld ae simmer, I grew acquant wi' a bonnie lassie

there, the dochter o' Jeames Hewson, an honest cottar, wi'

Shakspeare an' the Arabian Nichts upo' a skelf i' the hoose wi' 'im.

I gaed in ae day whan I wasna weel; an' she jist ministert to me,

as nane ever did but yersel', mem. An' she was that kin' an'

mither-like to the wee bit greitin' bairnie 'at she had to tak care

o' 'cause her mither was oot wi' the lave shearin'! Her face was

jist like a simmer day, an' weel I likit the luik o' the lassie!--I

met her again the nicht. Ye never saw sic a change. A white face,

an' nothing but greitin' to come oot o' her. She ran frae me as gin

I had been the de'il himsel'. An' the thocht o' you, sae bonnie an'

straucht an' gran', cam ower me.'

Yielding to a masterful impulse, Robert did kneel now. As if

sinner, and not mediator, he pressed the hem of her garment to his

lips.

'Dinna be angry at me, Miss St. John,' he pleaded, 'but be mercifu'

to the lassie. Wha's to help her that can no more luik a man i' the

face, but the clear-e'ed lass that wad luik the sun himsel' oot o'

the lift gin he daured to say a word against her. It's ae woman

that can uphaud anither. Ye ken what I mean, an' I needna say

mair.'

He rose and turned to leave the room.

Bewildered and doubtful, Miss St. John did not know what to answer,

but felt that she must make some reply.

'You haven't told me where to find the girl, or what you want me to

do with her.'

'I'll fin' oot whaur she bides,' he said, moving again towards the

door.

'But what am I to do with her, Robert?'

'That's your pairt. Ye maun fin' oot what to do wi' her. I canna

tell ye that. But gin I was you, I wad gie her a kiss to begin wi'.

She's nane o' yer brazen-faced hizzies, yon. A kiss wad be the

savin' o' her.'

'But you may be--. But I have nothing to go upon. She would resent

my interference.'

'She's past resentin' onything. She was gaein' aboot the toon like

ane o' the deid 'at hae naething to say to onybody, an' naebody

onything to say to them. Gin she gangs on like that she'll no be

alive lang.'

That night Jessie Hewson disappeared. A mile or two up the river

under a high bank, from which the main current had receded, lay an

awful, swampy place--full of reeds, except in the middle where was

one round space full of dark water and mud. Near this Jessie Hewson

was seen about an hour after Robert had thus pled for her with his

angel.

The event made a deep impression upon Robert. The last time that he

saw them, James and his wife were as cheerful as usual, and gave him

a hearty welcome. Jessie was in service, and doing well, they said.

The next time he opened the door of the cottage it was like the

entrance to a haunted tomb. Not a smile was in the place. James's

cheeriness was all gone. He was sitting at the table with his head

leaning on his hand. His Bible was open before him, but he was not

reading a word. His wife was moving listlessly about. They looked

just as Jessie had looked that night--as if they had died long ago,

but somehow or other could not get into their graves and be at rest.

The child Jessie had nursed with such care was toddling about,

looking rueful with loss. George had gone to America, and the whole

of that family's joy had vanished from the earth.

The subject was not resumed between Miss St. John and Robert. The

next time he saw her, he knew by her pale troubled face that she had

heard the report that filled the town; and she knew by his silence

that it had indeed reference to the same girl of whom he had spoken

to her. The music would not go right that evening. Mary was

distraite, and Robert was troubled. It was a week or two before

there came a change. When the turn did come, over his being love

rushed up like a spring-tide from the ocean of the Infinite.

He was accompanying her piano with his violin. He made blunders,

and her playing was out of heart. They stopped as by consent, and a

moment's silence followed. All at once she broke out with something

Robert had never heard before. He soon found that it was a fantasy

upon Ericson's poem. Ever through a troubled harmony ran a silver

thread of melody from far away. It was the caverns drinking from

the tempest overhead, the grasses growing under the snow, the stars

making music with the dark, the streams filling the night with the

sounds the day had quenched, the whispering call of the dreams left

behind in 'the fields of sleep,'--in a word, the central life

pulsing in aeonian peace through the outer ephemeral storms. At

length her voice took up the theme. The silvery thread became song,

and through all the opposing, supporting harmonies she led it to the

solution of a close in which the only sorrow was in the music

itself, for its very life is an 'endless ending.' She found Robert

kneeling by her side. As she turned from the instrument his head

drooped over her knee. She laid her hand on his clustering curls,

bethought herself, and left the room. Robert wandered out as in a

dream. At midnight he found himself on a solitary hill-top, seated

in the heather, with a few tiny fir-trees about him, and the sounds

of a wind, ethereal as the stars overhead, flowing through their

branches: he heard the sound of it, but it did not touch him.

Where was God?

In him and his question.

CHAPTER XX.

ERICSON LOSES TO WIN.

If Mary St. John had been an ordinary woman, and if,

notwithstanding, Robert had been in love with her, he would have

done very little in preparation for the coming session. But

although she now possessed him, although at times he only knew

himself as loving her, there was such a mountain air of calm about

her, such an outgoing divinity of peace, such a largely moulded

harmony of being, that he could not love her otherwise than grandly.

For her sake, weary with loving her, he would yet turn to his work,

and, to be worthy of her, or rather, for he never dreamed of being

worthy of her, to be worthy of leave to love her, would forget her

enough to lay hold of some abstract truth of lines, angles, or

symbols. A strange way of being in love, reader? You think so? I

would there were more love like it: the world would be centuries

nearer its redemption if a millionth part of the love in it were of

the sort. All I insist, however, on my reader's believing is, that

it showed, in a youth like Robert, not less but more love that he

could go against love's sweetness for the sake of love's greatness.

Literally, not figuratively, Robert would kiss the place where her

foot had trod; but I know that once he rose from such a kiss 'to

trace the hyperbola by means of a string.'

It had been arranged between Ericson and Robert, in Miss Napier's

parlour, the old lady knitting beside, that Ericson should start, if

possible, a week earlier than usual, and spend the difference with

Robert at Rothieden. But then the old lady had opened her mouth and

spoken. And I firmly believe, though little sign of tenderness

passed between them, it was with an elder sister's feeling for

Letty's admiration of the 'lan'less laird,' that she said as

follows:--

'Dinna ye think, Mr. Ericson, it wad be but fair to come to us neist

time? Mistress Faukner, honest lady, an' lang hae I kent her, 's no

sae auld a frien' to you, Mr. Ericson, as oorsel's--nae offence to

her, ye ken. A'body canna be frien's to a'body, ane as lang 's

anither, ye ken.'

''Deed I maun alloo, Miss Naper,' interposed Robert, 'it's only

fair. Ye see, Mr. Ericson, I cud see as muckle o' ye almost, the

tae way as the tither. Miss Naper maks me welcome as weel's you.'

'An' I will mak ye welcome, Robert, as lang's ye're a gude lad, as

ye are, and gang na efter--nae ill gait. But lat me hear o' yer

doin' as sae mony young gentlemen do, espeacially whan they're ta'en

up by their rich relations, an', public-hoose as this is, I'll close

the door o' 't i' yer face.'

'Bless me, Miss Naper!' said Robert, 'what hae I dune to set ye at

me that gait? Faith, I dinna ken what ye mean.'

'Nae mair do I, laddie. I hae naething against ye whatever. Only

ye see auld fowk luiks aheid, an' wad fain be as sure o' what's to

come as o' what's gane.'

'Ye maun bide for that, I doobt,' said Robert.

'Laddie,' retorted Miss Napier, 'ye hae mair sense nor ye hae ony

richt till. Haud the tongue o' ye. Mr. Ericson 's to come here

neist.'

And the old lady laughed such good humour into her stocking-sole,

that the foot destined to wear it ought never to have been cold

while it lasted. So it was then settled; and a week before Robert

was to start for Aberdeen, Ericson walked into The Boar's Head.

Half-an-hour after that, Crookit Caumill was shown into the

ga'le-room with the message to Maister Robert that Maister Ericson

was come, and wanted to see him.

Robert pitched Hutton's Mathematics into the grate, sprung to his

feet, all but embraced Crookit Caumill on the spot, and was deterred

only by the perturbed look the man wore. Crookit Caumill was a very

human creature, and hadn't a fault but the drink, Miss Napier said.

And very little of that he would have had if she had been as active

as she was willing.

'What's the maitter, Caumill?' asked Robert, in considerable alarm.

'Ow, naething, sir,' returned Campbell.

'What gars ye look like that, than?' insisted Robert.

'Ow, naething. But whan Miss Letty cried doon the close upo' me,

she had her awpron till her een, an' I thocht something bude to be

wrang; but I hadna the hert to speir.'

Robert darted to the door, and rushed to the inn, leaving Caumill

describing iambi on the road behind him.

When he reached The Boar's Head there was nobody to be seen. He

darted up the stair to the room where he had first waited upon

Ericson.

Three or four maids stood at the door. He asked no question, but

went in, a dreadful fear at his heart. Two of the sisters and Dr.

Gow stood by the bed.

Ericson lay upon it, clear-eyed, and still. His cheek was flushed.

The doctor looked round as Robert entered.

'Robert,' he said, 'you must keep your friend here quiet. He's

broken a blood-vessel--walked too much, I suppose. He'll be all

right soon, I hope; but we can't be too careful. Keep him

quiet--that's the main thing. He mustn't speak a word.'

So saying he took his leave.

Ericson held out his thin hand. Robert grasped it. Ericson's lips

moved as if he would speak.

'Dinna speik, Mr. Ericson,' said Miss Letty, whose tears were

flowing unheeded down her cheeks, 'dinna speik. We a' ken what ye

mean an' what ye want wi'oot that.'

Then she turned to Robert, and said in a whisper,

'Dr. Gow wadna hae ye sent for; but I kent weel eneuch 'at he wad be

a' the quaieter gin ye war here. Jist gie a chap upo' the flure gin

ye want onything, an' I'll be wi' ye in twa seconds.'

The sisters went away. Robert drew a chair beside the bed, and once

more was nurse to his friend. The doctor had already bled him at

the arm: such was the ordinary mode of treatment then.

Scarcely was he seated, when Ericson spoke--a smile flickering over

his worn face.

'Robert, my boy,' he said.

'Dinna speak,' said Robert, in alarm; 'dinna speak, Mr. Ericson.'

'Nonsense,' returned Ericson, feebly. 'They're making a work about

nothing. I've done as much twenty times since I saw you last, and

I'm not dead yet. But I think it's coming.'

'What's coming?' asked Robert, rising in alarm.

'Nothing,' answered Ericson, soothingly,--'only death.--I should

like to see Miss St. John once before I die. Do you think she would

come and see me if I were really dying?'

'I'm sure she wad. But gin ye speik like this, Miss Letty winna lat

me come near ye, no to say her. Oh, Mr. Ericson! gin ye dee, I

sanna care to live.'

Bethinking himself that such was not the way to keep Ericson quiet,

he repressed his emotion, sat down behind the curtain, and was

silent. Ericson fell fast asleep. Robert crept from the room, and

telling Miss Letty that he would return presently, went to Miss St.

John.

'How can I go to Aberdeen without him?' he thought as he walked down

the street.

Neither was a guide to the other; but the questioning of two may

give just the needful points by which the parallax of a truth may be

gained.

'Mr. Ericson's here, Miss St. John,' he said, the moment he was

shown into her presence.

Her face flushed. Robert had never seen her look so beautiful.

'He's verra ill,' he added.

Her face grew pale--very pale.

'He asked if I thought you would go and see him--that is if he were

going to die.'

A sunset flush, but faint as on the clouds of the east, rose over

her pallor.

'I will go at once,' she said, rising.

'Na, na,' returned Robert, hastily. 'It has to be manage. It's no

to be dune a' in a hurry. For ae thing, there's Dr. Gow says he

maunna speak ae word; and for anither, there's Miss Letty 'ill jist

be like a watch-dog to haud a'body oot ower frae 'im. We maun bide

oor time. But gin ye say ye'll gang, that 'll content him i' the

meantime. I'll tell him.'

'I will go any moment,' she said. 'Is he very ill?'

'I'm afraid he is. I doobt I'll hae to gang to Aberdeen withoot

him.'

A week after, though he was better, his going was out of the

question. Robert wanted to stay with him, but he would not hear of

it. He would follow in a week or so, he said, and Robert must start

fair with the rest of the semies.

But all the removal he was ever able to bear was to the 'red room,'

the best in the house, opening, as I have already mentioned, from an

outside stair in the archway. They put up a great screen inside the

door, and there the lan'less laird lay like a lord.

CHAPTER XXI.

SHARGAR ASPIRES.

Robert's heart was dreary when he got on the box-seat of the

mail-coach at Rothieden--it was yet drearier when he got down at The

Royal Hotel in the street of Ben Accord--and it was dreariest of all

when he turned his back on Ericson's, and entered his own room at

Mrs. Fyvie's.

Shargar had met him at the coach. Robert had scarcely a word to say

to him. And Shargar felt as dreary as Robert when he saw him sit

down, and lay his head on the table without a word.

'What's the maitter wi' ye, Robert?' he faltered out at last. 'Gin

ye dinna speyk to me, I'll cut my throat. I will, faith!'

'Haud yer tongue wi' yer nonsense, Shargar. Mr. Ericson's deein'.'

'O lord!' said Shargar, and said nothing more for the space of ten

minutes.

Then he spoke again--slowly and sententiously.

'He hadna you to tak care o' him, Robert. Whaur is he?'

'At The Boar's Heid.'

'That's weel. He'll be luikit efter there.'

'A body wad like to hae their ain han' in 't, Shargar.'

'Ay. I wiss we had him here again.'

The ice of trouble thus broken, the stream of talk flowed more

freely.

'Hoo are ye gettin' on at the schule, man?' asked Robert.

'Nae that ill,' answered Shargar. 'I was at the heid o' my class

yesterday for five meenits.'

'An' hoo did ye like it?'

'Man, it was fine. I thocht I was a gentleman a' at ance.'

'Haud ye at it, man,' said Robert, as if from the heights of age and

experience, 'and maybe ye will be a gentleman some day.'

'Is 't poassible, Robert? A crater like me grow intil a gentleman?'

said Shargar, with wide eyes.

'What for no?' returned Robert.

'Eh, man!' said Shargar.

He stood up, sat down again, and was silent.

'For ae thing,' resumed Robert, after a pause, during which he had

been pondering upon the possibilities of Shargar's future--'for ae

thing, I doobt whether Dr. Anderson wad hae ta'en ony fash aboot ye,

gin he hadna thocht ye had the makin' o' a gentleman i' ye.'

'Eh, man!' said Shargar.

He stood up again, sat down again, and was finally silent.

Next day Robert went to see Dr. Anderson, and told him about

Ericson. The doctor shook his head, as doctors have done in such

cases from sculapius downwards. Robert pressed no further?

questions.

'Will he be taken care of where he is?' asked the doctor.

'Guid care o',' answered Robert.

'Has he any money, do you think?'

'I hae nae doobt he has some, for he's been teachin' a' the summer.

The like o' him maun an' will work whether they're fit or no.'

'Well, at all events, you write, Robert, and give him the hint that

he's not to fash himself about money, for I have more than he'll

want. And you may just take the hint yourself at the same time,

Robert, my boy,' he added in, if possible, a yet kinder tone.

Robert's way of showing gratitude was the best way of all. He

returned kindness with faith.

'Gin I be in ony want, doctor, I'll jist rin to ye at ance. An' gin

I want ower muckle ye maun jist say na.'

'That's a good fellow. You take things as a body means them.'

'But hae ye naething ye wad like me to do for ye this session, sir?'

'No. I won't have you do anything but your own work. You have more

to do than you had last year. Mind your work; and as often as you

get tired over your books, shut them up and come to me. You may

bring Shargar with you sometimes, but we must take care and not make

too much of him all at once.'

'Ay, ay, doctor. But he's a fine crater, Shargar, an' I dinna think

he'll be that easy to blaud. What do you think he's turnin' ower i'

that reid heid o' his noo?'

'I can't tell that. But there's something to come out of the red

head, I do believe. What is he thinking of?'

'Whether it be possible for him ever to be a gentleman. Noo I tak

that for a good sign i' the likes o' him.'

'No doubt of it. What did you say to him?'

'I tellt him 'at hoo I didna think ye wad hae ta'en sae muckle fash

gin ye hadna had some houps o' the kin' aboot him.'

'You said well. Tell him from me that I expect him to be a

gentleman. And by the way, Robert, do try a little, as I think I

said to you once before, to speak English. I don't mean that you

should give up Scotch, you know.'

'Weel, sir, I hae been tryin'; but what am I to do whan ye speyk to

me as gin ye war my ain father? I canna min' upo' a word o' English

whan ye do that.'

Dr. Anderson laughed, but his eyes glittered.

Robert found Shargar busy over his Latin version. With a 'Weel,

Shargar,' he took his books and sat down. A few moments after,

Shargar lifted his head, stared a while at Robert, and then said,

'Duv you railly think it, Robert?'

'Think what? What are ye haverin' at, ye gowk?'

'Duv ye think 'at I ever could grow intil a gentleman?'

'Dr. Anderson says he expecs 't o' ye.'

'Eh, man!'

A long pause followed, and Shargar spoke again.

'Hoo am I to begin, Robert?'

'Begin what?'

'To be a gentleman.'

Robert scratched his head, like Brutus, and at length became

oracular.

'Speyk the truth,' he said.

'I'll do that. But what aboot--my father?'

'Naebody 'ill cast up yer father to ye. Ye need hae nae fear o'

that.'

'My mither, than?' suggested Shargar, with hesitation.

'Ye maun haud yer face to the fac'.'

'Ay, ay. But gin they said onything, ye ken--aboot her.'

'Gin ony man-body says a word agen yer mither, ye maun jist knock

him doon upo' the spot.'

'But I michtna be able.'

'Ye could try, ony gait.'

'He micht knock me down, ye ken.'

'Weel, gae doon than.'

'Ay.'

This was all the instruction Robert ever gave Shargar in the duties

of a gentleman. And I doubt whether Shargar sought further

enlightenment by direct question of any one. He worked harder than

ever; grew cleanly in his person, even to fastidiousness; tried to

speak English; and a wonderful change gradually, but rapidly, passed

over his outer man. He grew taller and stronger, and as he grew

stronger, his legs grew straighter, till the defect of approximating

knees, the consequence of hardship, all but vanished. His hair

became darker, and the albino look less remarkable, though still he

would remind one of a vegetable grown in a cellar.

Dr. Anderson thought it well that he should have another year at the

grammar-school before going to college.--Robert now occupied

Ericson's room, and left his own to Shargar.

Robert heard every week from Miss St. John about Ericson. Her

reports varied much; but on the whole he got a little better as the

winter went on. She said that the good women at The Boar's Head

paid him every attention: she did not say that almost the only way

to get him to eat was to carry him delicacies which she had prepared

with her own hands.

She had soon overcome the jealousy with which Miss Letty regarded

her interest in their guest, and before many days had passed she

would walk into the archway and go up to his room without seeing any

one, except the sister whom she generally found there. By what

gradations their intimacy grew I cannot inform my reader, for on the

events lying upon the boundary of my story, I have received very

insufficient enlightenment; but the result it is easy to imagine. I

have already hinted at an early disappointment of Miss St. John. She

had grown greatly since, and her estimate of what she had lost had

altered considerably in consequence. But the change was more rapid

after she became acquainted with Ericson. She would most likely

have found the young man she thought she was in love with in the

days gone by a very commonplace person now. The heart which she had

considered dead to the world had, even before that stormy night in

the old house, begun to expostulate against its owner's mistake, by

asserting a fair indifference to that portion of its past history.

And now, to her large nature the simplicity, the suffering, the

patience, the imagination, the grand poverty of Ericson, were

irresistibly attractive. Add to this that she became his nurse, and

soon saw that he was not indifferent to her--and if she fell in love

with him as only a full-grown woman can love, without Ericson's lips

saying anything that might not by Love's jealousy be interpreted as

only of grateful affection, why should she not?

And what of Marjory Lindsay? Ericson had not forgotten her. But

the brightest star must grow pale as the sun draws near; and on

Ericson there were two suns rising at once on the low sea-shore of

life whereon he had been pacing up and down moodily for

three-and-twenty years, listening evermore to the unprogressive rise

and fall of the tidal waves, all talking of the eternal, all unable

to reveal it--the sun of love and the sun of death. Mysie and he

had never met. She pleased his imagination; she touched his heart

with her helplessness; but she gave him no welcome to the shrine of

her beauty: he loved through admiration and pity. He broke no faith

to her; for he had never offered her any save in looks, and she had

not accepted it. She was but a sickly plant grown in a hot-house.

On his death-bed he found a woman a hiding-place from the wind, a

covert from the tempest, the shadow of a great rock in a weary land!

A strong she-angel with mighty wings, Mary St. John came behind him

as he fainted out of life, tempered the burning heat of the Sun of

Death, and laid him to sleep in the cool twilight of her glorious

shadow. In the stead of trouble about a wilful, thoughtless girl,

he found repose and protection and motherhood in a great-hearted

woman.

For Ericson's sake, Robert made some effort to preserve the

acquaintance of Mr. Lindsay and his daughter. But he could hardly

keep up a conversation with Mr. Lindsay, and Mysie showed herself

utterly indifferent to him even in the way of common friendship. He

told her of Ericson's illness: she said she was sorry to hear it,

and looked miles away. He could never get within a certain

atmosphere of--what shall I call it? avertedness that surrounded

her. She had always lived in a dream of unrealities; and the dream

had almost devoured her life.

One evening Shargar was later than usual in coming home from the

walk, or ramble rather, without which he never could settle down to

his work. He knocked at Robert's door.

'Whaur do ye think I've been, Robert?'

'Hoo suld I ken, Shargar?' answered Robert, puzzling over a problem.

'I've been haein' a glaiss wi' Jock Mitchell.'

'Wha's Jock Mitchell?'

'My brither Sandy's groom, as I tellt ye afore.'

'Ye dinna think I can min' a' your havers, Shargar. Whaur was the

comin' gentleman whan ye gaed to drink wi' a chield like that, wha,

gin my memory serves me, ye tauld me yersel' was i' the mids o' a'

his maister's deevilry?'

'Yer memory serves ye weel eneuch to be doon upo' me,' said Shargar.

'But there's a bit wordy 'at they read at the cathedral kirk the

last Sunday 'at's stucken to me as gin there was something by

ordinar' in 't.'

'What's that?' asked Robert, pretending to go on with his

calculations all the time.

'Ow, nae muckle; only this: "Judge not, that ye be not judged."--I

took a lesson frae Jeck the giant-killer, wi' the Welsh giant--was

't Blunderbore they ca'd him?--an' poored the maist o' my glaiss

doon my breist. It wasna like ink; it wadna du my sark ony ill.'

'But what garred ye gang wi' 'im at a'? He wasna fit company for a

gentleman.'

'A gentleman 's some saft gin he be ony the waur o' the company he

gangs in till. There may be rizzons, ye ken. Ye needna du as they

du. Jock Mitchell was airin' Reid Rorie an' Black Geordie. An'

says I--for I wantit to ken whether I was sic a breme-buss

(broom-bush) as I used to be--says I, "Hoo are ye, Jock Mitchell?"

An' says Jock, "Brawly. Wha the deevil are ye?" An' says I, "Nae

mair o' a deevil nor yersel', Jock Mitchell, or Alexander, Baron

Rothie, either--though maybe that's no little o' ane." "Preserve

me!" cried Jock, "it's Shargar."--"Nae mair o' that, Jock," says I.

"Gin I bena a gentleman, or a' be dune,"--an' there I stack, for I

saw I was a muckle fule to lat oot onything o' the kin' to Jock. And

sae he seemed to think, too, for he brak oot wi' a great guffaw; an'

to win ower 't, I jined, an' leuch as gin naething was farrer aff

frae my thochts than ever bein' a gentleman. "Whaur do ye pit up,

Jock?" I said. "Oot by here," he answert, "at Luckie

Maitlan's."--"That's a queer place for a baron to put up, Jock,"

says I. "There's rizzons," says he, an' lays his forefinger upo' the

side o' 's nose, o' whilk there was hardly eneuch to haud it ohn

gane intil the opposit ee. "We're no far frae there," says I--an'

deed I can hardly tell ye, Robert, what garred me say sae, but I

jist wantit to ken what that gentleman-brither o' mine was efter;

"tak the horse hame," says I--"I'll jist loup upo' Black

Geordie--an' we'll hae a glaiss thegither. I'll stan' treat." Sae

he gae me the bridle, an' I lap on. The deevil tried to get a

moufu' o' my hip, but, faith! I was ower swack for 'im; an' awa we

rade.'

'I didna ken 'at ye cud ride, Shargar.'

'Hoots! I cudna help it. I was aye takin' the horse to the watter

at The Boar's Heid, or The Royal Oak, or Lucky Happit's, or The

Aucht an' Furty. That's hoo I cam to ken Jock sae weel. We war

guid eneuch frien's whan I didna care for leein' or sweirin', an'

sic like.'

'And what on earth did ye want wi' 'im noo?'

'I tell ye I wantit to ken what that ne'er-do-weel brither o' mine

was efter. I had seen the horses stan'in' aboot twa or three times

i' the gloamin'; an' Sandy maun be aboot ill gin he be aboot

onything.'

'What can 't maitter to you, Shargar, what a man like him 's aboot?'

'Weel, ye see, Robert, my mither aye broucht me up to ken a' 'at

fowk was aboot, for she said ye cud never tell whan it micht turn

oot to the weelfaur o' yer advantage--gran' words!--I wonner whaur

she forgathert wi' them. But she was a terrible wuman, my mither,

an' kent a heap o' things--mair nor 'twas gude to ken, maybe. She

gaed aboot the country sae muckle, an' they say the gipsies she gaed

amang 's a dreadfu' auld fowk, an' hae the wisdom o' the Egyptians

'at Moses wad hae naething to do wi'.'

'Whaur is she noo?'

'I dinna ken. She may turn up ony day.'

'There's ae thing, though, Shargar: gin ye want to be a gentleman,

ye maunna gang keekin' that gate intil ither fowk's affairs.'

'Weel, I maun gie 't up. I winna say a word o' what Jock Mitchell

tellt me aboot Lord Sandy.'

'Ow, say awa'.'

'Na, na; ye wadna like to hear aboot ither fowk's affairs. My

mither tellt me he did verra ill efter Watterloo till a fremt

(stranger) lass at Brussels. But that's neither here nor there. I

maun set aboot my version, or I winna get it dune the nicht.'

'What is Lord Sandy after? What did the rascal tell you? Why do

you make such a mystery of it?' said Robert, authoritatively, and in

his best English.

''Deed I cudna mak naething o' 'm. He winkit an' he mintit (hinted)

an' he gae me to unnerstan' 'at the deevil was efter some lass or

ither, but wha--my lad was as dumb 's the graveyard about that. Gin

I cud only win at that, maybe I cud play him a plisky. But he

coupit ower three glasses o' whusky, an' the mair he drank the less

he wad say. An' sae I left him.'

'Well, take care what you're about, Shargar. I don't think Dr.

Anderson would like you to be in such company,' said Robert; and

Shargar departed to his own room and his version.

Towards the end of the session Miss St. John's reports of Ericson

were worse. Yet he was very hopeful himself, and thought he was

getting better fast. Every relapse he regarded as temporary; and

when he got a little better, thought he had recovered his original

position. It was some relief to Miss St. John to communicate her

anxiety to Robert.

After the distribution of the prizes, of which he gained three,

Robert went the same evening to visit Dr. Anderson, intending to go

home the next day. The doctor gave him five golden sovereigns--a

rare sight in Scotland. Robert little thought in what service he

was about to spend them.

CHAPTER XXII.

ROBERT IN ACTION.

It was late when he left his friend. As he walked through the

Gallowgate, an ancient narrow street, full of low courts, some one

touched him upon the arm. He looked round. It was a young woman.

He turned again to walk on.

'Mr Faukner,' she said, in a trembling voice, which Robert thought

he had heard before.

He stopped.

'I don't know you,' he said. 'I can't see your face. Tell me who

you are.'

She returned no answer, but stood with her head aside. He could see

that her hands shook.

'What do you want with me--if you won't say who you are?'

'I want to tell you something,' she said; 'but I canna speyk here.

Come wi' me.'

'I won't go with you without knowing who you are or where you're

going to take me.'

'Dinna ye ken me?' she said pitifully, turning a little towards the

light of the gas-lamp, and looking up in his face.

'It canna be Jessie Hewson?' said Robert, his heart swelling at the

sight of the pale worn countenance of the girl.

'I was Jessie Hewson ance,' she said, 'but naebody here kens me by

that name but yersel'. Will ye come in? There's no a crater i' the

hoose but mysel'.'

Robert turned at once. 'Go on,' he said.

She led the way up a narrow stone stair between two houses. A door

high up in the gable admitted them. The boards bent so much under

his weight that Robert feared the floor would fall.

'Bide ye there, sir, till I fess a licht,' she said.

This was Robert's first introduction to a phase of human life with

which he became familiar afterwards.

'Mind hoo ye gang, sir,' she resumed, returning with a candle.

'There's nae flurin' there. Haud i' the middle efter me, or ye'll

gang throu.'

She led him into a room, with nothing in it but a bed, a table, and

a chair. On the table was a half-made shirt. In the bed lay a tiny

baby, fast asleep. It had been locked up alone in the dreary

garret. Robert approached to look at the child, for his heart felt

very warm to poor Jessie.

'A bonnie bairnie,' he said,

'Isna he, sir? Think o' 'im comin' to me! Nobody can tell the

mercy o' 't. Isna it strange that the verra sin suld bring an angel

frae haven upo' the back o' 't to uphaud an' restore the sinner?

Fowk thinks it's a punishment; but eh me! it's a mercifu' ane.

It's a wonner he didna think shame to come to me. But he cam to

beir my shame.'

Robert wondered at her words. She talked of her sin with such a

meek openness! She looked her shame in the face, and acknowledged

it hers. Had she been less weak and worn, perhaps she could not

have spoken thus.

'But what am I aboot!' she said, checking herself. 'I didna fess ye

here to speyk aboot mysel'. He's efter mair mischeef, and gin

onything cud be dune to haud him frae 't--'

'Wha's efter mischeef, Jessie?' interrupted Robert.

'Lord Rothie. He's gaein' aff the nicht in Skipper Hornbeck's boat

to Antwerp, I think they ca' 't, an' a bonnie young leddy wi' 'im.

They war to sail wi' the first o' the munelicht.--Surely I'm nae

ower late,' she added, going to the window. 'Na, the mune canna be

up yet.'

'Na,' said Robert; 'I dinna think she rises muckle afore twa o'clock

the nicht. But hoo ken ye? Are ye sure o' 't? It's an awfu' thing

to think o'.'

'To convence ye, I maun jist tell ye the trowth. The hoose we're in

hasna a gude character. We're middlin' dacent up here; but the lave

o' the place is dreadfu'. Eh for the bonnie leys o' Bodyfauld! Gin

ye see my father, tell him I'm nane waur than I was.'

'They think ye droont i' the Dyer's Pot, as they ca' 't.'

'There I am again!' she said--'miles awa' an' nae time to be

lost!--My lord has a man they ca' Mitchell. Ower weel I ken him.

There's a wuman doon the stair 'at he comes to see whiles; an' twa

or three nichts ago, I heard them lauchin' thegither. Sae I

hearkened. They war baith some fou, I'm thinkin'. I cudna tell ye

a' 'at they said. That's a punishment noo, gin ye like--to see and

hear the warst o' yer ain ill doin's. He tellt the limmer a heap o'

his lord's secrets. Ay, he tellt her aboot me, an' hoo I had gane

and droont mysel'. I could hear 'maist ilka word 'at he said; for

ye see the flurin' here 's no verra soon', and I was jist 'at I

cudna help hearkenin'. My lord's aff the nicht, as I tell ye. It's

a queer gait, but a quaiet, he thinks, nae doobt. Gin onybody wad

but tell her hoo mony een the baron's made sair wi' greitin'!'

'But hoo's that to be dune?' said Robert.

'I dinna ken. But I hae been watchin' to see you ever sin' syne. I

hae seen ye gang by mony a time. Ye're the only man I ken 'at I

could speyk till aboot it. Ye maun think what ye can do. The warst

o' 't is I canna tell wha she is or whaur she bides.'

'In that case, I canna see what's to be dune.'

'Cudna ye watch them aboord, an' slip a letter intil her han'? Or

ye cud gie 't to the skipper to gie her.'

'I ken the skipper weel eneuch. He's a respectable man. Gin he

kent what the baron was efter, he wadna tak him on boord.'

'That wad do little guid. He wad only hae her aff some ither gait.'

'Weel,' said Robert, rising, 'I'll awa' hame, an' think aboot it as

I gang.--Wad ye tak a feow shillin's frae an auld frien'?' he added

with hesitation, putting his hand in his pocket.

'Na--no a baubee,' she answered. 'Nobody sall say it was for mysel'

I broucht ye here. Come efter me, an' min' whaur ye pit doon yer

feet. It's no sicker.'

She led him to the door. He bade her good-night.

'Tak care ye dinna fa' gaein' doon the stair. It's maist as steep

's a wa'.'

As Robert came from between the houses, he caught a glimpse of a man

in a groom's dress going in at the street door of that he had left.

All the natural knighthood in him was roused. But what could he do?

To write was a sneaking way. He would confront the baron. The

baron and the girl would both laugh at him. The sole conclusion he

could arrive at was to consult Shargar.

He lost no time in telling him the story.

'I tauld ye he was up to some deevilry or ither,' said Shargar. 'I

can shaw ye the verra hoose he maun be gaein' to tak her frae.'

'Ye vratch! what for didna ye tell me that afore?'

'Ye wadna hear aboot ither fowk's affairs. Na, not you! But some

fowk has no richt to consideration. The verra stanes they say 'ill

cry oot ill secrets like brither Sandy's.'

'Whase hoose is 't?'

'I dinna ken. I only saw him come oot o' 't ance, an' Jock Mitchell

was haudin' Black Geordie roon' the neuk. It canna be far frae Mr.

Lindsay's 'at you an' Mr. Ericson used to gang till.'

'Come an' lat me see 't direckly,' cried Robert, starting up, with a

terrible foreboding at his heart.

They were in the street in a moment. Shargar led the way by a

country lane to the top of the hill on the right, and then turning

to the left, brought him to some houses standing well apart from

each other. It was a region unknown to Robert. They were the backs

of the houses of which Mr. Lindsay's was one.

'This is the hoose,' said Shargar.

Robert rushed into action. He knocked at the door. Mr. Lindsay's

Jenny opened it.

'Is yer mistress in, Jenny?' he asked at once.

'Na. Ay. The maister's gane to Bors Castle.'

'It's Miss Lindsay I want to see.'

'She's up in her ain room wi' a sair heid.'

Robert looked her hard in the face, and knew she was lying.

'I want to see her verra partic'lar,' he said.

'Weel, ye canna see her,' returned Jenny angrily. 'I'll tell her

onything ye like.'

Concluding that little was to be gained by longer parley, but quite

uncertain whether Mysie was in the house or not, Robert turned to

Shargar, took him by the arm, and walked away in silence. When they

were beyond earshot of Jenny, who stood looking after them,

'Ye're sure that's the hoose, Shargar?' said Robert quietly.

'As sure's deith, and maybe surer, for I saw him come oot wi' my ain

een.'

'Weel, Shargar, it's grown something awfu' noo. It's Miss Lindsay.

Was there iver sic a villain as that Lord Rothie--that brither o'

yours!'

'I disoun 'im frae this verra 'oor,' said Shargar solemnly.

'Something maun be dune. We'll awa' to the quay, an' see what'll

turn up. I wonner hoo's the tide.'

'The tide's risin'. They'll never try to win oot till it's slack

watter--furbye 'at the Amphitrite, for as braid 's she is, and her

bows modelled efter the cheeks o' a resurrection cherub upo' a

gravestane, draws a heap o' watter: an' the bar they say 's waur to

win ower nor usual: it's been gatherin' again.'

As they spoke, the boys were making for the new town, eagerly. Just

opposite where the Amphitrite lay was a public-house: into that they

made up their minds to go, and there to write a letter, which they

would give to Miss Lindsay if they could, or, if not, leave with

Skipper Hoornbeek. Before they reached the river, a thick rain of

minute drops began to fall, rendering the night still darker, so

that they could scarcely see the vessels from the pavement on the

other side of the quay, along which they were hurrying, to avoid the

cables, rings, and stone posts that made its margin dangerous in the

dim light. When they came to The Smack Inn they crossed right over

to reach the Amphitrite. A growing fear kept them silent as they

approached her berth. It was empty. They turned and stared at each

other in dismay.

One of those amphibious animals that loiter about the borders of the

water was seated on a stone smoking, probably fortified against the

rain by the whisky inside him.

'Whaur's the Amphitrite, Alan?' asked Shargar, for Robert was dumb

with disappointment and rage.

'Half doon to Stanehive by this time, I'm thinkin',' answered Alan.

'For a brewin' tub like her, she fummles awa nae ill wi' a licht

win' astarn o' her. But I'm doobtin' afore she win across the

herrin-pot her fine passengers 'll win at the boddom o' their

stamacks. It's like to blaw a bonnetfu', and she rows awfu' in ony

win'. I dinna think she cud capsize, but for wamlin' she's waur nor

a bairn with the grips.'

In absolute helplessness, the boys had let him talk on: there was

nothing more to be done; and Alan was in a talkative mood.

'Fegs! gin 't come on to blaw,' he resumed, 'I wadna wonner gin they

got the skipper to set them ashore at Stanehive. I heard auld Horny

say something aboot lyin' to there for a bit, to tak a keg or

something aboord.'

The boys looked at each other, bade Alan good-night, and walked

away.

'Hoo far is 't to Stonehaven, Shargar?' said Robert.

'I dinna richtly ken. Maybe frae twal to fifteen mile.'

Robert stood still. Shargar saw his face pale as death, and

contorted with the effort to control his feelings.

'Shargar,' he said, 'what am I to do? I vowed to Mr. Ericson that,

gin he deid, I wad luik efter that bonny lassie. An' noo whan he's

lyin' a' but deid, I hae latten her slip throu' my fingers wi' clean

carelessness. What am I to do? Gin I cud only win to Stonehaven

afore the Amphitrite! I cud gang aboord wi' the keg, and gin I cud

do naething mair, I wad hae tried to do my best. Gin I do naething,

my hert 'll brak wi' the weicht o' my shame.'

Shargar burst into a roar of laughter. Robert was on the point of

knocking him down, but took him by the throat as a milder

proceeding, and shook him.

'Robert! Robert!' gurgled Shargar, as soon as his choking had

overcome his merriment, 'ye're an awfu' Hielan'man. Hearken to me.

I beg--g--g yer pardon. What I was thinkin' o' was--'

Robert relaxed his hold. But Shargar, notwithstanding the lesson

Robert had given him, could hardly speak yet for the enjoyment of

his own device.

'Gin we could only get rid o' Jock Mitchell!--' he crowed; and burst

out again.

'He's wi' a wuman i' the Gallowgate,' said Robert.

'Losh, man!' exclaimed Shargar, and started off at full speed.

He was no match for his companion, however.

'Whaur the deevil are ye rinnin' till, ye wirrycow (scarecrow)?'

panted Robert, as he laid hold of his collar.

'Lat me gang, Robert,' gasped Shargar. 'Losh, man! ye'll be on Black

Geordie in anither ten meenits, an' me ahin' ye upo' Reid Rorie.

An' faith gin we binna at Stanehive afore the Dutchman wi' 's

boddom foremost, it'll be the faut o' the horse and no o' the men.'

Robert's heart gave a bound of hope.

'Hoo 'ill ye get them, Shargar?' he asked eagerly.

'Steal them,' answered Shargar, struggling to get away from the

grasp still upon his collar.

'We micht be hanged for that.'

'Weel, Robert, I'll tak a' the wyte o' 't. Gin it hadna been for

you, I micht ha' been hangt by this time for ill doin': for your

sake I'll be hangt for weel doin', an' welcome. Come awa'. To

steal a mairch upo' brither Sandy wi' aucht (eight) horse-huves o'

's ain! Ha! ha! ha!'

They sped along, now running themselves out of breath, now walking

themselves into it again, until they reached a retired hostelry

between the two towns. Warning Robert not to show himself, Shargar

disappeared round the corner of the house.

Robert grew weary, and then anxious. At length Shargar's face came

through the darkness.

'Robert,' he whispered, 'gie 's yer bonnet. I'll be wi' ye in a

moment noo.'

Robert obeyed, too anxious to question him. In about three minutes

more Shargar reappeared, leading what seemed the ghost of a black

horse; for Robert could see only his eyes, and his hoofs made

scarcely any noise. How he had managed it with a horse of Black

Geordie's temper, I do not know, but some horses will let some

persons do anything with them: he had drawn his own stockings over

his fore feet, and tied their two caps upon his hind hoofs.

'Lead him awa' quaietly up the road till I come to ye,' said

Shargar, as he took the mufflings off the horse's feet. 'An' min'

'at he doesna tak a nip o' ye. He's some ill for bitin'. I'll be

efter ye direckly. Rorie's saiddlet an' bridled. He only wants his

carpet-shune.'

Robert led the horse a few hundred yards, then stopped and waited.

Shargar soon joined him, already mounted on Red Roderick.

'Here's yer bonnet, Robert. It's some foul, I doobt. But I cudna

help it. Gang on, man. Up wi' ye. Maybe I wad hae better keepit

Geordie mysel'. But ye can ride. Ance ye're on, he canna bite ye.'

But Robert needed no encouragement from Shargar. In his present

mood he would have mounted a griffin. He was on horseback in a

moment. They trotted gently through the streets, and out of the

town. Once over the Dee, they gave their horses the rein, and off

they went through the dark drizzle. Before they got half-way they

were wet to the skin; but little did Robert, or Shargar either, care

for that. Not many words passed between them.

'Hoo 'ill ye get the horse (plural) in again, Shargar?' asked

Robert.

'Afore I get them back,' answered Shargar, 'they'll be tired eneuch

to gang hame o' themsel's. Gin we had only had the luck to meet

Jock!--that wad hae been gran'.'

'What for that?'

'I wad hae cawed Reid Rorie ower the heid o' 'm, an' left him

lyin'--the coorse villain!'

The horses never flagged till they drew up in the main street of

Stonehaven. Robert ran down to the harbour to make inquiry, and

left Shargar to put them up.

The moon had risen, but the air was so full of vapour that she only

succeeded in melting the darkness a little. The sea rolled in

front, awful in its dreariness, under just light enough to show a

something unlike the land. But the rain had ceased, and the air was

clearer. Robert asked a solitary man, with a telescope in his hand,

whether he was looking out for the Amphitrite. The man asked him

gruffly in return what he knew of her. Possibly the nature of the

keg to be put on board had something to do with his Scotch reply.

Robert told him he was a friend of the captain, had missed the

boat, and would give any one five shillings to put him on board.

The man went away and returned with a companion. After some

further questioning and bargaining, they agreed to take him. Robert

loitered about the pier full of impatience. Shargar joined him.

Day began to break over the waves. They gleamed with a blue-gray

leaden sheen. The men appeared coming along the harbour, and

descended by a stair into a little skiff, where a barrel, or

something like one, lay under a tarpaulin. Robert bade Shargar

good-bye, and followed. They pushed off, rowed out into the bay,

and lay on their oars waiting for the vessel. The light grew apace,

and Robert fancied he could distinguish the two horses with one

rider against the sky on the top of the cliffs, moving northwards.

Turning his eyes to the sea, he saw the canvas of the brig, and his

heart beat fast. The men bent to their oars. She drew nearer, and

lay to. When they reached her he caught the rope the sailors threw,

was on board in a moment, and went aft to the captain. The Dutchman

stared. In a few words Robert made him understand his object,

offering to pay for his passage, but the good man would not hear of

it. He told him that the lady and gentleman had come on board as

brother and sister: the baron was too knowing to run his head into

the noose of Scotch law.

'I cannot throw him over the board,' said the skipper; 'and what am

I to do? I am afraid it is of no use. Ah! poor thing!'

By this time the vessel was under way. The wind freshened. Mysie

had been ill ever since they left the month of the river: now she

was much worse. Before another hour passed, she was crying to be

taken home to her papa. Still the wind increased, and the vessel

laboured much.

Robert never felt better, and if it had not been for the cause of

his sea-faring, would have thoroughly enjoyed it. He put on some

sea-going clothes of the captain's, and set himself to take his

share in working the brig, in which he was soon proficient enough to

be useful. When the sun rose, they were in a tossing wilderness of

waves. With the sunrise, Robert began to think he had been guilty

of a great folly. For what could he do? How was he to prevent the

girl from going off with her lover the moment they landed? But his

poor attempt would verify his willingness.

The baron came on deck now and then, looking bored. He had not

calculated on having to nurse the girl. Had Mysie been well, he

could have amused himself with her, for he found her ignorance

interesting. As it was, he felt injured, and indeed disgusted at

the result of the experiment.

On the third day the wind abated a little; but towards night it blew

hard again, and it was not until they reached the smooth waters of

the Scheldt that Mysie made her appearance on deck, looking

dreadfully ill, and altogether like a miserable, unhappy child. Her

beauty was greatly gone, and Lord Rothie did not pay her much

attention.

Robert had as yet made no attempt to communicate with her, for there

was scarcely a chance of her concealing a letter from the baron.

But as soon as they were in smooth water, he wrote one, telling her

in the simplest language that the baron was a bad man, who had

amused himself by making many women fall in love with him, and then

leaving them miserable: he knew one of them himself.

Having finished his letter, he began to look abroad over the smooth

water, and the land smooth as the water. He saw tall poplars, the

spires of the forest, and rows of round-headed dumpy trees, like

domes. And he saw that all the buildings like churches, had either

spires like poplars, or low round domes like those other trees. The

domes gave an eastern aspect to the country. The spire of Antwerp

cathedral especially had the poplar for its model. The pinnacles

which rose from the base of each successive start of its narrowing

height were just the clinging, upright branches of the poplar--a

lovely instance of Art following Nature's suggestion.

CHAPTER XXIII.

ROBERT FINDS A NEW INSTRUMENT.

At length the vessel lay alongside the quay, and as Mysie stepped

from its side the skipper found an opportunity of giving her

Robert's letter. It was the poorest of chances, but Robert could

think of no other. She started on receiving it, but regarding the

skipper's significant gestures put it quietly away. She looked

anything but happy, for her illness had deprived her of courage, and

probably roused her conscience. Robert followed the pair, saw them

enter The Great Labourer--what could the name mean? could it mean

The Good Shepherd?--and turned away helpless, objectless indeed, for

he had done all that he could, and that all was of no potency. A

world of innocence and beauty was about to be hurled from its orbit

of light into the blackness of outer chaos; he knew it, and was

unable to speak word or do deed that should frustrate the power of a

devil who so loved himself that he counted it an honour to a girl to

have him for her ruin. Her after life had no significance for him,

save as a trophy of his victory. He never perceived that such

victory was not yielded to him; that he gained it by putting on the

garments of light; that if his inward form had appeared in its own

ugliness, not one of the women whose admiration he had secured would

not have turned from him as from the monster of an old tale.

Robert wandered about till he was so weary that his head ached with

weariness. At length he came upon the open space before the

cathedral, whence the poplar-spire rose aloft into a blue sky

flecked with white clouds. It was near sunset, and he could not see

the sun, but the upper half of the spire shone glorious in its

radiance. From the top his eye sank to the base. In the base was a

little door half open. Might not that be the lowly narrow entrance

through the shadow up to the sun-filled air? He drew near with a

kind of tremor, for never before had he gazed upon visible grandeur

growing out of the human soul, in the majesty of everlastingness--a

tree of the Lord's planting. Where had been but an empty space of

air and light and darkness, had risen, and had stood for ages, a

mighty wonder awful to the eye, solid to the hand. He peeped

through the opening of the door: there was the foot of a

stair--marvellous as the ladder of Jacob's dream--turning away

towards the unknown. He pushed the door and entered. A man

appeared and barred his advance. Robert put his hand in his pocket

and drew out some silver. The man took one piece--looked at

it--turned it over--put it in his pocket, and led the way up the

stair. Robert followed and followed and followed.

He came out of stone walls upon an airy platform whence the spire

ascended heavenwards. His conductor led upward still, and he

followed, winding within a spiral network of stone, through which

all the world looked in. Another platform, and yet another spire

springing from its basement. Still up they went, and at length

stood on a circle of stone surrounding like a coronet the last base

of the spire which lifted its apex untrodden. Then Robert turned

and looked below. He grasped the stones before him. The loneliness

was awful.

There was nothing between him and the roofs of the houses, four

hundred feet below, but the spot where he stood. The whole city,

with its red roofs, lay under him. He stood uplifted on the genius

of the builder, and the town beneath him was a toy. The all but

featureless flat spread forty miles on every side, and the roofs of

the largest buildings below were as dovecots. But the space between

was alive with awe--so vast, so real!

He turned and descended, winding through the network of stone which

was all between him and space. The object of the architect must

have been to melt away the material from before the eyes of the

spirit. He hung in the air in a cloud of stone. As he came in his

descent within the ornaments of one of the basements, he found

himself looking through two thicknesses of stone lace on the nearing

city. Down there was the beast of prey and his victim; but for the

moment he was above the region of sorrow. His weariness and his

headache had vanished utterly. With his mind tossed on its own

speechless delight, he was slowly descending still, when he saw on

his left hand a door ajar. He would look what mystery lay within.

A push opened it. He discovered only a little chamber lined with

wood. In the centre stood something--a bench-like piece of

furniture, plain and worn. He advanced a step; peered over the top

of it; saw keys, white and black; saw pedals below: it was an organ!

Two strides brought him in front of it. A wooden stool, polished

and hollowed with centuries of use, was before it. But where was

the bellows? That might be down hundreds of steps below, for he was

half-way only to the ground. He seated himself musingly, and

struck, as he thought, a dumb chord. Responded, up in the air, far

overhead, a mighty booming clang. Startled, almost frightened, even

as if Mary St. John had said she loved him, Robert sprung from the

stool, and, without knowing why, moved only by the chastity of

delight, flung the door to the post. It banged and clicked. Almost

mad with the joy of the titanic instrument, he seated himself again

at the keys, and plunged into a tempest of clanging harmony. One

hundred bells hang in that tower of wonder, an instrument for a

city, nay, for a kingdom. Often had Robert dreamed that he was the

galvanic centre of a thunder-cloud of harmony, flashing off from

every finger the willed lightning tone: such was the unexpected

scale of this instrument--so far aloft in the sunny air rang the

responsive notes, that his dream appeared almost realized. The

music, like a fountain bursting upwards, drew him up and bore him

aloft. From the resounding cone of bells overhead he no longer

heard their tones proceed, but saw level-winged forms of light

speeding off with a message to the nations. It was only his roused

phantasy; but a sweet tone is nevertheless a messenger of God; and a

right harmony and sequence of such tones is a little gospel.

At length he found himself following, till that moment

unconsciously, the chain of tunes he well remembered having played

on his violin the night he went first with Ericson to see Mysie,

ending with his strange chant about the witch lady and the dead

man's hand.

Ere he had finished the last, his passion had begun to fold its

wings, and he grew dimly aware of a beating at the door of the

solitary chamber in which he sat. He knew nothing of the enormity

of which he was guilty--presenting unsought the city of Antwerp with

a glorious phantasia. He did not know that only upon grand, solemn,

world-wide occasions, such as a king's birthday or a ball at the

H tel de Ville, was such music on the card. When he flung the door?

to, it had closed with a spring lock, and for the last quarter of an

hour three gens-d'arme, commanded by the sacristan of the tower, had

been thundering thereat. He waited only to finish the last notes of

the wild Orcadian chant, and opened the door. He was seized by the

collar, dragged down the stair into the street, and through a crowd

of wondering faces--poor unconscious dreamer! it will not do to

think on the house-top even, and you had been dreaming very loud

indeed in the church spire--away to the bureau of the police.

CHAPTER XXIV.

DEATH.

I need not recount the proceedings of the Belgian police; how they

interrogated Robert concerning a letter from Mary St. John which

they found in an inner pocket; how they looked doubtful over a copy

of Horace that lay in his coat, and put evidently a momentous

question about some algebraical calculations on the fly-leaf of it.

Fortunately or unfortunately--I do not know which--Robert did not

understand a word they said to him. He was locked up, and left to

fret for nearly a week; though what he could have done had he been

at liberty, he knew as little as I know. At last, long after it was

useless to make any inquiry about Miss Lindsay, he was set at

liberty. He could just pay for a steerage passage to London, whence

he wrote to Dr. Anderson for a supply, and was in Aberdeen a few

days after.

This was Robert's first cosmopolitan experience. He confided the

whole affair to the doctor, who approved of all, saying it could

have been of no use, but he had done right. He advised him to go

home at once, for he had had letters inquiring after him. Ericson

was growing steadily worse--in fact, he feared Robert might not see

him alive.

If this news struck Robert to the heart, his pain was yet not

without some poor alleviation:--he need not tell Ericson about

Mysie, but might leave him to find out the truth when, free of a

dying body, he would be better able to bear it. That very night he

set off on foot for Rothieden. There was no coach from Aberdeen

till eight the following morning, and before that he would be there.

It was a dreary journey without Ericson. Every turn of the road

reminded him of him. And Ericson too was going a lonely unknown

way.

Did ever two go together upon that way? Might not two die together

and not lose hold of each other all the time, even when the sense of

the clasping hands was gone, and the soul had withdrawn itself from

the touch? Happy they who prefer the will of God to their own even

in this, and would, as the best friend, have him near who can be

near--him who made the fourth in the fiery furnace! Fable or fact,

reader, I do not care. The One I mean is, and in him I hope.

Very weary was Robert when he walked into his grandmother's house.

Betty came out of the kitchen at the sound of his entrance.

'Is Mr. Ericson--?'

'Na; he's nae deid,' she answered. 'He'll maybe live a day or twa,

they say.'

'Thank God!' said Robert, and went to his grandmother.

'Eh, laddie!' said Mrs. Falconer, the first greetings over, 'ane 's

ta'en an' anither 's left! but what for 's mair nor I can faddom.

There's that fine young man, Maister Ericson, at deith's door; an'

here am I, an auld runklet wife, left to cry upo' deith, an' he

winna hear me.'

'Cry upo' God, grannie, an' no upo' deith,' said Robert, catching at

the word as his grandmother herself might have done. He had no such

unfair habit when I knew him, and always spoke to one's meaning, not

one's words. But then he had a wonderful gift of knowing what one's

meaning was.

He did not sit down, but, tired as he was, went straight to The

Boar's Head. He met no one in the archway, and walked up to

Ericson's room. When he opened the door, he found the large screen

on the other side, and hearing a painful cough, lingered behind it,

for he could not control his feelings sufficiently. Then he heard a

voice--Ericson's voice; but oh, how changed!--He had no idea that he

ought not to listen.

'Mary,' the voice said, 'do not look like that. I am not suffering.

It is only my body. Your arm round me makes me so strong! Let me

lay my head on your shoulder.'

A brief pause followed.

'But, Eric,' said Mary's voice, 'there is one that loves you better

than I do.'

'If there is,' returned Ericson, feebly, 'he has sent his angel to

deliver me.'

'But you do believe in him, Eric?'

The voice expressed anxiety no less than love.

'I am going to see. There is no other way. When I find him, I

shall believe in him. I shall love him with all my heart, I know.

I love the thought of him now.'

'But that's not himself, my--darling!' she said.

'No. But I cannot love himself till I find him. Perhaps there is no

Jesus.'

'Oh, don't say that. I can't bear to hear you talk so,'

'But, dear heart, if you're so sure of him, do you think he would

turn me away because I don't do what I can't do? I would if I could

with all my heart. If I were to say I believed in him, and then

didn't trust him, I could understand it. But when it's only that

I'm not sure about what I never saw, or had enough of proof to

satisfy me of, how can he be vexed at that? You seem to me to do

him great wrong, Mary. Would you now banish me for ever, if I

should, when my brain is wrapped in the clouds of death, forget you

along with everything else for a moment?'

'No, no, no. Don't talk like that, Eric, dear. There may be

reasons, you know.'

'I know what they say well enough. But I expect Him, if there is a

Him, to be better even than you, my beautiful--and I don't know a

fault in you, but that you believe in a God you can't trust. If I

believed in a God, wouldn't I trust him just? And I do hope in him.

We'll see, my darling. When we meet again I think you'll say I was

right.'

Robert stood like one turned into marble. Deep called unto deep in

his soul. The waves and the billows went over him.

Mary St. John answered not a word. I think she must have been

conscience-stricken. Surely the Son of Man saw nearly as much faith

in Ericson as in her. Only she clung to the word as a bond that the

Lord had given her: she would rather have his bond.

Ericson had another fit of coughing. Robert heard the rustling of

ministration. But in a moment the dying man again took up the word.

He seemed almost as anxious about Mary's faith as she was about

his.

'There's Robert,' he said: 'I do believe that boy would die for me,

and I never did anything to deserve it. Now Jesus Christ must be as

good as Robert at least. I think he must be a great deal better, if

he's Jesus Christ at all. Now Robert might be hurt if I didn't

believe in him. But I've never seen Jesus Christ. It's all in an

old book, over which the people that say they believe in it the

most, fight like dogs and cats. I beg your pardon, my Mary; but

they do, though the words are ugly.'

'Ah! but if you had tried it as I've tried it, you would know

better, Eric.'

'I think I should, dear. But it's too late now. I must just go and

see. There's no other way left.'

The terrible cough came again. As soon as the fit was over, with a

grand despair in his heart, Robert went from behind the screen.

Ericson was on a couch. His head lay on Mary St. John's bosom.

Neither saw him.

'Perhaps,' said Ericson, panting with death, 'a kiss in heaven may

be as good as being married on earth, Mary.'

She saw Robert and did not answer. Then Eric saw him. He smiled;

but Mary grew very pale.

Robert came forward, stooped and kissed Ericson's forehead, kneeled

and kissed Mary's hand, rose and went out.

>From that moment they were both dead to him. Dead, I say--not lost,

not estranged, but dead--that is, awful and holy. He wept for Eric.

He did not weep for Mary yet. But he found a time.

Ericson died two days after.

Here endeth Robert's youth.

CHAPTER XXV.

IN MEMORIAM.

In memory of Eric Ericson, I add a chapter of sonnets gathered from

his papers, almost desiring that those only should read them who

turn to the book a second time. How his papers came into my

possession, will be explained afterwards.

Tumultuous rushing o'er the outstretched plains;

A wildered maze of comets and of suns;

The blood of changeless God that ever runs

With quick diastole up the immortal veins;

A phantom host that moves and works in chains;

A monstrous fiction which, collapsing, stuns

The mind to stupor and amaze at once;

A tragedy which that man best explains

Who rushes blindly on his wild career

With trampling hoofs and sound of mailed war,

Who will not nurse a life to win a tear,

But is extinguished like a falling star:--

Such will at times this life appear to me,

Until I learn to read more perfectly.

HOM. IL. v. 403.

If thou art tempted by a thought of ill,

Crave not too soon for victory, nor deem

Thou art a coward if thy safety seem

To spring too little from a righteous will:

For there is nightmare on thee, nor until

Thy soul hath caught the morning's early gleam

Seek thou to analyze the monstrous dream

By painful introversion; rather fill

Thine eye with forms thou knowest to be truth:

But see thou cherish higher hope than this;

A hope hereafter that thou shalt be fit

Calm-eyed to face distortion, and to sit

Transparent among other forms of youth

Who own no impulse save to God and bliss.

And must I ever wake, gray dawn, to know

Thee standing sadly by me like a ghost?

I am perplexed with thee, that thou shouldst cost

This Earth another turning: all aglow

Thou shouldst have reached me, with a purple show

Along far-mountain tops: and I would post

Over the breadth of seas though I were lost

In the hot phantom-chase for life, if so

Thou camest ever with this numbing sense

Of chilly distance and unlovely light;

Waking this gnawing soul anew to fight

With its perpetual load: I drive thee hence--

I have another mountain-range from whence

Bursteh a sun unutterably bright.

GALILEO.

'And yet it moves!' Ah, Truth, where wert thou then,

When all for thee they racked each piteous limb?

Wert though in Heaven, and busy with thy hymn,

When those poor hands convulsed that held thy pen?

Art thou a phantom that deceivest men

To their undoing? or dost thou watch him

Pale, cold, and silent in his dungeon dim?

And wilt thou ever speak to him again?

'It moves, it moves! Alas, my flesh was weak;

That was a hideous dream! I'll cry aloud

How the green bulk wheels sunward day by day!

Ah me! ah me! perchance my heart was proud

That I alone should know that word to speak;

And now, sweet Truth, shine upon these, I pray.'

If thou wouldst live the Truth in very deed,

Thou hast thy joy, but thou hast more of pain.

Others will live in peace, and thou be fain

To bargain with despair, and in thy need

To make thy meal upon the scantiest weed.

These palaces, for thee they stand in vain;

Thine is a ruinous hut; and oft the rain

Shall drench thee in the midnight; yea the speed

Of earth outstrip thee pilgrim, while thy feet

Move slowly up the heights. Yet will there come

Through the time-rents about thy moving cell,

An arrow for despair, and oft the hum

Of far-off populous realms where spirits dwell.

TO * * * *

Speak, Prophet of the Lord! We may not start

To find thee with us in thine ancient dress,

Haggard and pale from some bleak wilderness,

Empty of all save God and thy loud heart:

Nor with like rugged message quick to dart

Into the hideous fiction mean and base:

But yet, O prophet man, we need not less,

But more of earnest; though it is thy part

To deal in other words, if thou wouldst smite

The living Mammon, seated, not as then

In bestial quiescence grimly dight,

But thrice as much an idol-god as when

He stared at his own feet from morn to night.8

THE WATCHER.

>From out a windy cleft there comes a gaze

Of eyes unearthly which go to and fro

Upon the people's tumult, for below

The nations smite each other: no amaze

Troubles their liquid rolling, or affrays

Their deep-set contemplation: steadily glow

Those ever holier eye-balls, for they grow

Liker unto the eyes of one that prays.

And if those clasped hands tremble, comes a power

As of the might of worlds, and they are holden

Blessing above us in the sunrise golden;

And they will be uplifted till that hour

Of terrible rolling which shall rise and shake

This conscious nightmare from us and we wake.

THE BELOVED DISCIPLE.

One do I see and twelve; but second there

Methinks I know thee, thou beloved one;

Not from thy nobler port, for there are none

More quiet-featured; some there are who bear

Their message on their brows, while others wear

A look of large commission, nor will shun

The fiery trial, so their work is done:

But thou hast parted with thine eyes in prayer--

Unearthly are they both; and so thy lips

Seem like the porches of the spirit land;

For thou hast laid a mighty treasure by,

Unlocked by Him in Nature, and thine eye

Burns with a vision and apocalypse

Thy own sweet soul can hardly understand.

A Boanerges too! Upon my heart

It lay a heavy hour: features like thine

Should glow with other message than the shine

Of the earth-burrowing levin, and the start

That cleaveth horrid gulfs. Awful and swart

A moment stoodest thou, but less divine--

Brawny and clad in ruin!--till with mine

Thy heart made answering signals, and apart

Beamed forth thy two rapt eye-balls doubly clear,

And twice as strong because thou didst thy duty,

And though affianced to immortal Beauty,

Hiddest not weakly underneath her veil

The pest of Sin and Death which maketh pale:

Henceforward be thy spirit doubly dear.9

THE LILY OF THE VALLEY.

There is not any weed but hath its shower,

There is not any pool but hath its star;

And black and muddy though the waters are,

We may not miss the glory of a flower,

And winter moons will give them magic power

To spin in cylinders of diamond spar;

And everything hath beauty near and far,

And keepeth close and waiteth on its hour.

And I when I encounter on my road

A human soul that looketh black and grim,

Shall I more ceremonious be than God?

Shall I refuse to watch one hour with him

Who once beside our deepest woe did bud

A patient watching flower about the brim.

'Tis not the violent hands alone that bring

The curse, the ravage, and the downward doom

Although to these full oft the yawning tomb

Owes deadly surfeit; but a keener sting,

A more immortal agony, will cling

To the half-fashioned sin which would assume

Fair Virtue's garb. The eye that sows the gloom

With quiet seeds of Death henceforth to spring

What time the sun of passion burning fierce

Breaks through the kindly cloud of circumstance;

The bitter word, and the unkindly glance,

The crust and canker coming with the years,

Are liker Death than arrows, and the lance

Which through the living heart at once doth pierce.

SPOKEN OF SEVERAL PHILOSOPHERS.

I pray you, all ye men, who put your trust

In moulds and systems and well-tackled gear,

Holding that Nature lives from year to year

In one continual round because she must--

Set me not down, I pray you, in the dust

Of all these centuries, like a pot of beer,

A pewter-pot disconsolately clear,

Which holds a potful, as is right and just.

I will grow clamorous--by the rood, I will,

If thus ye use me like a pewter pot.

Good friend, thou art a toper and a sot--

I will not be the lead to hold thy swill,

Nor any lead: I will arise and spill

Thy silly beverage, spill it piping hot.

Nature, to him no message dost thou bear,

Who in thy beauty findeth not the power

To gird himself more strongly for the hour

Of night and darkness. Oh, what colours rare

The woods, the valleys, and the mountains wear

To him who knows thy secret, and in shower

And fog, and ice-cloud, hath a secret bower

Where he may rest until the heavens are fair!

Not with the rest of slumber, but the trance

Of onward movement steady and serene,

Where oft in struggle and in contest keen

His eyes will opened be, and all the dance

Of life break on him, and a wide expanse

Roll upward through the void, sunny and green.

TO JUNE.

Ah, truant, thou art here again, I see!

For in a season of such wretched weather

I thought that thou hadst left us altogether,

Although I could not choose but fancy thee

Skulking about the hill-tops, whence the glee

Of thy blue laughter peeped at times, or rather

Thy bashful awkwardness, as doubtful whether

Thou shouldst be seen in such a company

Of ugly runaways, unshapely heaps

Of ruffian vapour, broken from restraint

Of their slim prison in the ocean deeps.

But yet I may not, chide: fall to thy books,

Fall to immediately without complaint--

There they are lying, hills and vales and brooks.

WRITTEN ABOUT THE LONGEST DAY.

Summer, sweet Summer, many-fingered Summer!

We hold thee very dear, as well we may:

It is the kernel of the year to-day--

All hail to thee! Thou art a welcome corner!

If every insect were a fairy drummer,

And I a fifer that could deftly play,

We'd give the old Earth such a roundelay

That she would cast all thought of labour from her

Ah! what is this upon my window-pane?

Some sulky drooping cloud comes pouting up,

Stamping its glittering feet along the plain!

Well, I will let that idle fancy drop.

Oh, how the spouts are bubbling with the rain!

And all the earth shines like a silver cup!

ON A MIDGE.

Whence do ye come, ye creature? Each of you

Is perfect as an angel; wings and eyes

Stupendous in their beauty--gorgeous dyes

In feathery fields of purple and of blue!

Would God I saw a moment as ye do!

I would become a molecule in size,

Rest with you, hum with you, or slanting rise

Along your one dear sunbeam, could I view

The pearly secret which each tiny fly,

Each tiny fly that hums and bobs and stirs,

Hides in its little breast eternally

>From you, ye prickly grim philosophers,

With all your theories that sound so high:

Hark to the buzz a moment, my good sirs!

ON A WATERFALL.

Here stands a giant stone from whose far top

Comes down the sounding water. Let me gaze

Till every sense of man and human ways

Is wrecked and quenched for ever, and I drop

Into the whirl of time, and without stop

Pass downward thus! Again my eyes I raise

To thee, dark rock; and through the mist and haze

My strength returns when I behold thy prop

Gleam stern and steady through the wavering wrack

Surely thy strength is human, and like me

Thou bearest loads of thunder on thy back!

And, lo, a smile upon thy visage black--

A breezy tuft of grass which I can see

Waving serenely from a sunlit crack!

Above my head the great pine-branches tower

Backwards and forwards each to the other bends,

Beckoning the tempest-cloud which hither wends

Like a slow-laboured thought, heavy with power;

Hark to the patter of the coming shower!

Let me be silent while the Almighty sends

His thunder-word along; but when it ends

I will arise and fashion from the hour

Words of stupendous import, fit to guard

High thoughts and purposes, which I may wave,

When the temptation cometh close and hard,

Like fiery brands betwixt me and the grave

Of meaner things--to which I am a slave

If evermore I keep not watch and ward.

I do remember how when very young,

I saw the great sea first, and heard its swell

As I drew nearer, caught within the spell

Of its vast size and its mysterious tongue.

How the floor trembled, and the dark boat swung

With a man in it, and a great wave fell

Within a stone's cast! Words may never tell

The passion of the moment, when I flung

All childish records by, and felt arise

A thing that died no more! An awful power

I claimed with trembling hands and eager eyes,

Mine, mine for ever, an immortal dower.--

The noise of waters soundeth to this hour,

When I look seaward through the quiet skies.

ON THE SOURCE OF THE ARVE.

Hear'st thou the dash of water loud and hoarse

With its perpetual tidings upward climb,

Struggling against the wind? Oh, how sublime!

For not in vain from its portentous source,

Thy heart, wild stream, hath yearned for its full force,

But from thine ice-toothed caverns dark as time

At last thou issuest, dancing to the rhyme

Of thy outvolleying freedom! Lo, thy course

Lies straight before thee as the arrow flies,

Right to the ocean-plains. Away, away!

Thy parent waits thee, and her sunset dyes

Are ruffled for thy coming, and the gray

Of all her glittering borders flashes high

Against the glittering rocks: oh, haste, and fly!

PART III.--HIS MANHOOD.

CHAPTER I.

IN THE DESERT.

A life lay behind Robert Falconer, and a life lay before him. He

stood on a shoal between.

The life behind him was in its grave. He had covered it over and

turned away. But he knew it would rise at night.

The life before him was not yet born; and what should issue from

that dull ghastly unrevealing fog on the horizon, he did not care.

Thither the tide setting eastward would carry him, and his future

must be born. All he cared about was to leave the empty garments of

his dead behind him--the sky and the fields, the houses and the

gardens which those dead had made alive with their presence.

Travel, motion, ever on, ever away, was the sole impulse in his

heart. Nor had the thought of finding his father any share in his

restlessness.

He told his grandmother that he was going back to Aberdeen. She

looked in his face with surprise, but seeing trouble there, asked no

questions. As if walking in a dream, he found himself at Dr.

Anderson's door.

'Why, Robert,' said the good man, 'what has brought you back? Ah!

I see. Poor Ericson! I am very sorry, my boy. What can I do for

you?'

'I can't go on with my studies now, sir,' answered Robert. 'I have

taken a great longing for travel. Will you give me a little money

and let me go?'

'To be sure I will. Where do you want to go?'

'I don't know. Perhaps as I go I shall find myself wanting to go

somewhere. You're not afraid to trust me, are you, sir?'

'Not in the least, Robert. I trust you perfectly. You shall do

just as you please.--Have you any idea, how much money you will

want?'

'No. Give me what you are willing I should spend: I will go by

that.'

'Come along to the bank then. I will give you enough to start with.

Write at once when you want more. Don't be too saving. Enjoy

yourself as well as you can. I shall not grudge it.'

Robert smiled a wan smile at the idea of enjoying himself. His

friend saw it, but let it pass. There was no good in persuading a

man whose grief was all he had left, that he must ere long part with

that too. That would have been in lowest deeps of sorrow to open a

yet lower deep of horror. But Robert would have refused, and would

have been right in refusing to believe with regard to himself what

might be true in regard to most men. He might rise above his grief;

he might learn to contain his grief; but lose it, forget it?--never.

He went to bid Shargar farewell. As soon as he had a glimpse of

what his friend meant, he burst out in an agony of supplication.

'Tak me wi' ye, Robert,' he cried. 'Ye're a gentleman noo. I'll be

yer man. I'll put on a livery coat, an' gang wi' ye. I'll awa' to

Dr. Anderson. He's sure to lat me gang.'

'No, Shargar,' said Robert, 'I can't have you with me. I've come

into trouble, Shargar, and I must fight it out alone.'

'Ay, ay; I ken. Puir Mr. Ericson!'

'There's nothing the matter with Mr. Ericson. Don't ask me any

questions. I've said more to you now than I've said to anybody

besides.'

'That is guid o' you, Robert. But am I never to see ye again?'

'I don't know. Perhaps we may meet some day.'

'Perhaps is nae muckle to say, Robert,' protested Shargar.

'It's more than can be said about everything, Shargar,' returned

Robert, sadly.

'Weel, I maun jist tak it as 't comes,' said Shargar, with a

despairing philosophy derived from the days when his mother thrashed

him. 'But, eh! Robert, gin it had only pleased the Almichty to sen'

me into the warl' in a some respectable kin' o' a fashion!'

'Wi' a chance a' gaein' aboot the country like that curst villain

yer brither, I suppose?' retorted Robert, rousing himself for a

moment.

'Na, na,' responded Shargar. 'I'll stick to my ain mither. She

never learned me sic tricks.'

'Do ye that. Ye canna compleen o' God. It's a' richt as far 's

ye're concerned. Gin he dinna something o' ye yet, it'll be your

wyte, no his, I'm thinkin'.'

They walked to Dr. Anderson's together, and spent the night there.

In the morning Robert got on the coach for Edinburgh.

I cannot, if I would, follow him on his travels. Only at times,

when the conversation rose in the dead of night, by some Jacob's

ladder of blessed ascent, into regions where the heart of such a man

could open as in its own natural clime, would a few words cause the

clouds that enveloped this period of his history to dispart, and

grant me a peep into the phantasm of his past. I suspect, however,

that much of it left upon his mind no recallable impressions. I

suspect that much of it looked to himself in the retrospect like a

painful dream, with only certain objects and occurrences standing

prominent enough to clear the moonlight mist enwrapping the rest.

What the precise nature of his misery was I shall not even attempt

to conjecture. That would be to intrude within the holy place of a

human heart. One thing alone I will venture to affirm--that

bitterness against either of his friends, whose spirits rushed

together and left his outside, had no place in that noble nature.

His fate lay behind him, like the birth of Shargar, like the death

of Ericson, a decree.

I do not even know in what direction he first went. That he had

seen many cities and many countries was apparent from glimpses of

ancient streets, of mountain-marvels, of strange constellations, of

things in heaven and earth which no one could have seen but himself,

called up by the magic of his words. A silent man in company, he

talked much when his hour of speech arrived. Seldom, however, did

he narrate any incident save in connection with some truth of human

nature, or fact of the universe.

I do know that the first thing he always did on reaching any new

place was to visit the church with the loftiest spire; but he never

looked into the church itself until he had left the earth behind him

as far as that church would afford him the possibility of ascent.

Breathing the air of its highest region, he found himself vaguely

strengthened, yes comforted. One peculiar feeling he had, into

which I could enter only upon happy occasion, of the presence of God

in the wind. He said the wind up there on the heights of human

aspiration always made him long and pray. Asking him one day

something about his going to church so seldom, he answered thus:

'My dear boy, it does me ten times more good to get outside the

spire than to go inside the church. The spire is the most

essential, and consequently the most neglected part of the building.

It symbolizes the aspiration without which no man's faith can hold

its own. But the effort of too many of her priests goes to conceal

from the worshippers the fact that there is such a stair, with a

door to it out of the church. It looks as if they feared their

people would desert them for heaven. But I presume it arises

generally from the fact that they know of such an ascent themselves,

only by hearsay. The knowledge of God is good, but the church is

better!'

'Could it be,' I ventured to suggest, 'that, in order to ascend,

they must put off the priests' garments?'

'Good, my boy!' he answered. 'All are priests up there, and must be

clothed in fine linen, clean and white--the righteousness of

saints--not the imputed righteousness of another,--that is a lying

doctrine--but their own righteousness which God has wrought in them

by Christ.' I never knew a man in whom the inward was so constantly

clothed upon by the outward, whose ordinary habits were so symbolic

of his spiritual tastes, or whose enjoyment of the sight of his eyes

and the hearing of his ears was so much informed by his highest

feelings. He regarded all human affairs from the heights of

religion, as from their church-spires he looked down on the red

roofs of Antwerp, on the black roofs of Cologne, on the gray roofs

of Strasburg, or on the brown roofs of Basel--uplifted for the time

above them, not in dissociation from them.

On the base of the missing twin-spire at Strasburg, high over the

roof of the church, stands a little cottage--how strange its white

muslin window-curtains look up there! To the day of his death he

cherished the fancy of writing a book in that cottage, with the

grand city to which London looks a modern mushroom, its thousand

roofs with row upon row of windows in them--often five garret

stories, one above the other, and its thickets of multiform

chimneys, the thrones and procreant cradles of the storks,

marvellous in history, habit, and dignity--all below him.

He was taken ill at Valence and lay there for a fortnight, oppressed

with some kind of low fever. One night he awoke from a refreshing

sleep, but could not sleep again. It seemed to him afterwards as if

he had lain waiting for something. Anyhow something came. As it

were a faint musical rain had invaded his hearing; but the night was

clear, for the moon was shining on his window-blind. The sound came

nearer, and revealed itself a delicate tinkling of bells. It drew

nearer still and nearer, growing in sweet fulness as it came, till

at length a slow torrent of tinklings went past his window in the

street below. It was the flow of a thousand little currents of

sound, a gliding of silvery threads, like the talking of

water-ripples against the side of a barge in a slow canal--all as

soft as the moonlight, as exquisite as an odour, each sound tenderly

truncated and dull. A great multitude of sheep was shifting its

quarters in the night, whence and whither and why he never knew. To

his heart they were the messengers of the Most High. For into that

heart, soothed and attuned by their thin harmony, not on the wind

that floated without breaking their lovely message, but on the

ripples of the wind that bloweth where it listeth, came the words,

unlooked for, their coming unheralded by any mental premonition, 'My

peace I give unto you.' The sounds died slowly away in the

distance, fainting out of the air, even as they had grown upon it,

but the words remained.

In a few moments he was fast asleep, comforted by pleasure into

repose; his dreams were of gentle self-consoling griefs; and when he

awoke in the morning--'My peace I give unto you,' was the first

thought of which he was conscious. It may be that the sound of the

sheep-bells made him think of the shepherds that watched their

flocks by night, and they of the multitude of the heavenly host, and

they of the song--'On earth peace': I do not know. The important

point is not how the words came, but that the words

remained--remained until he understood them, and they became to him

spirit and life.

He soon recovered strength sufficiently to set out again upon his

travels, great part of which he performed on foot. In this way he

reached Avignon. Passing from one of its narrow streets into an

open place in the midst, all at once he beheld, towering above him,

on a height that overlooked the whole city and surrounding country,

a great crucifix. The form of the Lord of Life still hung in the

face of heaven and earth. He bowed his head involuntarily. No

matter that when he drew nearer the power of it vanished. The

memory of it remained with its first impression, and it had a share

in what followed.

He made his way eastward towards the Alps. As he walked one day

about noon over a desolate heath-covered height, reminding him not a

little of the country of his childhood, the silence seized upon him.

In the midst of the silence arose the crucifix, and once more the

words which had often returned upon him sounded in the ears of the

inner hearing, 'My peace I give unto you.' They were words he had

known from the earliest memorial time. He had heard them in

infancy, in childhood, in boyhood, in youth: now first in manhood it

flashed upon him that the Lord did really mean that the peace of his

soul should be the peace of their souls; that the peace wherewith

his own soul was quiet, the peace at the very heart of the universe,

was henceforth theirs--open to them, to all the world, to enter and

be still. He fell upon his knees, bowed down in the birth of a

great hope, held up his hands towards heaven, and cried, 'Lord

Christ, give me thy peace.'

He said no more, but rose, caught up his stick, and strode forward,

thinking.

He had learned what the sentence meant; what that was of which it

spoke he had not yet learned. The peace he had once sought, the

peace that lay in the smiles and tenderness of a woman, had

'overcome him like a summer cloud,' and had passed away. There was

surely a deeper, a wider, a grander peace for him than that, if

indeed it was the same peace wherewith the king of men regarded his

approaching end, that he had left as a heritage to his brothers.

Suddenly he was aware that the earth had begun to live again. The

hum of insects arose from the heath around him; the odour of its

flowers entered his dulled sense; the wind kissed him on the

forehead; the sky domed up over his head; and the clouds veiled the

distant mountain tops like the smoke of incense ascending from the

altars of the worshipping earth. All Nature began to minister to

one who had begun to lift his head from the baptism of fire. He had

thought that Nature could never more be anything to him; and she was

waiting on him like a mother. The next moment he was offended with

himself for receiving ministrations the reaction of whose loveliness

might no longer gather around the form of Mary St. John. Every

wavelet of scent, every toss of a flower's head in the breeze, came

with a sting in its pleasure--for there was no woman to whom they

belonged. Yet he could not shut them out, for God and not woman is

the heart of the universe. Would the day ever come when the

loveliness of Mary St. John, felt and acknowledged as never before,

would be even to him a joy and a thanksgiving? If ever, then

because God is the heart of all.

I do not think this mood, wherein all forms of beauty sped to his

soul as to their own needful centre, could have lasted over many

miles of his journey. But such delicate inward revelations are none

the less precious that they are evanescent. Many feelings are

simply too good to last--using the phrase not in the unbelieving

sense in which it is generally used, expressing the conviction that

God is a hard father, fond of disappointing his children, but to

express the fact that intensity and endurance cannot yet coexist in

the human economy. But the virtue of a mood depends by no means on

its immediate presence. Like any other experience, it may be

believed in, and, in the absence which leaves the mind free to

contemplate it, work even more good than in its presence.

At length he came in sight of the Alpine regions. Far off, the

heads of the great mountains rose into the upper countries of cloud,

where the snows settled on their stony heads, and the torrents ran

out from beneath the frozen mass to gladden the earth below with the

faith of the lonely hills. The mighty creatures lay like grotesque

animals of a far-off titanic time, whose dead bodies had been first

withered into stone, then worn away by the storms, and covered with

shrouds and palls of snow, till the outlines of their forms were

gone, and only rough shapes remained like those just blocked out in

the sculptor's marble, vaguely suggesting what the creatures had

been, as the corpse under the sheet of death is like a man. He came

amongst the valleys at their feet, with their blue-green waters

hurrying seawards--from stony heights of air into the mass of 'the

restless wavy plain'; with their sides of rock rising in gigantic

terrace after terrace up to the heavens; with their scaling pines,

erect and slight, cone-head aspiring above cone-head, ambitious to

clothe the bare mass with green, till failing at length in their

upward efforts, the savage rock shot away and beyond and above them,

the white and blue glaciers clinging cold and cruel to their ragged

sides, and the dead blank of whiteness covering their final despair.

He drew near to the lower glaciers, to find their awful abysses

tremulous with liquid blue, a blue tender and profound as if fed

from the reservoir of some hidden sky intenser than ours; he

rejoiced over the velvety fields dotted with the toy-like houses of

the mountaineers; he sat for hours listening by the side of their

streams; he grew weary, felt oppressed, longed for a wider outlook,

and began to climb towards a mountain village of which he had heard

from a traveller, to find solitude and freedom in an air as lofty as

if he climbed twelve of his beloved cathedral spires piled up in

continuous ascent.

After ascending for hours in zigzags through pine woods, where the

only sound was of the little streams trotting down to the valley

below, or the distant hush of some thin waterfall, he reached a

level, and came out of the woods. The path now led along the edge

of a precipice descending sheer to the uppermost terrace of the

valley he had left. The valley was but a cleft in the mass of the

mountain: a little way over sank its other wall, steep as a

plumb-line could have made it, of solid rock. On his right lay

green fields of clover and strange grasses. Ever and anon from the

cleft steamed up great blinding clouds of mist, which now wandered

about over the nations of rocks on the mountain side beyond the

gulf, now wrapt himself in their bewildering folds. In one moment

the whole creation had vanished, and there seemed scarce existence

enough left for more than the following footstep; the next, a mighty

mountain stood in front, crowned with blinding snow, an awful fact;

the lovely heavens were over his head, and the green sod under his

feet; the grasshoppers chirped about him, and the gorgeous

butterflies flew. From regions far beyond came the bells of the

kine and the goats. He reached a little inn, and there took up his

quarters.

I am able to be a little minute in my description, because I have

since visited the place myself. Great heights rise around it on all

sides. It stands as between heaven and hell, suspended between

peaks and gulfs. The wind must roar awfully there in the winter;

but the mountains stand away with their avalanches, and all the

summer long keep the cold off the grassy fields.

The same evening, he was already weary. The next morning it rained.

It rained fiercely all day. He would leave the place on the

morrow. In the evening it began to clear up. He walked out. The

sun was setting. The snow-peaks were faintly tinged with rose, and

the ragged masses of vapour that hung lazy and leaden-coloured about

the sides of the abyss, were partially dyed a sulky orange red.

Then all faded into gray. But as the sunlight vanished, a veil

sank from the face of the moon, already half-way to the zenith, and

she gathered courage and shone, till the mountain looked lovely as a

ghost in the gleam of its snow and the glimmer of its glaciers.

'Ah!' thought Falconer, 'such a peace at last is all a man can look

for--the repose of a spectral Elysium, a world where passion has

died away, and only the dim ghost of its memory to disturb with a

shadowy sorrow the helpless content of its undreaming years. The

religion that can do but this much is not a very great or very

divine thing. The human heart cannot invent a better it may be, but

it can imagine grander results.

He did not yet know what the religion was of which he spoke. As

well might a man born stone-deaf estimate the power of sweet sounds,

or he who knows not a square from a circle pronounce upon the study

of mathematics.

The next morning rose brilliant--an ideal summer day. He would not

go yet; he would spend one day more in the place. He opened his

valise to get some lighter garments. His eye fell on a New

Testament. Dr. Anderson had put it there. He had never opened it

yet, and now he let it lie. Its time had not yet come. He went

out.

Walking up the edge of the valley, he came upon a little stream

whose talk he had heard for some hundred yards. It flowed through a

grassy hollow, with steeply sloping sides. Water is the same all

the world over; but there was more than water here to bring his

childhood back to Falconer. For at the spot where the path led him

down to the burn, a little crag stood out from the bank,--a gray

stone like many he knew on the stream that watered the valley of

Rothieden: on the top of the stone grew a little heather; and beside

it, bending towards the water, was a silver birch. He sat down on

the foot of the rock, shut in by the high grassy banks from the gaze

of the awful mountains. The sole unrest was the run of the water

beside him, and it sounded so homely, that he began to jabber Scotch

to it. He forgot that this stream was born in the clouds, far up

where that peak rose into the air behind him; he did not know that a

couple of hundred yards from where he sat, it tumbled headlong into

the valley below: with his country's birch-tree beside him, and the

rock crowned with its tuft of heather over his head, the quiet as of

a Sabbath afternoon fell upon him--that quiet which is the one

altogether lovely thing in the Scotch Sabbath--and once more the

words arose in his mind, 'My peace I give unto you.'

Now he fell a-thinking what this peace could be. And it came into

his mind as he thought, that Jesus had spoken in another place about

giving rest to those that came to him, while here he spoke about 'my

peace.' Could this my mean a certain kind of peace that the Lord

himself possessed? Perhaps it was in virtue of that peace, whatever

it was, that he was the Prince of Peace. Whatever peace he had must

be the highest and best peace--therefore the one peace for a man to

seek, if indeed, as the words of the Lord seemed to imply, a man was

capable of possessing it. He remembered the New Testament in his

box, and, resolving to try whether he could not make something more

out of it, went back to the inn quieter in heart than since he left

his home. In the evening he returned to the brook, and fell to

searching the story, seeking after the peace of Jesus.

He found that the whole passage stood thus:--

'Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world

giveth give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let

it be afraid.'

He did not leave the place for six weeks. Every day he went to the

burn, as he called it, with his New Testament; every day tried yet

again to make out something more of what the Saviour meant. By the

end of the month it had dawned upon him, he hardly knew how, that

the peace of Jesus (although, of course, he could not know what it

was like till he had it) must have been a peace that came from the

doing of the will of his Father. From the account he gave of the

discoveries he then made, I venture to represent them in the driest

and most exact form that I can find they will admit of. When I use

the word discoveries, I need hardly say that I use it with reference

to Falconer and his previous knowledge. They were these:--that

Jesus taught--

First,--That a man's business is to do the will of God:

Second,--That God takes upon himself the care of the man:

Third,--Therefore, that a man must never be afraid of anything;

and so,

Fourth,--be left free to love God with all his heart, and his

neighbour as himself.

But one day, his thoughts having cleared themselves a little upon

these points, a new set of questions arose with sudden

inundation--comprised in these two:--

'How can I tell for certain that there ever was such a man? How am

I to be sure that such as he says is the mind of the maker of these

glaciers and butterflies?'

All this time he was in the wilderness as much as Moses at the back

of Horeb, or St. Paul when he vanishes in Arabia: and he did nothing

but read the four gospels and ponder over them. Therefore it is not

surprising that he should have already become so familiar with the

gospel story, that the moment these questions appeared, the

following words should dart to the forefront of his consciousness to

meet them:--

'If any man will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine, whether

it be of God, or whether I speak of myself.'

Here was a word of Jesus himself, announcing the one means of

arriving at a conviction of the truth or falsehood of all that he

said, namely, the doing of the will of God by the man who would

arrive at such conviction.

The next question naturally was: What is this will of God of which

Jesus speaks? Here he found himself in difficulty. The theology of

his grandmother rushed in upon him, threatening to overwhelm him

with demands as to feeling and inward action from which his soul

turned with sickness and fainting. That they were repulsive to him,

that they appeared unreal, and contradictory to the nature around

him, was no proof that they were not of God. But on the other hand,

that they demanded what seemed to him unjust,--that these demands

were founded on what seemed to him untruth attributed to God, on

ways of thinking and feeling which are certainly degrading in a

man,--these were reasons of the very highest nature for refusing to

act upon them so long as, from whatever defects it might be in

himself, they bore to him this aspect. He saw that while they

appeared to be such, even though it might turn out that he mistook

them, to acknowledge them would be to wrong God. But this conclusion

left him in no better position for practice than before.

When at length he did see what the will of God was, he wondered, so

simple did it appear, that he had failed to discover it at once.

Yet not less than a fortnight had he been brooding and pondering

over the question, as he wandered up and down that burnside, or sat

at the foot of the heather-crowned stone and the silver-barked

birch, when the light began to dawn upon him. It was thus.

In trying to understand the words of Jesus by searching back, as it

were, for such thoughts and feelings in him as would account for the

words he spoke, the perception awoke that at least he could not have

meant by the will of God any such theological utterances as those

which troubled him. Next it grew plain that what he came to do, was

just to lead his life. That he should do the work, such as

recorded, and much besides, that the Father gave him to do--this was

the will of God concerning him. With this perception arose the

conviction that unto every man whom God had sent into the world, he

had given a work to do in that world. He had to lead the life God

meant him to lead. The will of God was to be found and done in the

world. In seeking a true relation to the world, would he find his

relation to God?

The time for action was come.

He rose up from the stone of his meditation, took his staff in his

hand, and went down the mountain, not knowing whither he went. And

these were some of his thoughts as he went:

'If it was the will of God who made me and her, my will shall not be

set against his. I cannot be happy, but I will bow my head and let

his waves and his billows go over me. If there is such a God, he

knows what a pain I bear. His will be done. Jesus thought it well

that his will should be done to the death. Even if there be no God,

it will be grand to be a disciple of such a man, to do as he says,

think as he thought--perhaps come to feel as he felt.'

My reader may wonder that one so young should have been able to

think so practically--to the one point of action. But he was in

earnest, and what lay at the root of his character, at the root of

all that he did, felt, and became, was childlike simplicity and

purity of nature. If the sins of his father were mercifully visited

upon him, so likewise were the grace and loveliness of his mother.

And between the two, Falconer had fared well.

As he descended the mountain, the one question was--his calling.

With the faintest track to follow, with the clue of a spider's

thread to guide him, he would have known that his business was to

set out at once to find, and save his father. But never since the

day when the hand of that father smote him, and Mary St. John found

him bleeding on the floor, had he heard word or conjecture

concerning him. If he were to set out to find him now, it would be

to search the earth for one who might have vanished from it years

ago. He might as well search the streets of a great city for a lost

jewel. When the time came for him to find his father, if such an

hour was written in the decrees of--I dare not say Fate, for

Falconer hated the word--if such was the will of God, some sign

would be given him--that is, some hint which he could follow with

action. As he thought and thought it became gradually plainer that

he must begin his obedience by getting ready for anything that God

might require of him. Therefore he must go on learning till the

call came.

But he shivered at the thought of returning to Aberdeen. Might he

not continue his studies in Germany? Would that not be as

good--possibly, from the variety of the experience, better? But how

was it to be decided? By submitting the matter to the friend who

made either possible. Dr. Anderson had been to him as a father: he

would be guided by his pleasure.

He wrote, therefore, to Dr. Anderson, saying that he would return at

once if he wished it, but that he would greatly prefer going to a

German university for two years. The doctor replied that of course

he would rather have him at home, but that he was confident Robert

knew best what was best for himself; therefore he had only to settle

where he thought proper, and the next summer he would come and see

him, for he was not tied to Aberdeen any more than Robert.

CHAPTER II.

HOME AGAIN.

Four years passed before Falconer returned to his native country,

during which period Dr. Anderson had visited him twice, and shown

himself well satisfied with his condition and pursuits. The doctor

had likewise visited Rothieden, and had comforted the heart of the

grandmother with regard to her Robert. From what he learned upon

this visit, he had arrived at a true conjecture, I believe, as to

the cause of the great change which had suddenly taken place in the

youth. But he never asked Robert a question leading in the

direction of the grief which he saw the healthy and earnest nature

of the youth gradually assimilating into his life. He had too much

respect for sorrow to approach it with curiosity. He had learned to

put off his shoes when he drew nigh the burning bush of human pain.

Robert had not settled at any of the universities, but had moved

from one to the other as he saw fit, report guiding him to the men

who spoke with authority. The time of doubt and anxious questioning

was far from over, but the time was long gone by--if in his case it

had ever been--when he could be like a wave of the sea, driven of

the wind and tossed. He had ever one anchor of the soul, and he

found that it held--the faith of Jesus (I say the faith of Jesus,

not his own faith in Jesus), the truth of Jesus, the life of Jesus.

However his intellect might be tossed on the waves of speculation

and criticism, he found that the word the Lord had spoken remained

steadfast; for in doing righteously, in loving mercy, in walking

humbly, the conviction increased that Jesus knew the very secret of

human life. Now and then some great vision gleamed across his soul

of the working of all things towards a far-off goal of simple

obedience to a law of life, which God knew, and which his son had

justified through sorrow and pain. Again and again the words of the

Master gave him a peep into a region where all was explicable, where

all that was crooked might be made straight, where every mountain of

wrong might be made low, and every valley of suffering exalted.

Ever and again some one of the dark perplexities of humanity began

to glimmer with light in its inmost depth. Nor was he without those

moments of communion when the creature is lifted into the secret

place of the Creator.

Looking back to the time when it seemed that he cried and was not

heard, he saw that God had been hearing, had been answering, all the

time; had been making him capable of receiving the gift for which he

prayed. He saw that intellectual difficulty encompassing the

highest operations of harmonizing truth, can no more affect their

reality than the dulness of chaos disprove the motions of the wind

of God over the face of its waters. He saw that any true revelation

must come out of the unknown in God through the unknown in man. He

saw that its truths must rise in the man as powers of life, and that

only as that life grows and unfolds can the ever-lagging intellect

gain glimpses of partial outlines fading away into the

infinite--that, indeed, only in material things and the laws that

belong to them, are outlines possible--even there, only in the

picture of them which the mind that analyzes them makes for itself,

not in the things themselves.

At the close of these four years, with his spirit calm and hopeful,

truth his passion, and music, which again he had resumed and

diligently cultivated, his pleasure, Falconer returned to Aberdeen.

He was received by Dr. Anderson as if he had in truth been his own

son. In the room stood a tall figure, with its back towards them,

pocketing its handkerchief. The next moment the figure turned,

and--could it be?--yes, it was Shargar. Doubt lingered only until

he opened his mouth, and said 'Eh, Robert!' with which exclamation

he threw himself upon him, and after a very undignified fashion

began crying heartily. Tall as he was, Robert's great black head

towered above him, and his shoulders were like a rock against which

Shargar's slight figure leaned. He looked down like a compassionate

mastiff upon a distressed Italian grayhound. His eyes shimmered

with feeling, but Robert's tears, if he ever shed any, were kept for

very solemn occasions. He was more likely to weep for awful joy

than for any sufferings either in himself or others. 'Shargar!'

pronounced in a tone full of a thousand memories, was all the

greeting he returned; but his great manly hand pressed Shargar's

delicate long-fingered one with a grasp which must have satisfied

his friend that everything was as it had been between them, and that

their friendship from henceforth would take a new start. For with

all that Robert had seen, thought, and learned, now that the

bitterness of loss had gone by, the old times and the old friends

were dearer. If there was any truth in the religion of God's will,

in which he was a disciple, every moment of life's history which had

brought soul in contact with soul, must be sacred as a voice from

behind the veil. Therefore he could not now rest until he had gone

to see his grandmother.

'Will you come to Rothieden with me, Shargar? I beg your pardon--I

oughtn't to keep up an old nickname,' said Robert, as they sat that

evening with the doctor, over a tumbler of toddy.

'If you call me anything else, I'll cut my throat, Robert, as I told

you before. If any one else does,' he added, laughing, 'I'll cut

his throat.'

'Can he go with me, doctor?' asked Robert, turning to their host.

'Certainly. He has not been to Rothieden since he took his degree.

He's an A.M. now, and has distinguished himself besides. You'll

see him in his uniform soon, I hope. Let's drink his health,

Robert. Fill your glass.'

The doctor filled his glass slowly and solemnly. He seldom drank

even wine, but this was a rare occasion. He then rose, and with

equal slowness, and a tremor in his voice which rendered it

impossible to imagine the presence of anything but seriousness,

said,

'Robert, my son, let's drink the health of George Moray, Gentleman.

Stand up.'

Robert rose, and in his confusion Shargar rose too, and sat down

again, blushing till his red hair looked yellow beside his cheeks.

The men repeated the words, 'George Moray, Gentleman,' emptied

their glasses, and resumed their seats. Shargar rose trembling, and

tried in vain to speak. The reason in part was, that he sought to

utter himself in English.

'Hoots! Damn English!' he broke out at last. 'Gin I be a gentleman,

Dr. Anderson and Robert Falconer, it's you twa 'at's made me ane,

an' God bless ye, an' I'm yer hoomble servant to a' etairnity.'

So saying, Shargar resumed his seat, filled his glass with trembling

hand, emptied it to hide his feelings, but without success, rose

once more, and retreated to the hall for a space.

The next morning Robert and Shargar got on the coach and went to

Rothieden. Robert turned his head aside as they came near the

bridge and the old house of Bogbonnie. But, ashamed of his

weakness, he turned again and looked at the house. There it stood,

all the same,--a thing for the night winds to howl in, and follow

each other in mad gambols through its long passages and rooms, so

empty from the first that not even a ghost had any reason for going

there--a place almost without a history--dreary emblem of so many

empty souls that have hidden their talent in a napkin, and have

nothing to return for it when the Master calls them. Having looked

this one in the face, he felt stronger to meet those other places

before which his heart quailed yet more. He knew that Miss St. John

had left soon after Ericson's death: whether he was sorry or glad

that he should not see her he could not tell. He thought Rothieden

would look like Pompeii, a city buried and disinterred; but when the

coach drove into the long straggling street, he found the old love

revive, and although the blood rushed back to his heart when Captain

Forsyth's house came in view, he did not turn away, but made his

eyes, and through them his heart, familiar with its desolation. He

got down at the corner, and leaving Shargar to go on to The Boar's

Head and look after the luggage, walked into his grandmother's house

and straight into her little parlour. She rose with her old

stateliness when she saw a stranger enter the room, and stood

waiting his address.

'Weel, grannie,' said Robert, and took her in his arms.

'The Lord's name be praised!' faltered she. 'He's ower guid to the

likes o' me.'

And she lifted up her voice and wept.

She had been informed of his coming, but she had not expected him

till the evening; he was much altered, and old age is slow.

He had hardly placed her in her chair, when Betty came in. If she

had shown him respect before, it was reverence now.

'Eh, sir!' she said, 'I didna ken it was you, or I wadna hae come

into the room ohn chappit at the door. I'll awa' back to my

kitchie.'

So saying, she turned to leave the room.

'Hoots! Betty,' cried Robert, 'dinna be a gowk. Gie 's a grip o

yer han'.'

Betty stood staring and irresolute, overcome at sight of the manly

bulk before her.

'Gin ye dinna behave yersel', Betty, I'll jist awa' ower to

Muckledrum, an' hae a caw (drive) throu the sessions-buik.'

Betty laughed for the first time at the awful threat, and the ice

once broken, things returned to somewhat of their old footing.

I must not linger on these days. The next morning Robert paid a

visit to Bodyfauld, and found that time had there flowed so gently

that it had left but few wrinkles and fewer gray hairs. The fields,

too, had little change to show; and the hill was all the same, save

that its pines had grown. His chief mission was to John Hewson and

his wife. When he left for the continent, he was not so utterly

absorbed in his own griefs as to forget Jessie. He told her story

to Dr. Anderson, and the good man had gone to see her the same day.

In the evening, when he knew he should find them both at home, he

walked into the cottage. They were seated by the fire, with the

same pot hanging on the same crook for their supper. They rose, and

asked him to sit down, but did not know him. When he told them who

he was, they greeted him warmly, and John Hewson smiled something of

the old smile, but only like it, for it had no 'rays proportionately

delivered' from his mouth over his face.

After a little indifferent chat, Robert said,

'I came through Aberdeen yesterday, John.'

At the very mention of Aberdeen, John's head sunk. He gave no

answer, but sat looking in the fire. His wife rose and went to the

other end of the room, busying herself quietly about the supper.

Robert thought it best to plunge into the matter at once.

'I saw Jessie last nicht,' he said.

Still there was no reply. John's face had grown hard as a stone

face, but Robert thought rather from the determination to govern his

feelings than from resentment.

'She's been doin' weel ever sin' syne,' he added.

Still no word from either; and Robert fearing some outburst of

indignation ere he had said his say, now made haste.

'She's been a servant wi' Dr. Anderson for four year noo, an' he's

sair pleased wi' her. She's a fine woman. But her bairnie's deid,

an' that was a sair blow till her.'

He heard a sob from the mother, but still John made no sign.

'It was a bonnie bairnie as ever ye saw. It luikit in her face, she

says, as gin it kent a' aboot it, and had only come to help her

throu the warst o' 't; for it gaed hame 'maist as sune's ever she

was richt able to thank God for sen'in' her sic an angel to lead her

to repentance.'

'John,' said his wife, coming behind his chair, and laying her hand

on his shoulder, 'what for dinna ye speyk? Ye hear what Maister

Faukner says.--Ye dinna think a thing's clean useless 'cause there

may be a spot upo' 't?' she added, wiping her eyes with her apron.

'A spot upo' 't?' cried John, starting to his feet. 'What ca' ye a

spot?--Wuman, dinna drive me mad to hear ye lichtlie the glory o'

virginity.'

'That's a' verra weel, John,' interposed Robert quietly; 'but there

was ane thocht as muckle o' 't as ye do, an' wad hae been ashamed to

hear ye speak that gait aboot yer ain dauchter'

'I dinna unnerstan' ye,' returned Hewson, looking raised-like at

him.

'Dinna ye ken, man, that amo' them 'at kent the Lord best whan he

cam frae haiven to luik efter his ain--to seek and to save, ye

ken--amo' them 'at cam roon aboot him to hearken till 'im, was

lasses 'at had gane the wrang gait a'thegither,--no like your bonnie

Jessie 'at fell but ance. Man, ye're jist like Simon the Pharisee,

'at was sae scunnert at oor Lord 'cause he loot the wuman 'at was a

sinner tak her wull o' 's feet--the feet 'at they war gaein' to tak

their wull o' efter anither fashion afore lang. He wad hae shawn

her the door--Simon wad--like you, John; but the Lord tuik her

pairt. An' lat me tell you, John--an' I winna beg yer pardon for

sayin' 't, for it's God's trowth--lat me tell you, 'at gin ye gang

on that gait ye'll be sidin' wi' the Pharisee, an' no wi' oor Lord.

Ye may lippen to yer wife, ay, an' to Jessie hersel', that kens

better nor eyther o' ye, no to mak little o' virginity. Faith! they

think mair o' 't than ye do, I'm thinkin', efter a'; only it's no a

thing to say muckle aboot. An' it's no to stan' for a'thing, efter

a'.'

Silence followed. John sat down again, and buried his face in his

hands. At length he murmured from between them,

'The lassie's weel?'

'Ay,' answered Robert; and silence followed again.

'What wad ye hae me do?' asked John, lifting his head a little.

'I wad hae ye sen' a kin' word till her. The lassie's hert's jist

longin' efter ye. That's a'. And that's no ower muckle.'

''Deed no,' assented the mother.

John said nothing. But when his visitor rose he bade him a warm

good-night.

When Robert returned to Aberdeen he was the bearer of such a message

as made poor Jessie glad at heart. This was his first experience of

the sort.

When he left the cottage, he did not return to the house, but

threaded the little forest of pines, climbing the hill till he came

out on its bare crown, where nothing grew but heather and

blaeberries. There he threw himself down, and gazed into the

heavens. The sun was below the horizon; all the dazzle was gone out

of the gold, and the roses were fast fading; the downy blue of the

sky was trembling into stars over his head; the brown dusk was

gathering in the air; and a wind full of gentleness and peace came

to him from the west. He let his thoughts go where they would, and

they went up into the abyss over his head.

'Lord, come to me,' he cried in his heart, 'for I cannot go to thee.

If I were to go up and up through that awful space for ages and

ages, I should never find thee. Yet there thou art. The tenderness

of thy infinitude looks upon me from those heavens. Thou art in

them and in me. Because thou thinkest, I think. I am thine--all

thine. I abandon myself to thee. Fill me with thyself. When I am

full of thee, my griefs themselves will grow golden in thy sunlight.

Thou holdest them and their cause, and wilt find some nobler

atonement between them than vile forgetfulness and the death of

love. Lord, let me help those that are wretched because they do not

know thee. Let me tell them that thou, the Life, must needs suffer

for and with them, that they may be partakers of thy ineffable

peace. My life is hid in thine: take me in thy hand as Gideon bore

the pitcher to the battle. Let me be broken if need be, that thy

light may shine upon the lies which men tell them in thy name, and

which eat away their hearts.'

Having persuaded Shargar to remain with Mrs. Falconer for a few

days, and thus remove the feeling of offence she still cherished

because of his 'munelicht flittin',' he returned to Dr. Anderson,

who now unfolded his plans for him. These were, that he should

attend the medical classes common to the two universities, and at

the same time accompany him in his visits to the poor. He did not

at all mean, he said, to determine Robert's life as that of a

medical man, but from what he had learned of his feelings, he was

confident that a knowledge of medicine would be invaluable to him.

I think the good doctor must have foreseen the kind of life which

Falconer would at length choose to lead, and with true and admirable

wisdom, sought to prepare him for it. However this may be, Robert

entertained the proposal gladly, went into the scheme with his whole

heart, and began to widen that knowledge of and sympathy with the

poor which were the foundation of all his influence over them.

For a time, therefore, he gave a diligent and careful attendance

upon lectures, read sufficiently, took his rounds with Dr. Anderson,

and performed such duties as he delegated to his greater strength.

Had the healing art been far less of an enjoyment to him than it

was, he could yet hardly have failed of great progress therein; but

seeing that it accorded with his best feelings, profoundest

theories, and loftiest hopes, and that he received it as a work

given him to do, it is not surprising that a certain faculty of

cure, almost partaking of the instinctive, should have been rapidly

developed in him, to the wonder and delight of his friend and

master.

In this labour he again spent about four years, during which time he

gathered much knowledge of human nature, learning especially to

judge it from no stand-point of his own, but in every individual

case to take a new position whence the nature and history of the man

should appear in true relation to the yet uncompleted result. He

who cannot feel the humanity of his neighbour because he is

different from himself in education, habits, opinions, morals,

circumstances, objects, is unfit, if not unworthy, to aid him.

Within this period Shargar had gone out to India, where he had

distinguished himself particularly on a certain harassing march.

Towards the close of the four years he had leave of absence, and

was on his way home. About the same time Robert, in consequence of

a fever brought on by over-fatigue, was in much need of a holiday;

and Dr. Anderson proposed that he should meet Moray at Southampton.

Shargar had no expectation of seeing him, and his delight, not

greater on that account, broke out more wildly. No thinnest film

had grown over his heart, though in all else he was considerably

changed. The army had done everything that was wanted for his

outward show of man. The drawling walk had vanished, and a firm

step and soldierly stride had taken its place; his bearing was free,

yet dignified; his high descent came out in the ease of his carriage

and manners: there could be no doubt that at last Shargar was a

gentleman. His hair had changed to a kind of red chestnut. His

complexion was much darkened with the Indian sun. His eyes, too,

were darker, and no longer rolled slowly from one object to another,

but indicated by their quick glances a mind ready to observe and as

ready to resolve. His whole appearance was more than

prepossessing--it was even striking.

Robert was greatly delighted with the improvement in him, and far

more when he found that his mind's growth had at least kept pace

with his body's change. It would be more correct to say that it had

preceded and occasioned it; for however much the army may be able to

do in that way, it had certainly, in Moray's case, only seconded the

law of inward growth working outward show.

The young men went up to London together, and great was the pleasure

they had in each other's society, after so long a separation in

which their hearts had remained unchanged while their natures had

grown both worthy and capable of more honour and affection. They

had both much to tell; for Robert was naturally open save in regard

to his grief; and Shargar was proud of being able to communicate

with Robert from a nearer level, in virtue of now knowing many

things that Robert could not know. They went together to a hotel in

St. Paul's Churchyard.

CHAPTER III.

A MERE GLIMPSE.

At the close of a fortnight, Falconer thought it time to return to

his duties in Aberdeen. The day before the steamer sailed, they

found themselves, about six o'clock, in Gracechurch Street. It was

a fine summer evening. The street was less crowded than earlier in

the afternoon, although there was a continuous stream of waggons,

omnibuses, and cabs both ways. As they stood on the curbstone, a

little way north of Lombard Street, waiting to cross--

'You see, Shargar,' said Robert, 'Nature will have her way. Not all

the hurry and confusion and roar can keep the shadows out. Look:

wherever a space is for a moment vacant, there falls a shadow, as

grotesque, as strange, as full of unutterable things as any shadow

on a field of grass and daisies.'

'I remember feeling the same kind of thing in India,' returned

Shargar, 'where nothing looked as if it belonged to the world I was

born in, but my own shadow. In such a street as this, however, all

the shadows look as if they belonged to another world, and had no

business here.'

'I quite feel that,' returned Falconer. 'They come like angels from

the lovely west and the pure air, to show that London cannot hurt

them, for it too is within the Kingdom of God--to teach the lovers

of nature, like the old orthodox Jew, St. Peter, that they must not

call anything common or unclean.'

Shargar made no reply, and Robert glanced round at him. He was

staring with wide eyes into, not at the crowd of vehicles that

filled the street. His face was pale, and strangely like the

Shargar of old days.

'What's the matter with you?' Robert asked in some bewilderment.

Receiving no answer, he followed Shargar's gaze, and saw a strange

sight for London city.

In the middle of the crowd of vehicles, with an omnibus before them,

and a brewer's dray behind them, came a line of three donkey-carts,

heaped high with bundles and articles of gipsy-gear. The foremost

was conducted by a middle-aged woman of tall, commanding aspect, and

expression both cunning and fierce. She walked by the donkey's head

carrying a short stick, with which she struck him now and then, but

which she oftener waved over his head like the truncheon of an

excited marshal on the battle-field, accompanying its movements now

with loud cries to the animal, now with loud response to the chaff

of the omnibus conductor, the dray driver, and the tradesmen in

carts about her. She was followed by a very handsome,

olive-complexioned, wild-looking young woman, with her black hair

done up in a red handkerchief, who conducted her donkey more

quietly. Both seemed as much at home in the roar of Gracechurch

Street as if they had been crossing a wild common. A

loutish-looking young man brought up the rear with the third donkey.

>From the bundles on the foremost cart peeped a lovely, fair-haired,

English-looking child.

Robert took all this in in a moment. The same moment Shargar's

spell was broken.

'Lord, it is my mither!' he cried, and darted under a horse's neck

into the middle of the ruck.

He needled his way through till he reached the woman. She was

swearing at a cabman whose wheel had caught the point of her

donkey's shaft, and was hauling him round. Heedless of everything,

Shargar threw his arms about her, crying,

'Mither! mither!'

'Nane o' yer blastit humbug!' she exclaimed, as, with a vigorous

throw and a wriggle, she freed herself from his embrace and pushed

him away.

The moment she had him at arm's length, however, her hand closed

upon his arm, and her other hand went up to her brow. From

underneath it her eyes shot up and down him from head to foot, and

he could feel her hand closing and relaxing and closing again, as if

she were trying to force her long nails into his flesh. He stood

motionless, waiting the result of her scrutiny, utterly unconscious

that he caused a congestion in the veins of London, for every

vehicle within sight of the pair had stopped. Falconer said a

strange silence fell upon the street, as if all the things in it had

been turned into shadows.

A rough voice, which sounded as if all London must have heard it,

broke the silence. It was the voice of the cabman who had been in

altercation with the woman. Bursting into an insulting laugh, he

used words with regard to her which it is better to leave

unrecorded. The same instant Shargar freed himself from her grasp,

and stood by the fore wheel of the cab.

'Get down!' he said, in a voice that was not the less impressive

that it was low and hoarse.

The fellow saw what he meant, and whipped his horse. Shargar sprung

on the box, and dragged him down all but headlong.

'Now,' he said, 'beg my mother's pardon.'

'Be damned if I do, &c., &c.,' said the cabman.

'Then defend yourself,' said Shargar. 'Robert.'

Falconer was watching it all, and was by his side in a moment.

'Come on, you, &c., &c.,' cried the cabman, plucking up heart and

putting himself in fighting shape. He looked one of those insolent

fellows whom none see discomfited more gladly than the honest men of

his own class. The same moment he lay between his horse's feet.

Shargar turned to Robert, and saying only, 'There, Robert!' turned

again towards the woman. The cabman rose bleeding, and, desiring no

more of the same, climbed on his box, and went off, belabouring his

horse, and pursued by a roar from the street, for the spectators

were delighted at his punishment.

'Now, mother,' said Shargar, panting with excitement.

'What ca' they ye?' she asked, still doubtful, but as proud of being

defended as if the coarse words of her assailant had had no truth in

them. 'Ye canna be my lang-leggit Geordie.'

'What for no?'

'Ye're a gentleman, faith!'

'An' what for no, again?' returned Shargar, beginning to smile.

'Weel, it's weel speired. Yer father was ane ony gait--gin sae be

'at ye are as ye say.'

Moray put his head close to hers, and whispered some words that

nobody heard but herself.

'It's ower lang syne to min' upo' that,' she said in reply, with a

look of cunning consciousness ill settled upon her fine features.

'But ye can be naebody but my Geordie. Haith, man!' she went on,

regarding him once more from head to foot, 'but ye're a credit to

me, I maun alloo. Weel, gie me a sovereign, an' I s' never come

near ye.'

Poor Shargar in his despair turned half mechanically towards Robert.

He felt that it was time to interfere.

'You forget, mother,' said Shargar, turning again to her, and

speaking English now, 'it was I that claimed you, and not you that

claimed me.'

She seemed to have no idea of what he meant.

'Come up the road here, to oor public, an' tak a glaiss, wuman,'

said Falconer. 'Dinna haud the fowk luikin' at ye.'

The temptation of a glass of something strong, and the hope of

getting money out of them, caused an instant acquiescence. She said

a few words to the young woman, who proceeded at once to tie her

donkey's head to the tail of the other cart.

'Shaw the gait than,' said the elder, turning again to Falconer.

Shargar and he led the way to St. Paul's Churchyard, and the woman

followed faithfully. The waiter stared when they entered.

'Bring a glass of whisky,' said Falconer, as he passed on to their

private room. When the whisky arrived, she tossed it off, and

looked as if she would like another glass.

'Yer father 'ill hae ta'en ye up, I'm thinkin', laddie?' she said,

turning to her son.

'No,' answered Shargar, gloomily. 'There's the man that took me up.'

'An' wha may ye be?' she asked, turning to Falconer.

'Mr. Falconer,' said Shargar.

'No a son o' Anerew Faukner?' she asked again, with evident

interest.

'The same,' answered Robert.

'Well, Geordie,' she said, turning once more to her son, 'it's like

mither, like father to the twa o' ye.'

'Did you know my father?' asked Robert, eagerly.

Instead of answering him she made another remark to her son.

'He needna be ashamed o' your company, ony gait--queer kin' o' a

mither 'at I am.'

'He never was ashamed of my company,' said Shargar, still gloomily.

'Ay, I kent yer father weel eneuch,' she said, now answering

Robert--'mair by token 'at I saw him last nicht. He was luikin' nae

that ill.'

Robert sprung from his seat, and caught her by the arm.

'Ow! ye needna gang into sic a flurry. He'll no come near ye, I s'

warran'.'

'Tell me where he is,' said Robert. 'Where did you see him? I'll

gie ye a' 'at I hae gin ye'll tak me till him.'

'Hooly! hooly! Wha's to gang luikin' for a thrum in a hay-sow?'

returned she, coolly. 'I only said 'at I saw him.'

'But are ye sure it was him?' asked Falconer.

'Ay, sure eneuch,' she answered.

'What maks ye sae sure?'

''Cause I never was vrang yet. Set a man ance atween my twa een,

an' that 'll be twa 'at kens him whan 's ain mither 's forgotten

'im.'

'Did you speak to him?'

'Maybe ay, an' maybe no. I didna come here to be hecklet afore a

jury.'

'Tell me what he's like,' said Robert, agitated with eager hope.

'Gin ye dinna ken what he's like, what for suld ye tak the trouble

to speir? But 'deed ye'll ken what he's like whan ye fa' in wi'

him,' she added, with a vindictive laugh--vindictive because he had

given her only one glass of strong drink.

With the laugh she rose, and made for the door. They rose at the

same moment to detain her. Like one who knew at once to fight and

flee, she turned and stunned them as with a blow.

'She's a fine yoong thing, yon sister o' yours, Geordie. She'll be

worth siller by the time she's had a while at the schuil.'

The men looked at each other aghast. When they turned their eyes

she had vanished. They rushed to the door, and, parting, searched

in both directions. But they were soon satisfied that it was of no

use. Probably she had found a back way into Paternoster Row, whence

the outlets are numerous.

CHAPTER IV.

THE DOCTOR'S DEATH.

But now that Falconer had a ground, even thus shadowy, for hoping--I

cannot say believing--that his father might be in London, he could

not return to Aberdeen. Moray, who had no heart to hunt for his

mother, left the next day by the steamer. Falconer took to

wandering about the labyrinthine city, and in a couple of months

knew more about the metropolis--the west end excepted--than most

people who had lived their lives in it. The west end is no doubt a

considerable exception to make, but Falconer sought only his father,

and the west end was the place where he was least likely to find

him. Day and night he wandered into all sorts of places: the worse

they looked the more attractive he found them. It became almost a

craze with him. He could not pass a dirty court or low-browed

archway. He might be there. Or he might have been there. Or it

was such a place as he would choose for shelter. He knew to what

such a life as his must have tended.

At first he was attracted only by tall elderly men. Such a man he

would sometimes follow till his following made him turn and demand

his object. If there was no suspicion of Scotch in his tone,

Falconer easily apologized. If there was, he made such replies as

might lead to some betrayal. He could not defend the course he was

adopting: it had not the shadow of probability upon its side. Still

the greatest successes the world has ever beheld had been at one

time the greatest improbabilities! He could not choose but go on,

for as yet he could think of no other way.

Neither could a man like Falconer long confine his interest to this

immediate object, especially after he had, in following it, found

opportunity of being useful. While he still made it his main object

to find his father, that object became a centre from which radiated

a thousand influences upon those who were as sheep that had no

shepherd. He fell back into his old ways at Aberdeen, only with a

boundless sphere to work in, and with the hope of finding his father

to hearten him. He haunted the streets at night, went into all

places of entertainment, often to the disgust of senses and soul,

and made his way into the lowest forms of life without introduction

or protection.

There was a certain stately air of the hills about him which was

often mistaken for country inexperience, and men thought in

consequence to make gain or game of him. But such found their

mistake, and if not soon, then the more completely. Far from

provoking or even meeting hostility, he soon satisfied those that

persisted, that it was dangerous. In two years he became well known

to the poor of a large district, especially on both sides of

Shoreditch, for whose sake he made the exercise of his profession

though not an object yet a ready accident.

He lived in lodgings in John Street--the same in which I found him

when I came to know him. He made few acquaintances, and they were

chiefly the house-surgeons of hospitals--to which he paid frequent

visits.

He always carried a book in his pocket, but did not read much. On

Sundays he generally went to some one of the many lonely heaths or

commons of Surrey with his New Testament. When weary in London, he

would go to the reading-room of the British Museum for an hour or

two. He kept up a regular correspondence with Dr. Anderson.

At length he received a letter from him, which occasioned his

immediate departure for Aberdeen. Until now, his friend, who was

entirely satisfied with his mode of life, and supplied him freely

with money, had not even expressed a wish to recall him, though he

had often spoken of visiting him in London. It now appeared that,

unwilling to cause him any needless anxiety, he had abstained from

mentioning the fact that his health had been declining. He had got

suddenly worse, and Falconer hastened to obey the summons he had

sent him in consequence.

With a heavy heart he walked up to the hospitable door, recalling as

he ascended the steps how he had stood there a helpless youth, in

want of a few pounds to save his hopes, when this friend received

him and bid him God-speed on the path he desired to follow. In a

moment more he was shown into the study, and was passing through it

to go to the cottage-room, when Johnston laid his hand on his arm.

'The maister's no up yet, sir,' he said, with a very solemn look.

'He's been desperate efter seein' ye, and I maun gang an' lat him

ken 'at ye're here at last, for fear it suld be ower muckle for him,

seein' ye a' at ance. But eh, sir!' he added, the tears gathering

in his eyes, 'ye'll hardly ken 'im. He's that changed!'

Johnston left the study by the door to the cottage--Falconer had

never known the doctor sleep there--and returning a moment after,

invited him to enter. In the bed in the recess--the room unchanged,

with its deal table, and its sanded floor--lay the form of his

friend. Falconer hastened to the bedside, kneeled down, and took

his hand speechless. The doctor was silent too, but a smile

overspread his countenance, and revealed his inward satisfaction.

Robert's heart was full, and he could only gaze on the worn face.

At length he was able to speak.

'What for didna ye sen' for me?' he said. 'Ye never tellt me ye was

ailin'.'

'Because you were doing good, Robert, my boy; and I who had done so

little had no right to interrupt what you were doing. I wonder if

God will give me another chance. I would fain do better. I don't

think I could sit singing psalms to all eternity,' he added with a

smile.

'Whatever good I may do afore my turn comes, I hae you to thank for

't. Eh, doctor, gin it hadna been for you!'

Robert's feelings overcame him. He resumed, brokenly,

'Ye gae me a man to believe in, whan my ain father had forsaken me,

and my frien' was awa to God. Ye hae made me, doctor. Wi' meat an'

drink an' learnin' an' siller, an' a'thing at ance, ye hae made me.'

'Eh, Robert!' said the dying man, half rising on his elbow, 'to

think what God maks us a' to ane anither! My father did ten times

for me what I hae dune for you. As I lie here thinkin' I may see

him afore a week's ower, I'm jist a bairn again.'

As he spoke, the polish of his speech was gone, and the social

refinement of his countenance with it. The face of his ancestors,

the noble, sensitive, heart-full, but rugged, bucolic, and

weather-beaten through centuries of windy ploughing, hail-stormed

sheep-keeping, long-paced seed-sowing, and multiform labour, surely

not less honourable in the sight of the working God than the

fighting of the noble, came back in the face of the dying physician.

>From that hour to his death he spoke the rugged dialect of his

fathers.

A day or two after this, Robert again sitting by his bedside,

'I dinna ken,' he said, 'whether it's richt--but I hae nae fear o'

deith, an' yet I canna say I'm sure aboot onything. I hae seen mony

a ane dee that cud hae no faith i' the Saviour; but I never saw that

fear that some gude fowk wud hae ye believe maun come at the last.

I wadna like to tak to ony papistry; but I never cud mak oot frae

the Bible--and I read mair at it i' the jungle than maybe ye wad

think--that it's a' ower wi' a body at their deith. I never heard

them bring foret ony text but ane--the maist ridiculous hash 'at

ever ye heard--to justifee 't.'

'I ken the text ye mean--"As the tree falleth so it shall lie," or

something like that--'at they say King Solomon wrote, though better

scholars say his tree had fa'en mony a lang year afore that text saw

the licht. I dinna believe sic a thocht was i' the man's heid when

he wrote it. It is as ye say--ower contemptible to ca' an argument.

I'll read it to ye ance mair.'

Robert got his Bible, and read the following portion from that

wonderful book, so little understood, because it is so full of

wisdom--the Book of Ecclesiastes:--

'Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it after many

days.

'Give a portion to seven, and also to eight; for thou knowest not

what evil shall be upon the earth.

'If the clouds be full of rain, they empty themselves upon the

earth: and if the tree fall toward the south, or toward the north,

in the place where the tree falleth, there it shall be.

'He that observeth the wind shall not sow; and he that regardeth the

clouds shall not reap.

'As thou knowest not what is the way of the spirit, nor how the

bones do grow in the womb of her that is with child: even so thou

knowest not the works of God who maketh all.

'In the morning sow thy seed, and in the evening withhold not thine

hand: for thou knowest not whether shall prosper, either this or

that, or whether they both shall be alike good.'

'Ay, ay; that's it,' said Dr. Anderson. 'Weel, I maun say again that

they're ill aff for an argument that taks that for ane upo' sic a

momentous subjec'. I prefer to say, wi' the same auld man, that I

know not the works of God who maketh all. But I wish I could say I

believed onything for certain sure. But whan I think aboot it--wad

ye believe 't? the faith o' my father's mair to me nor ony faith o'

my ain. That soonds strange. But it's this: I'm positeeve that

that godly great auld man kent mair aboot a' thae things--I cud see

't i' the face o' 'm--nor ony ither man 'at ever I kent. An' it's

no by comparison only. I'm sure he did ken. There was something

atween God and him. An' I think he wasna likely to be wrang; an'

sae I tak courage to believe as muckle as I can, though maybe no sae

muckle as I fain wad.'

Robert, who from experience of himself, and the observations he had

made by the bedsides of not a few dying men and women, knew well

that nothing but the truth itself can carry its own conviction; that

the words of our Lord are a body as it were in which the spirit of

our Lord dwells, or rather the key to open the heart for the

entrance of that spirit, turned now from all argumentation to the

words of Jesus. He himself had said of them, 'They are spirit and

they are life;' and what folly to buttress life and spirit with

other powers than their own! From that day to the last, as often

and as long as the dying man was able to listen to him, he read from

the glad news just the words of the Lord. As he read thus, one

fading afternoon, the doctor broke out with,

'Eh, Robert, the patience o' him! He didna quench the smokin' flax.

There's little fire aboot me, but surely I ken in my ain hert some

o' the risin' smoke o' the sacrifice. Eh! sic words as they are!

An' he was gaein' doon to the grave himsel', no half my age, as

peacefu', though the road was sae rouch, as gin he had been gaein'

hame till 's father.'

'Sae he was,' returned Robert.

'Ay; but here am I lyin' upo' my bed, slippin' easy awa. An' there

was he--'

The old man ceased. The sacred story was too sacred for speech.

Robert sat with the New Testament open before him on the bed.

'The mair the words o' Jesus come into me,' the doctor began again,

'the surer I am o' seein' my auld Brahmin frien', Robert. It's true

I thought his religion not only began but ended inside him. It was

a' a booin' doon afore and an aspirin' up into the bosom o' the

infinite God. I dinna mean to say 'at he wasna honourable to them

aboot him. And I never saw in him muckle o' that pride to the lave

(rest) that belangs to the Brahmin. It was raither a stately

kin'ness than that condescension which is the vice o' Christians.

But he had naething to do wi' them. The first comman'ment was a'

he kent. He loved God--nae a God like Jesus Christ, but the God he

kent--and that was a' he could. The second comman'ment--that

glorious recognition o' the divine in humanity makin' 't fit and

needfu' to be loved, that claim o' God upon and for his ain bairns,

that love o' the neebour as yer'sel--he didna ken. Still there was

religion in him; and he who died for the sins o' the whole world has

surely been revealed to him lang er' noo, and throu the knowledge o'

him, he noo dwalls in that God efter whom he aspired.'

Here was the outcome of many talks which Robert and the doctor had

had together, as they laboured amongst the poor.

'Did ye never try,' Robert asked, 'to lat him ken aboot the comin'

o' God to his world in Jesus Christ?'

'I couldna do muckle that way honestly, my ain faith was sae poor

and sma'. But I tellt him what Christians believed. I tellt him

aboot the character and history o' Christ. But it didna seem to tak

muckle hauld o' him. It wasna interesstin' till him. Just ance

whan I tellt him some things he had said aboot his relation to

God--sic as, "I and my Father are one,"--and aboot the relation o'

a' his disciples to God and himsel'--"I in them, and thou in me,

that they may be made perfect in one," he said, wi' a smile, "The

man was a good Brahmin."

'It's little,' said Robert, 'the one great commandment can do

withoot the other. It's little we can ken what God to love, or hoo

to love him, withoot "thy neighbour as thyself." Ony ane o' them

withoot the ither stan's like the ae factor o' a multiplication, or

ae wing upo' a laverock (lark).'

Towards the close of the week, he grew much feebler. Falconer

scarcely left his room. He woke one midnight, and murmured as

follows, with many pauses for breath and strength:

'Robert, my time's near, I'm thinkin'; for, wakin' an' sleepin', I'm

a bairn again. I can hardly believe whiles 'at my father hasna a

grup o' my han'. A meenute ago I was traivellin' throu a terrible

driftin' o' snaw--eh, hoo it whustled and sang! and the cauld o' 't

was stingin'; but my father had a grup o' me, an' I jist despised

it, an' was stampin' 't doon wi' my wee bit feet, for I was like

saven year auld or thereaboots. An' syne I thocht I heard my mither

singin', and kent by that that the ither was a dream. I'm thinkin'

a hantle 'ill luik dreamy afore lang. Eh! I wonner what the final

waukin' 'ill be like.'

After a pause he resumed,

'Robert, my dear boy, ye're i' the richt gait. Haud on an' lat

naething turn ye aside. Man, it's a great comfort to me to think

that ye're my ain flesh and blude, an' nae that far aff. My father

an' your great-gran'father upo' the gran'mither's side war ain

brithers. I wonner hoo far doon it wad gang. Ye're the only ane

upo' my father's side, you and yer father, gin he be alive, that I

hae sib to me. My will's i' the bottom drawer upo' the left han' i'

my writin' table i' the leebrary:--I hae left ye ilka plack 'at I

possess. Only there's ae thing that I want ye to do. First o' a',

ye maun gang on as yer doin' in London for ten year mair. Gin

deein' men hae ony o' that foresicht that's been attreebuted to them

in a' ages, it's borne in upo' me that ye wull see yer father again.

At a' events, ye'll be helpin' some ill-faured sowls to a clean

face and a bonny. But gin ye dinna fa' in wi' yer father within ten

year, ye maun behaud a wee, an' jist pack up yer box, an' gang awa'

ower the sea to Calcutta, an' du what I hae tellt ye to do i' that

wull. I bind ye by nae promise, Robert, an' I winna hae nane.

Things micht happen to put ye in a terrible difficulty wi' a

promise. I'm only tellin' ye what I wad like. Especially gin ye

hae fund yer father, ye maun gang by yer ain jeedgment aboot it, for

there 'll be a hantle to do wi' him efter ye hae gotten a grup o'

'im. An' noo, I maun lie still, an' maybe sleep again, for I hae

spoken ower muckle.'

Hoping that he would sleep and wake yet again, Robert sat still.

After an hour, he looked, and saw that, although hitherto much

oppressed, he was now breathing like a child. There was no sign

save of past suffering: his countenance was peaceful as if he had

already entered into his rest. Robert withdrew, and again seated

himself. And the great universe became to him as a bird brooding

over the breaking shell of the dying man.

On either hand we behold a birth, of which, as of the moon, we see

but half. We are outside the one, waiting for a life from the

unknown; we are inside the other, watching the departure of a spirit

from the womb of the world into the unknown. To the region whither

he goes, the man enters newly born. We forget that it is a birth,

and call it a death. The body he leaves behind is but the placenta

by which he drew his nourishment from his mother Earth. And as the

child-bed is watched on earth with anxious expectancy, so the couch

of the dying, as we call them, may be surrounded by the

birth-watchers of the other world, waiting like anxious servants to

open the door to which this world is but the wind-blown porch.

Extremes meet. As a man draws nigh to his second birth, his heart

looks back to his childhood. When Dr. Anderson knew that he was

dying, he retired into the simulacrum of his father's benn end.

As Falconer sat thinking, the doctor spoke. They were low, faint,

murmurous sounds, for the lips were nearly at rest. Wanted no more

for utterance, they were going back to the holy dust, which is God's

yet.

'Father, father!' he cried quickly, in the tone and speech of a

Scotch laddie, 'I'm gaein' doon. Haud a grup o' my han'.'

When Robert hurried to the bedside, he found that the last breath

had gone in the words. The thin right hand lay partly closed, as if

it had been grasping a larger hand. On the face lay confidence just

ruffled with apprehension: the latter melted away, and nothing

remained but that awful and beautiful peace which is the farewell of

the soul to its servant.

Robert knelt and thanked God for the noble man.

CHAPTER V.

A TALK WITH GRANNIE.

Dr. Anderson's body was, according to the fine custom of many of the

people of Aberdeen, borne to the grave by twelve stalwart men in

black, with broad round bonnets on their heads, the one-half

relieving the other--a privilege of the company of shore-porters.

Their exequies are thus freed from the artificial, grotesque, and

pagan horror given by obscene mutes, frightful hearse, horses, and

feathers. As soon as, in the beautiful phrase of the Old Testament,

John Anderson was thus gathered to his fathers, Robert went to pay a

visit to his grandmother.

Dressed to a point in the same costume in which he had known her

from childhood, he found her little altered in appearance. She was

one of those who instead of stooping with age, settle downwards: she

was still as erect as ever, though shorter. Her step was feebler,

and when she prayed, her voice quavered more. On her face sat the

same settled, almost hard repose, as ever; but her behaviour was

still more gentle than when he had seen her last. Notwithstanding,

however, that time had wrought so little change in her appearance,

Robert felt that somehow the mist of a separation between her world

and his was gathering; that she was, as it were, fading from his

sight and presence, like the moon towards 'her interlunar cave.'

Her face was gradually turning from him towards the land of light.

'I hae buried my best frien' but yersel', grannie,' he said, as he

took a chair close by her side, where he used to sit when he read

the Bible and Boston to her.

'I trust he's happy. He was a douce and a weel-behaved man; and ye

hae rizzon to respec' his memory. Did he dee the deith o' the

richteous, think ye, laddie?'

'I do think that, grannie. He loved God and his Saviour.'

'The Lord be praised!' said Mrs. Falconer. 'I had guid houps o' 'im

in 's latter days. And fowk says he's made a rich man o' ye,

Robert?'

'He's left me ilka thing, excep' something till 's servan's--wha hae

weel deserved it.'

'Eh, Robert! but it's a terrible snare. Siller 's an awfu' thing.

My puir Anerew never begud to gang the ill gait, till he began to

hae ower muckle siller. But it badena lang wi' 'im.'

'But it's no an ill thing itsel', grannie; for God made siller as

weel 's ither things.'

'He thinksna muckle o' 't, though, or he wad gie mair o' 't to some

fowk. But as ye say, it's his, and gin ye hae grace to use 't

aricht, it may be made a great blessin' to yersel' and ither fowk.

But eh, laddie! tak guid tent 'at ye ride upo' the tap o' 't, an'

no lat it rise like a muckle jaw (billow) ower yer heid; for it's an

awfu' thing to be droont in riches.'

'Them 'at prays no to be led into temptation hae a chance--haena

they, grannie?'

'That hae they, Robert. And to be plain wi' ye, I haena that muckle

fear o' ye; for I hae heard the kin' o' life 'at ye hae been

leadin'. God's hearkent to my prayers for you; and gin ye gang on

as ye hae begun, my prayers, like them o' David the son o' Jesse,

are endit. Gang on, my dear lad, gang on to pluck brands frae the

burnin'. Haud oot a helpin' han' to ilka son and dauchter o' Adam

'at will tak a grip o' 't. Be a burnin' an' a shinin' licht, that

men may praise, no you, for ye're but clay i' the han's o' the

potter, but yer Father in heaven. Tak the drunkard frae his whusky,

the deboshed frae his debosh, the sweirer frae his aiths, the leear

frae his lees; and giena ony o' them ower muckle o' yer siller at

ance, for fear 'at they grow fat an' kick an' defy God and you.

That's my advice to ye, Robert.'

'And I houp I'll be able to haud gey and near till 't, grannie, for

it's o' the best. But wha tellt ye what I was aboot in Lonnon?'

'Himsel'.'

'Dr. Anderson?'

'Ay, jist himsel'. I hae had letter upo' letter frae 'im aboot you

and a' 'at ye was aboot. He keepit me acquant wi' 't a'.'

This fresh proof of his friend's affection touched Robert deeply.

He had himself written often to his grandmother, but he had never

entered into any detail of his doings, although the thought of her

was ever at hand beside the thought of his father.

'Do ye ken, grannie, what's at the hert o' my houps i' the meesery

an' degradation that I see frae mornin' to nicht, and aftener yet

frae nicht to mornin' i' the back closes and wynds o' the great

city?'

'I trust it's the glory o' God, laddie.'

'I houp that's no a'thegither wantin', grannie. For I love God wi'

a' my hert. But I doobt it's aftener the savin' o' my earthly

father nor the glory o' my heavenly ane that I'm thinkin' o'.'

Mrs. Falconer heaved a deep sigh.

'God grant ye success, Robert,' she said. 'But that canna be richt.'

'What canna be richt?'

'No to put the glory o' God first and foremost.'

'Weel, grannie; but a body canna rise to the heicht o' grace a' at

ance, nor yet in ten, or twenty year. Maybe gin I do richt, I may

be able to come to that or a' be dune. An' efter a', I'm sure I

love God mair nor my father. But I canna help thinkin' this, that

gin God heardna ae sang o' glory frae this ill-doin' earth o' his,

he wadna be nane the waur; but--'

'Hoo ken ye that?' interrupted his grandmother.

'Because he wad be as gude and great and grand as ever.'

'Ow ay.'

'But what wad come o' my father wantin' his salvation? He can waur

want that, remainin' the slave o' iniquity, than God can want his

glory. Forby, ye ken there's nae glory to God like the repentin' o'

a sinner, justifeein' God, an' sayin' till him--"Father, ye're a'

richt, an' I'm a' wrang." What greater glory can God hae nor that?'

'It's a' true 'at ye say. But still gin God cares for that same

glory, ye oucht to think o' that first, afore even the salvation o'

yer father.'

'Maybe ye're richt, grannie. An' gin it be as ye say--he's promised

to lead us into a' trowth, an' he'll lead me into that trowth. But

I'm thinkin' it's mair for oor sakes than his ain 'at he cares aboot

his glory. I dinna believe 'at he thinks aboot his glory excep' for

the sake o' the trowth an' men's herts deein' for want o' 't.'

Mrs. Falconer thought for a moment.

'It may be 'at ye're richt, laddie; but ye hae a way o' sayin'

things 'at 's some fearsome.'

'God's nae like a prood man to tak offence, grannie. There's

naething pleases him like the trowth, an' there's naething

displeases him like leein', particularly whan it's by way o'

uphaudin' him. He wants nae sic uphaudin'. Noo, ye say things

aboot him whiles 'at soun's to me fearsome.'

'What kin' o' things are they, laddie?' asked the old lady, with

offence glooming in the background.

'Sic like as whan ye speyk aboot him as gin he was a puir prood

bailey-like body, fu' o' his ain importance, an' ready to be doon

upo' onybody 'at didna ca' him by the name o' 's office--ay

think-thinkin' aboot 's ain glory; in place o' the quaiet, michty,

gran', self-forgettin', a'-creatin', a'-uphaudin', eternal bein',

wha took the form o' man in Christ Jesus, jist that he micht hae 't

in 's pooer to beir and be humblet for oor sakes. Eh, grannie!

think o' the face o' that man o' sorrows, that never said a hard

word till a sinfu' wuman, or a despised publican: was he thinkin'

aboot 's ain glory, think ye? An' we hae no richt to say we ken God

save in the face o' Christ Jesus. Whatever 's no like Christ is no

like God.'

'But, laddie, he cam to saitisfee God's justice by sufferin' the

punishment due to oor sins; to turn aside his wrath an' curse; to

reconcile him to us. Sae he cudna be a'thegither like God.'

'He did naething o' the kin', grannie. It's a' a lee that. He cam

to saitisfee God's justice by giein' him back his bairns; by garrin'

them see that God was just; by sendin' them greetin' hame to fa' at

his feet, an' grip his knees an' say, "Father, ye're i' the richt."

He cam to lift the weicht o' the sins that God had curst aff o' the

shoothers o' them 'at did them, by makin' them turn agen them, an'

be for God an' no for sin. And there isna a word o' reconceelin'

God till 's in a' the Testament, for there was no need o' that: it

was us that he needed to be reconcilet to him. An' sae he bore oor

sins and carried oor sorrows; for those sins comin' oot in the

multitudes--ay and in his ain disciples as weel, caused him no en'

o' grief o' mind an' pain o' body, as a'body kens. It wasna his ain

sins, for he had nane, but oors, that caused him sufferin'; and he

took them awa'--they're vainishin' even noo frae the earth, though

it doesna luik like it in Rag-fair or Petticoat-lane. An' for oor

sorrows--they jist garred him greit. His richteousness jist

annihilates oor guilt, for it's a great gulf that swallows up and

destroys 't. And sae he gae his life a ransom for us: and he is the

life o' the world. He took oor sins upo' him, for he cam into the

middle o' them an' took them up--by no sleicht o' han', by no

quibblin' o' the lawyers, aboot imputin' his richteousness to us,

and sic like, which is no to be found i' the Bible at a', though I

dinna say that there's no possible meanin' i' the phrase, but he

took them and took them awa'; and here am I, grannie, growin' oot o'

my sins in consequennce, and there are ye, grannie, growin' oot o'

yours in consequennce, an' haein' nearhan' dune wi' them a'thegither

er this time.'

'I wis that may be true, laddie. But I carena hoo ye put it,'

returned his grandmother, bewildered no doubt with this outburst,

'sae be that ye put him first an' last an' i' the mids' o' a' thing,

an' say wi' a' yer hert, "His will be dune!"'

'Wi' a' my hert, "His will be dune," grannie,' responded Robert.

'Amen, amen. And noo, laddie, duv ye think there's ony likliheid

that yer father 's still i' the body? I dream aboot him whiles sae

lifelike that I canna believe him deid. But that's a' freits

(superstitions).'

'Weel, grannie, I haena the least assurance. But I hae the mair

houp. Wad ye ken him gin ye saw him?'

'Ken him!' she cried; 'I wad ken him gin he had been no to say four,

but forty days i' the sepulchre! My ain Anerew! Hoo cud ye speir

sic a queston, laddie?'

'He maun be sair changed, grannie. He maun be turnin' auld by this

time.'

'Auld! Sic like 's yersel, laddie.--Hoots, hoots! ye're richt. I

am forgettin'. But nanetheless wad I ken him.'

'I wis I kent what he was like. I saw him ance--hardly twise, but

a' that I min' upo' wad stan' me in ill stead amo' the streets o'

Lonnon.'

'I doobt that,' returned Mrs. Falconer--a form of expression rather

oddly indicating sympathetic and somewhat regretful agreement with

what has been said. 'But,' she went on, 'I can lat ye see a pictur'

o' 'im, though I doobt it winna shaw sae muckle to you as to me. He

had it paintit to gie to yer mother upo' their weddin' day. Och

hone! She did the like for him; but what cam o' that ane, I dinna

ken.'

Mrs. Falconer went into the little closet to the old bureau, and

bringing out the miniature, gave it to Robert. It was the portrait

of a young man in antiquated blue coat and white waistcoat, looking

innocent, and, it must be confessed, dull and uninteresting. It had

been painted by a travelling artist, and probably his skill did not

reach to expression. It brought to Robert's mind no faintest shadow

of recollection. It did not correspond in the smallest degree to

what seemed his vague memory, perhaps half imagination, of the tall

worn man whom he had seen that Sunday. He could not have a hope

that this would give him the slightest aid in finding him of whom it

had once been a shadowy resemblance at least.

'Is 't like him, grannie?' he asked.

As if to satisfy herself once more ere she replied, she took the

miniature, and gazed at it for some time. Then with a deep hopeless

sigh, she answered,

'Ay, it's like him; but it's no himsel'. Eh, the bonny broo, an'

the smilin' een o' him!--smilin' upon a'body, an' upo' her maist o'

a', till he took to the drink, and waur gin waur can be. It was a'

siller an' company--company 'at cudna be merry ohn drunken. Verity

their lauchter was like the cracklin' o' thorns aneath a pot. Het

watter and whusky was aye the cry efter their denner an' efter their

supper, till my puir Anerew tuik till the bare whusky i' the mornin'

to fill the ebb o' the toddy. He wad never hae dune as he did but

for the whusky. It jist drave oot a' gude and loot in a' ill.'

'Wull ye lat me tak this wi' me, grannie?' said Robert; for though

the portrait was useless for identification, it might serve a

further purpose.

'Ow, ay, tak it. I dinna want it. I can see him weel wantin' that.

But I hae nae houp left 'at ye'll ever fa' in wi' him.'

'God's aye doin' unlikly things, grannie,' said Robert, solemnly.

'He's dune a' 'at he can for him, I doobt, already.'

'Duv ye think 'at God cudna save a man gin he liket, than, grannie?'

'God can do a'thing. There's nae doobt but by the gift o' his

speerit he cud save a'body.'

'An' ye think he's no mercifu' eneuch to do 't?'

'It winna do to meddle wi' fowk's free wull. To gar fowk he gude

wad be nae gudeness.'

'But gin God could actually create the free wull, dinna ye think he

cud help it to gang richt, withoot ony garrin'? We ken sae little

aboot it, grannie! Hoo does his speerit help onybody? Does he gar

them 'at accep's the offer o' salvation?'

'Na, I canna think that. But he shaws them the trowth in sic a way

that they jist canna bide themsel's, but maun turn to him for verra

peace an' rist.'

'Weel, that's something as I think. An' until I'm sure that a man

has had the trowth shawn till him in sic a way 's that, I canna

alloo mysel' to think that hooever he may hae sinned, he has finally

rejeckit the trowth. Gin I kent that a man had seen the trowth as I

hae seen 't whiles, and had deleeberately turned his back upo' 't

and said, "I'll nane o' 't," than I doobt I wad be maist compelled

to alloo that there was nae mair salvation for him, but a certain

and fearfu' luikin' for o' judgment and fiery indignation. But I

dinna believe that ever man did sae. But even than, I dinna ken.'

'I did a' for him that I kent hoo to do,' said Mrs. Falconer,

reflectingly. 'Nicht an' mornin' an' aften midday prayin' for an'

wi' him.'

'Maybe ye scunnert him at it, grannie.'

She gave a stifled cry of despair.

'Dinna say that, laddie, or ye'll drive me oot o' my min'. God

forgie me, gin that be true. I deserve hell mair nor my Anerew.'

'But, ye see, grannie, supposin' it war sae, that wadna be laid to

your accoont, seein' ye did the best ye kent. Nor wad it be

forgotten to him. It wad mak a hantle difference to his sin; it wad

be a great excuse for him. An' jist think, gin it be fair for ae

human being to influence anither a' 'at they can, and that's nae

interferin' wi' their free wull--it's impossible to measure what God

cud do wi' his speerit winnin' at them frae a' sides, and able to

put sic thouchts an' sic pictures into them as we canna think. It

wad a' be true that he tellt them, and the trowth can never be a

meddlin' wi' the free wull.'

Mrs. Falconer made no reply, but evidently went on thinking.

She was, though not a great reader, yet a good reader. Any book

that was devout and thoughtful she read gladly. Through some one or

other of this sort she must have been instructed concerning free

will, for I do not think such notions could have formed any portion

of the religious teaching she had heard. Men in that part of

Scotland then believed that the free will of man was only exercised

in rejecting--never in accepting the truth; and that men were saved

by the gift of the Spirit, given to some and not to others,

according to the free will of God, in the exercise of which no

reason appreciable by men, or having anything to do with their

notions of love or justice, had any share. In the recognition of

will and choice in the acceptance of the mercy of God, Mrs. Falconer

was then in advance of her time. And it is no wonder if her notions

did not all hang logically together.

'At ony rate, grannie,' resumed her grandson, 'I haena dune a' for

him 'at I can yet; and I'm no gaein' to believe onything that wad

mak me remiss in my endeavour. Houp for mysel', for my father, for

a'body, is what's savin' me, an' garrin' me work. An' gin ye tell

me that I'm no workin' wi' God, that God's no the best an' the

greatest worker aboon a', ye tak the verra hert oot o' my breist,

and I dinna believe in God nae mair, an' my han's drap doon by my

sides, an' my legs winna gang. No,' said Robert, rising, 'God 'ill

gie me my father sometime, grannie; for what man can do wantin' a

father? Human bein' canna win at the hert o' things, canna ken a'

the oots an' ins, a' the sides o' love, excep' he has a father amo'

the lave to love; an' I hae had nane, grannie. An' that God kens.'

She made him no answer. She dared not say that he expected too much

from God. Is it likely that Jesus will say so of any man or woman

when he looks for faith in the earth?

Robert went out to see some of his old friends, and when he returned

it was time for supper and worship. These were the same as of old:

a plate of porridge, and a wooden bowl of milk for the former; a

chapter and a hymn, both read, and a prayer from grannie, and then

from Robert for the latter. And so they went to bed.

But Robert could not sleep. He rose and dressed himself, went up to

the empty garret, looked at the stars through the skylight, knelt

and prayed for his father and for all men to the Father of all, then

softly descended the stairs, and went out into the street.

CHAPTER VI.

SHARGAR'S MOTHER.

It was a warm still night in July--moonless but not dark. There is

no night there in the summer--only a long ethereal twilight. He

walked through the sleeping town so full of memories, all quiet in

his mind now--quiet as the air that ever broods over the house where

a friend has dwelt. He left the town behind, and walked--through

the odours of grass and of clover and of the yellow flowers on the

old earthwalls that divided the fields--sweet scents to which the

darkness is friendly, and which, mingling with the smell of the

earth itself, reach the founts of memory sooner than even words or

tones--down to the brink of the river that flowed scarcely murmuring

through the night, itself dark and brown as the night from its

far-off birthplace in the peaty hills. He crossed the footbridge

and turned into the bleachfield. Its houses were desolate, for that

trade too had died away. The machinery stood rotting and rusting.

The wheel gave no answering motion to the flow of the water that

glided away beneath it. The thundering beatles were still. The

huge legs of the wauk-mill took no more seven-leagued strides

nowhither. The rubbing-boards with their thickly-fluted surfaces no

longer frothed the soap from every side, tormenting the web of linen

into a brightness to gladden the heart of the housewife whose hands

had spun the yarn. The terrible boiler that used to send up from

its depths bubbling and boiling spouts and peaks and ridges, lay

empty and cold. The little house behind, where its awful furnace

used to glow, and which the pungent chlorine used to fill with its

fumes, stood open to the wind and the rain: he could see the slow

river through its unglazed window beyond. The water still went

slipping and sliding through the deserted places, a power whose use

had departed. The canal, the delight of his childhood, was nearly

choked with weeds; it went flowing over long grasses that drooped

into it from its edges, giving a faint gurgle once and again in its

flow, as if it feared to speak in the presence of the stars, and

escaped silently into the river far below. The grass was no longer

mown like a lawn, but was long and deep and thick. He climbed to

the place where he had once lain and listened to the sounds of the

belt of fir-trees behind him, hearing the voice of Nature that

whispered God in his ears, and there he threw himself down once

more. All the old things, the old ways, the old glories of

childhood--were they gone? No. Over them all, in them all, was God

still. There is no past with him. An eternal present, He filled

his soul and all that his soul had ever filled. His history was

taken up into God: it had not vanished: his life was hid with Christ

in God. To the God of the human heart nothing that has ever been a

joy, a grief, a passing interest, can ever cease to be what it has

been; there is no fading at the breath of time, no passing away of

fashion, no dimming of old memories in the heart of him whose being

creates time. Falconer's heart rose up to him as to his own deeper

life, his indwelling deepest spirit--above and beyond him as the

heavens are above and beyond the earth, and yet nearer and homelier

than his own most familiar thought. 'As the light fills the earth,'

thought he, 'so God fills what we call life. My sorrows, O God, my

hopes, my joys, the upliftings of my life are with thee, my root, my

life. Thy comfortings, my perfect God, are strength indeed!'

He rose and looked around him. While he lay, the waning, fading

moon had risen, weak and bleared and dull. She brightened and

brightened until at last she lighted up the night with a wan,

forgetful gleam. 'So should I feel,' he thought, 'about the past on

which I am now gazing, were it not that I believe in the God who

forgets nothing. That which has been, is.' His eye fell on

something bright in the field beyond. He would see what it was, and

crossed the earthen dyke. It shone like a little moon in the grass.

By humouring the reflection he reached it. It was only a cutting

of white iron, left by some tinker. He walked on over the field,

thinking of Shargar's mother. If he could but find her! He walked

on and on. He had no inclination to go home. The solitariness of

the night, the uncanniness of the moon, prevents most people from

wandering far: Robert had learned long ago to love the night, and to

feel at home with every aspect of God's world. How this peace

contrasted with the nights in London streets! this grass with the

dark flow of the Thames! these hills and those clouds half melted

into moonlight with the lanes blazing with gas! He thought of the

child who, taken from London for the first time, sent home the

message: 'Tell mother that it's dark in the country at night.' Then

his thoughts turned again to Shargar's mother! Was it not possible,

being a wanderer far and wide, that she might be now in Rothieden?

Such people have a love for their old haunts, stronger than that of

orderly members of society for their old homes. He turned back, and

did not know where he was. But the lines of the hill-tops directed

him. He hastened to the town, and went straight through the

sleeping streets to the back wynd where he had found Shargar sitting

on the doorstep. Could he believe his eyes? A feeble light was

burning in the shed. Some other poverty-stricken bird of the night,

however, might be there, and not she who could perhaps guide him to

the goal of his earthly life. He drew near, and peeped in at the

broken window. A heap of something lay in a corner, watched only by

a long-snuffed candle.

The heap moved, and a voice called out querulously,

'Is that you, Shargar, ye shochlin deevil?'

Falconer's heart leaped. He hesitated no longer, but lifted the

latch and entered. He took up the candle, snuffed it as he best

could, and approached the woman. When the light fell on her face

she sat up, staring wildly with eyes that shunned and sought it.

'Wha are ye that winna lat me dee in peace and quaietness?'

'I'm Robert Falconer.'

'Come to speir efter yer ne'er-do-weel o' a father, I reckon,' she

said.

'Yes,' he answered.

'Wha's that ahin' ye?'

'Naebody's ahin' me,' answered Robert.

'Dinna lee. Wha's that ahin' the door?'

'Naebody. I never tell lees.'

'Whaur's Shargar? What for doesna he come till 's mither?'

'He's hynd awa' ower the seas--a captain o' sodgers.'

'It's a lee. He's an ill-faured scoonrel no to come till 's mither

an' bid her gude-bye, an' her gaein' to hell.'

'Gin ye speir at Christ, he'll tak ye oot o' the verra mou' o' hell,

wuman.'

'Christ! wha's that? Ow, ay! It's him 'at they preach aboot i' the

kirks. Na, na. There's nae gude o' that. There's nae time to

repent noo. I doobt sic repentance as mine wadna gang for muckle

wi' the likes o' him.'

'The likes o' him 's no to be gotten. He cam to save the likes o'

you an' me.'

'The likes o' you an' me! said ye, laddie? There's no like atween

you and me. He'll hae naething to say to me, but gang to hell wi'

ye for a bitch.'

'He never said sic a word in 's life. He wad say, "Poor thing! she

was ill-used. Ye maunna sin ony mair. Come, and I'll help ye." He

wad say something like that. He'll save a body whan she wadna think

it.'

'An' I hae gien my bonnie bairn to the deevil wi' my ain han's!

She'll come to hell efter me to girn at me, an' set them on me wi'

their reid het taings, and curse me. Och hone! och hone!'

'Hearken to me,' said Falconer, with as much authority as he could

assume. But she rolled herself over again in the corner, and lay

groaning.

'Tell me whaur she is,' said Falconer, 'and I'll tak her oot o'

their grup, whaever they be.'

She sat up again, and stared at him for a few moments without

speaking.

'I left her wi' a wuman waur nor mysel',' she said at length. 'God

forgie me.'

'He will forgie ye, gin ye tell me whaur she is.'

'Do ye think he will? Eh, Maister Faukner! The wuman bides in a

coort off o' Clare Market. I dinna min' upo' the name o' 't, though

I cud gang till 't wi' my een steekit. Her name's Widow Walker--an

auld rowdie--damn her sowl!'

'Na, na, ye maunna say that gin ye want to be forgien yersel'. I'll

fin' her oot. An' I'm thinkin' it winna be lang or I hae a grup o'

her. I'm gaein' back to Lonnon in twa days or three.'

'Dinna gang till I'm deid. Bide an' haud the deevil aff o' me. He

has a grup o' my hert noo, rivin' at it wi' his lang nails--as lang

's birds' nebs.'

'I'll bide wi' ye till we see what can be dune for ye. What's the

maitter wi' ye? I'm a doctor noo.'

There was not a chair or box or stool on which to sit down. He

therefore kneeled beside her. He felt her pulse, questioned her,

and learned that she had long been suffering from an internal

complaint, which had within the last week grown rapidly worse. He

saw that there was no hope of her recovery, but while she lived he

gave himself to her service as to that of a living soul capable of

justice and love. The night was more than warm, but she had fits of

shivering. He wrapped his coat round her, and wiped from the poor

degraded face the damps of suffering. The woman-heart was alive

still, for she took the hand that ministered to her and kissed it

with a moan. When the morning came she fell asleep. He crept out

and went to his grandmother's, where he roused Betty, and asked her

to get him some peat and coals. Finding his grandmother awake, he

told her all, and taking the coals and the peat, carried them to the

hut, where he managed, with some difficulty, to light a fire on the

hearth; after which he sat on the doorstep till Betty appeared with

two men carrying a mattress and some bedding. The noise they made

awoke her.

'Dinna tak me,' she cried. 'I winna do 't again, an' I'm deein', I

tell ye I'm deein', and that'll clear a' scores--o' this side ony

gait,' she added.

They lifted her upon the mattress, and made her more comfortable

than perhaps she had ever been in her life. But it was only her

illness that made her capable of prizing such comfort. In health,

the heather on a hill-side was far more to her taste than bed and

blankets. She had a wild, roving, savage nature, and the wind was

dearer to her than house-walls. She had come of ancestors--and it

was a poor little atom of truth that a soul bred like this woman

could have been born capable of entertaining. But she too was

eternal--and surely not to be fixed for ever in a bewilderment of

sin and ignorance--a wild-eyed soul staring about in hell-fire for

want of something it could not understand and had never beheld--by

the changeless mandate of the God of love! She was in less pain

than during the night, and lay quietly gazing at the fire. Things

awful to another would no doubt cross her memory without any

accompanying sense of dismay; tender things would return without

moving her heart; but Falconer had a hold of her now. Nothing could

be done for her body except to render its death as easy as might be;

but something might be done for herself. He made no attempt to

produce this or that condition of mind in the poor creature. He

never made such attempts. 'How can I tell the next lesson a soul is

capable of learning?' he would say. 'The Spirit of God is the

teacher. My part is to tell the good news. Let that work as it

ought, as it can, as it will.' He knew that pain is with some the

only harbinger that can prepare the way for the entrance of

kindness: it is not understood till then. In the lulls of her pain

he told her about the man Christ Jesus--what he did for the poor

creatures who came to him--how kindly he spoke to them--how he cured

them. He told her how gentle he was with the sinning women, how he

forgave them and told them to do so no more. He left the story

without comment to work that faith which alone can redeem from

selfishness and bring into contact with all that is living and

productive of life, for to believe in him is to lay hold of eternal

life: he is the Life--therefore the life of men. She gave him but

little encouragement: he did not need it, for he believed in the

Life. But her outcries were no longer accompanied with that fierce

and dreadful language in which she sought relief at first. He said

to himself, 'What matter if I see no sign? I am doing my part. Who

can tell, when the soul is free from the distress of the body, when

sights and sounds have vanished from her, and she is silent in the

eternal, with the terrible past behind her, and clear to her

consciousness, how the words I have spoken to her may yet live and

grow in her; how the kindness God has given me to show her may help

her to believe in the root of all kindness, in the everlasting love

of her Father in heaven? That she can feel at all is as sure a sign

of life as the adoration of an ecstatic saint.'

He had no difficulty now in getting from her what information she

could give him about his father. It seemed to him of the greatest

import, though it amounted only to this, that when he was in London,

he used to lodge at the house of an old Scotchwoman of the name of

Macallister, who lived in Paradise Gardens, somewhere between

Bethnal Green and Spitalfields. Whether he had been in London

lately, she did not know; but if anybody could tell him where he

was, it would be Mrs. Macallister.

His heart filled with gratitude and hope and the surging desire for

the renewal of his London labours. But he could not leave the dying

woman till she was beyond the reach of his comfort: he was her

keeper now. And 'he that believeth shall not make haste.' Labour

without perturbation, readiness without hurry, no haste, and no

hesitation, was the divine law of his activity.

Shargar's mother breathed her last holding his hand. They were

alone. He kneeled by the bed, and prayed to God, saying,

'Father, this woman is in thy hands. Take thou care of her, as thou

hast taken care of her hitherto. Let the light go up in her soul,

that she may love and trust thee, O light, O gladness. I thank thee

that thou hast blessed me with this ministration. Now lead me to my

father. Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for

ever and ever. Amen.'

He rose and went to his grandmother and told her all. She put her

arms round his neck, and kissed him, and said,

'God bless ye, my bonny lad. And he will bless ye. He will; he

will. Noo gang yer wa's, and do the wark he gies ye to do. Only

min', it's no you; it's him.'

The next morning, the sweet winds of his childhood wooing him to

remain yet a day among their fields, he sat on the top of the

Aberdeen coach, on his way back to the horrors of court and alley in

the terrible London.

CHAPTER VII.

THE SILK-WEAVER.

When he arrived he made it his first business to find 'Widow

Walker.' She was evidently one of the worst of her class; and could

it have been accomplished without scandal, and without interfering

with the quietness upon which he believed that the true effect of

his labours in a large measure depended, he would not have scrupled

simply to carry off the child. With much difficulty, for the woman

was suspicious, he contrived to see her, and was at once reminded of

the child he had seen in the cart on the occasion of Shargar's

recognition of his mother. He fancied he saw in her some

resemblance to his friend Shargar. The affair ended in his paying

the woman a hundred and fifty pounds to give up the girl. Within

six months she had drunk herself to death. He took little Nancy

Kennedy home with him, and gave her in charge to his housekeeper.

She cried a good deal at first, and wanted to go back to Mother

Walker, but he had no great trouble with her after a time. She

began to take a share in the house-work, and at length to wait upon

him. Then Falconer began to see that he must cultivate relations

with other people in order to enlarge his means of helping the poor.

He nowise abandoned his conviction that whatever good he sought to

do or lent himself to aid must be effected entirely by individual

influence. He had little faith in societies, regarding them chiefly

as a wretched substitute, just better than nothing, for that help

which the neighbour is to give to his neighbour. Finding how the

unbelief of the best of the poor is occasioned by hopelessness in

privation, and the sufferings of those dear to them, he was

confident that only the personal communion of friendship could make

it possible for them to believe in God. Christians must be in the

world as He was in the world; and in proportion as the truth

radiated from them, the world would be able to believe in Him. Money

he saw to be worse than useless, except as a gracious outcome of

human feelings and brotherly love. He always insisted that the

Saviour healed only those on whom his humanity had laid hold; that

he demanded faith of them in order to make them regard him, that so

his personal being might enter into their hearts. Healing without

faith in its source would have done them harm instead of good--would

have been to them a windfall, not a Godsend; at best the gift of

magic, even sometimes the power of Satan casting out Satan. But he

must not therefore act as if he were the only one who could render

this individual aid, or as if men influencing the poor individually

could not aid each other in their individual labours. He soon

found, I say, that there were things he could not do without help,

and Nancy was his first perplexity. From this he was delivered in a

wonderful way.

One afternoon he was prowling about Spitalfields, where he had made

many acquaintances amongst the silk-weavers and their families.

Hearing a loud voice as he passed down a stair from the visit he

had been paying further up the house, he went into the room whence

the sound came, for he knew a little of the occupant. He was one De

Fleuri, or as the neighbours called him, Diffleery, in whose

countenance, after generations of want and debasement, the delicate

lines and noble cast of his ancient race were yet emergent. This

man had lost his wife and three children, his whole family except a

daughter now sick, by a slow-consuming hunger; and he did not

believe there was a God that ruled in the earth. But he supported

his unbelief by no other argument than a hopeless bitter glance at

his empty loom. At this moment he sat silent--a rock against which

the noisy waves of a combative Bible-reader were breaking in rude

foam. His silence and apparent impassiveness angered the irreverent

little worthy. To Falconer's humour he looked a vulgar bull-terrier

barking at a noble, sad-faced staghound. His foolish arguments

against infidelity, drawn from Paley's Natural Theology, and tracts

about the inspiration of the Bible, touched the sore-hearted

unbelief of the man no nearer than the clangour of negro kettles

affects the eclipse of the sun. Falconer stood watching his

opportunity. Nor was the eager disputant long in affording him one.

Socratic fashion, Falconer asked him a question, and was answered;

followed it with another, which, after a little hesitation, was

likewise answered; then asked a third, the ready answer to which

involved such a flagrant contradiction of the first, that the poor

sorrowful weaver burst into a laugh of delight at the discomfiture

of his tormentor. After some stammering, and a confused attempt to

recover the line of argument, the would-be partizan of Deity roared

out, 'The fool hath said in his heart there is no God;' and with

this triumphant discharge of his swivel, turned and ran down the

stairs precipitately.

Both laughed while the sound of his footsteps lasted. Then Falconer

said,

'My. De Fleuri, I believe in God with all my heart, and soul, and

strength, and mind; though not in that poor creature's arguments. I

don't know that your unbelief is not better than his faith.'

'I am greatly obliged to you, Mr. Falconer. I haven't laughed so

for years. What right has he to come pestering me?'

'None whatever. But you must forgive him, because he is

well-meaning, and because his conceit has made a fool of him.

They're not all like him. But how is your daughter?'

'Very poorly, sir. She's going after the rest. A Spitalfields

weaver ought to be like the cats: they don't mind how many of their

kittens are drowned.'

'I beg your pardon. They don't like it. Only they forget it sooner

than we do.'

'Why do you say we, sir? You don't know anything of that sort.'

'The heart knows its own bitterness, De Fleuri--and finds it enough,

I dare say.'

The weaver was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, there was

a touch of tenderness in his respect.

'Will you go and see my poor Katey, sir?'

'Would she like to see me?'

'It does her good to see you. I never let that fellow go near her.

He may worry me as he pleases; but she shall die in peace. That is

all I can do for her.'

'Do you still persist in refusing help--for your daughter--I don't

mean for yourself?'

Not believing in God, De Fleuri would not be obliged to his fellow.

Falconer had never met with a similar instance.

'I do. I won't kill her, and I won't kill myself: I am not bound to

accept charity. It's all right. I only want to leave the whole

affair behind; and I sincerely hope there's nothing to come after.

If I were God, I should be ashamed of such a mess of a world.'

'Well, no doubt you would have made something more to your mind--and

better, too, if all you see were all there is to be seen. But I

didn't send that bore away to bore you myself. I'm going to see

Katey.'

'Very well, sir. I won't go up with you, for I won't interfere with

what you think proper to say to her.'

'That's rather like faith somewhere!' thought Falconer. 'Could that

man fail to believe in Jesus Christ if he only saw him--anything

like as he is?'

Katey lay in a room overhead; for though he lacked food, this man

contrived to pay for a separate room for his daughter, whom he

treated with far more respect than many gentlemen treat their wives.

Falconer found her lying on a wretched bed. Still it was a bed;

and many in the same house had no bed to lie on. He had just come

from a room overhead where lived a widow with four children. All of

them lay on a floor whence issued at night, by many holes, awful

rats. The children could not sleep for horror. They did not mind

the little ones, they said, but when the big ones came, they were

awake all night.

'Well, Katey, how are you?'

'No better, thank God.'

She spoke as her father had taught her. Her face was worn and thin,

but hardly death-like. Only extremes met in it--the hopelessness

had turned through quietude into comfort. Her hopelessness affected

him more than her father's. But there was nothing he could do for

her.

There came a tap at the door.

'Come in,' said Falconer, involuntarily.

A lady in the dress of a Sister of Mercy entered with a large basket

on her arm. She started, and hesitated for a moment when she saw

him. He rose, thinking it better to go. She advanced to the

bedside. He turned at the door, and said,

'I won't say good-bye yet, Katey, for I'm going to have a chat with

your father, and if you will let me, I will look in again.'

As he turned he saw the lady kiss her on the forehead. At the sound

of his voice she started again, left the bedside and came towards

him. Whether he knew her by her face or her voice first, he could

not tell.

'Robert,' she said, holding out her hand.

It was Mary St. John. Their hands met, joined fast, and lingered, as

they gazed each in the other's face. It was nearly fourteen years

since they had parted. The freshness of youth was gone from her

cheek, and the signs of middle age were present on her forehead.

But she was statelier, nobler, and gentler than ever. Falconer

looked at her calmly, with only a still swelling at the heart, as if

they met on the threshold of heaven. All the selfishness of passion

was gone, and the old earlier adoration, elevated and glorified, had

returned. He was a boy once more in the presence of a woman-angel.

She did not shrink from his gaze, she did not withdraw her hand

from his clasp.

'I am so glad, Robert!' was all she said.

'So am I,' he answered quietly. 'We may meet sometimes then?'

'Yes. Perhaps we can help each other.'

'You can help me,' said Falconer. 'I have a girl I don't know what

to do with.'

'Send her to me. I will take care of her.'

'I will bring her. But I must come and see you first.'

'That will tell you where I live,' she said, giving him a card.

Good-bye.'

'Till to-morrow,' said Falconer.

'She's not like that Bible fellow,' said De Fleuri, as he entered

his room again. 'She don't walk into your house as if it was her

own.'

He was leaning against his idle loom, which, like a dead thing,

filled the place with the mournfulness of death. Falconer took a

broken chair, the only one, and sat down.

'I am going to take a liberty with you, Mr. De Fleuri,' he said.

'As you please, Mr. Falconer.'

'I want to tell you the only fault I have to you.'

'Yes?'

'You don't do anything for the people in the house. Whether you

believe in God or not, you ought to do what you can for your

neighbour.'

He held that to help a neighbour is the strongest antidote to

unbelief, and an open door out of the bad air of one's own troubles,

as well.

De Fleuri laughed bitterly, and rubbed his hand up and down his

empty pocket. It was a pitiable action. Falconer understood it.

'There are better things than money: sympathy, for instance. You

could talk to them a little.'

'I have no sympathy, sir.'

'You would find you had, if you would let it out.'

'I should only make them more miserable. If I believed as you do,

now, there might be some use.'

'There's that widow with her four children in the garret. The poor

little things are tormented by the rats: couldn't you nail bits of

wood over their holes?'

De Fleuri laughed again.

'Where am I to get the bits of wood, except I pull down some of

those laths. And they wouldn't keep them out a night.'

'Couldn't you ask some carpenter?'

'I won't ask a favour.'

'I shouldn't mind asking, now.'

'That's because you don't know the bitterness of needing.'

'Fortunately, however, there's no occasion for it. You have no

right to refuse for another what you wouldn't accept for yourself.

Of course I could send in a man to do it; but if you would do it,

that would do her heart good. And that's what most wants doing good

to--isn't it, now?'

'I believe you're right there, sir. If it wasn't for the misery of

it, I shouldn't mind the hunger.'

'I should like to tell you how I came to go poking my nose into

other people's affairs. Would you like to hear my story now?'

'If you please, sir.'

A little pallid curiosity seemed to rouse itself in the heart of the

hopeless man. So Falconer began at once to tell him how he had been

brought up, describing the country and their ways of life, not

excluding his adventures with Shargar, until he saw that the man was

thoroughly interested. Then all at once, pulling out his watch, he

said,

'But it's time I had my tea, and I haven't half done yet. I am not

fond of being hungry, like you, Mr. De Fleuri.'

The poor fellow could only manage a very dubious smile.

'I'll tell you what,' said Falconer, as if the thought had only just

struck him--'come home with me, and I'll give you the rest of it at

my own place.'

'You must excuse me, sir.'

'Bless my soul, the man's as proud as Lucifer! He wont accept a

neighbour's invitation to a cup of tea--for fear it should put him

under obligations, I suppose.'

'It's very kind of you, sir, to put it in that way; but I don't

choose to be taken in. You know very well it's not as one equal

asks another you ask me. It's charity.'

'Do I not behave to you as an equal?'

'But you know that don't make us equals.'

'But isn't there something better than being equals? Supposing, as

you will have it, that we're not equals, can't we be friends?'

'I hope so, sir.'

'Do you think now, Mr. De Fleuri, if you weren't something more to

me than a mere equal, I would go telling you my own history? But I

forgot: I have told you hardly anything yet. I have to tell you how

much nearer I am to your level than you think. I had the design too

of getting you to help me in the main object of my life. Come,

don't be a fool. I want you.'

'I can't leave Katey,' said the weaver, hesitatingly.

'Miss St. John is there still. I will ask her to stop till you come

back.'

Without waiting for an answer, he ran up the stairs, and had

speedily arranged with Miss St. John. Then taking his consent for

granted, he hurried De Fleuri away with him, and knowing how unfit a

man of his trade was for walking, irrespective of feebleness from

want, he called the first cab, and took him home. Here, over their

tea, which he judged the safest meal for a stomach unaccustomed to

food, he told him about his grandmother, and about Dr. Anderson, and

how he came to give himself to the work he was at, partly for its

own sake, partly in the hope of finding his father. He told him his

only clue to finding him; and that he had called on Mrs. Macallister

twice every week for two years, but had heard nothing of him. De

Fleuri listened with what rose to great interest before the story

was finished. And one of its ends at least was gained: the weaver

was at home with him. The poor fellow felt that such close relation

to an outcast, did indeed bring Falconer nearer to his own level.

'Do you want it kept a secret, sir?' he asked.

'I don't want it made a matter of gossip. But I do not mind how

many respectable people like yourself know of it.'

He said this with a vague hope of assistance.

Before they parted, the unaccustomed tears had visited the eyes of

De Fleuri, and he had consented not only to repair Mrs. Chisholm's

garret-floor, but to take in hand the expenditure of a certain sum

weekly, as he should judge expedient, for the people who lived in

that and the neighbouring houses--in no case, however, except of

sickness, or actual want of bread from want of work. Thus did

Falconer appoint a sorrow-made infidel to be the almoner of his

christian charity, knowing well that the nature of the Son of Man

was in him, and that to get him to do as the Son of Man did, in ever

so small a degree, was the readiest means of bringing his higher

nature to the birth. Nor did he ever repent the choice he had made.

When he waited upon Miss St. John the next day, he found her in the

ordinary dress of a lady. She received him with perfect confidence

and kindness, but there was no reference made to the past. She told

him that she had belonged to a sisterhood, but had left it a few

days before, believing she could do better without its restrictions.

'It was an act of cowardice,' she said,--'wearing the dress

yesterday. I had got used to it, and did not feel safe without it;

but I shall not wear it any more.'

'I think you are right,' said Falconer. 'The nearer any friendly act

is associated with the individual heart, without intervention of

class or creed, the more the humanity, which is the divinity of it,

will appear.'

He then told her about Nancy.

'I will keep her about myself for a while,' said Miss St. John,

'till I see what can be done with her. I know a good many people

who without being prepared, or perhaps able to take any trouble, are

yet ready to do a kindness when it is put in their way.'

'I feel more and more that I ought to make some friends,' said

Falconer; 'for I find my means of help reach but a little way. What

had I better do? I suppose I could get some introductions.--I

hardly know how.'

'That will easily be managed. I will take that in hand. If you

will accept invitations, you will soon know a good many people--of

all sorts,' she added with a smile.

About this time Falconer, having often felt the pressure of his

ignorance of legal affairs, and reflected whether it would not add

to his efficiency to rescue himself from it, began such a course of

study as would fit him for the profession of the law. Gifted with

splendid health, and if with a slow strength of grasping, yet with a

great power of holding, he set himself to work, and regularly read

for the bar.

CHAPTER VIII.

MY OWN ACQUAINTANCE.

It was after this that my own acquaintance with Falconer commenced.

I had just come out of one of the theatres in the neighbourhood of

the Strand, unable to endure any longer the dreary combination of

false magnanimity and real meanness, imported from Paris in the

shape of a melodrama, for the delectation of the London public. I

had turned northwards, and was walking up one of the streets near

Covent Garden, when my attention was attracted to a woman who came

out of a gin-shop, carrying a baby. She went to the kennel, and

bent her head over, ill with the poisonous stuff she had been

drinking. And while the woman stood in this degrading posture, the

poor, white, wasted baby was looking over her shoulder with the

smile of a seraph, perfectly unconscious of the hell around her.

'Children will see things as God sees them,' murmured a voice beside

me.

I turned and saw a tall man with whose form I had already become a

little familiar, although I knew nothing of him, standing almost at

my elbow, with his eyes fixed on the woman and the child, and a

strange smile of tenderness about his mouth, as if he were blessing

the little creature in his heart.

He too saw the wonder of the show, typical of so much in the world,

indeed of the world itself--the seemingly vile upholding and

ministering to the life of the pure, the gracious, the fearless.

Aware from his tone more than from his pronunciation that he was a

fellow-countryman, I ventured to speak to him, and in a

home-dialect.

'It's a wonnerfu' sicht. It's the cake o' Ezekiel ower again.'

He looked at me sharply, thought a moment, and said,

'You were going my way when you stopped. I will walk with you, if

you will.'

'But what's to be done about it?' I said.

'About what?' he returned.

'About the child there,' I answered.

'Oh! she is its mother,' he replied, walking on.

'What difference does that make?' I said.

'All the difference in the world. If God has given her that child,

what right have you or I to interfere?'

'But I verily believe from the look of the child she gives it gin.'

'God saves the world by the new blood, the children. To take her

child from her, would be to do what you could to damn her.'

'It doesn't look much like salvation there.'

'You mustn't interfere with God's thousand years any more than his

one day.'

'Are you sure she is the mother?' I asked.

'Yes. I would not have left the child with her otherwise.'

'What would you have done with it? Got it into some orphan

asylum?--or the Foundling perhaps?'

'Never,' he answered. 'All those societies are wretched inventions

for escape from the right way. There ought not to be an orphan

asylum in the kingdom.'

'What! Would you put them all down then?'

'God forbid. But I would, if I could, make them all useless,'

'How could you do that?'

'I would merely enlighten the hearts of childless people as to their

privileges.'

'Which are?'

'To be fathers and mothers to the fatherless and motherless.'

'I have often wondered why more of them did not adopt children. Why

don't they?'

'For various reasons which a real love to child nature would blow to

the winds--all comprised in this, that such a child would not be

their own child. As if ever a child could be their own! That a

child is God's is of rather more consequence than whether it is born

of this or that couple. Their hearts would surely be glad when they

went into heaven to have the angels of the little ones that always

behold the face of their Father coming round them, though they were

not exactly their father and mother.'

'I don't know what the passage you refer to means.'

'Neither do I. But it must mean something, if He said it. Are you a

clergyman?'

'No. I am only a poor teacher of mathematics and poetry, shown up

the back stairs into the nurseries of great houses.'

'A grand chance, if I may use the word.'

'I do try to wake a little enthusiasm in the sons and

daughters--without much success, I fear.'

'Will you come and see me?' he said.

'With much pleasure. But, as I have given you an answer, you owe me

one.'

'I do.'

'Have you adopted a child?'

'No.'

'Then you have some of your own?'

'No.'

'Then, excuse me, but why the warmth of your remarks on those who--'

'I think I shall be able to satisfy you on that point, if we draw to

each other. Meantime I must leave you. Could you come to-morrow

evening?'

'With pleasure.'

We arranged the hour and parted. I saw him walk into a low

public-house, and went home.

At the time appointed, I rang the bell, and was led by an elderly

woman up the stair, and shown into a large room on the

first-floor--poorly furnished, and with many signs of

bachelor-carelessness. Mr. Falconer rose from an old hair-covered

sofa to meet me as I entered. I will first tell my reader something

of his personal appearance.

He was considerably above six feet in height, square-shouldered,

remarkably long in the arms, and his hands were uncommonly large and

powerful. His head was large, and covered with dark wavy hair,

lightly streaked with gray. His broad forehead projected over

deep-sunk eyes, that shone like black fire. His features,

especially his Roman nose, were large, and finely, though not

delicately, modelled. His nostrils were remarkably large and

flexile, with a tendency to slight motion: I found on further

acquaintance that when he was excited, they expanded in a wild

equine manner. The expression of his mouth was of tender power,

crossed with humour. He kept his lips a little compressed, which

gave a certain sternness to his countenance: but when this sternness

dissolved in a smile, it was something enchanting. He was plainly,

rather shabbily clothed. No one could have guessed at his

profession or social position. He came forward and received me

cordially. After a little indifferent talk, he asked me if I had

any other engagement for the evening.

'I never have any engagements,' I answered--'at least, of a social

kind. I am burd alane. I know next to nobody.'

'Then perhaps you would not mind going out with me for a stroll?'

'I shall be most happy,' I answered.

There was something about the man I found exceedingly attractive; I

had very few friends; and there was besides something odd, almost

romantic, in this beginning of an intercourse: I would see what

would come of it.

'Then we'll have some supper first,' said Mr. Falconer, and rang the

bell.

While we ate our chops--

'I dare say you think it strange,' my host said, 'that without the

least claim on your acquaintance, I should have asked you to come

and see me, Mr.--'

He stopped, smiling.

'My name is Gordon--Archie Gordon,' I said.

'Well, then, Mr. Gordon, I confess I have a design upon you. But

you will remember that you addressed me first.'

'You spoke first,' I said.

'Did I?'

'I did not say you spoke to me, but you spoke.--I should not have

ventured to make the remark I did make, if I had not heard your

voice first. What design have you on me?'

'That will appear in due course. Now take a glass of wine, and

we'll set out.'

We soon found ourselves in Holborn, and my companion led the way

towards the City. The evening was sultry and close.

'Nothing excites me move,' said Mr. Falconer, 'than a walk in the

twilight through a crowded street. Do you find it affect you so?'

'I cannot speak as strongly as you do,' I replied. 'But I perfectly

understand what you mean. Why is it, do you think?'

'Partly, I fancy, because it is like the primordial chaos, a

concentrated tumult of undetermined possibilities. The germs of

infinite adventure and result are floating around you like a

snow-storm. You do not know what may arise in a moment and colour

all your future. Out of this mass may suddenly start something

marvellous, or, it may be, something you have been looking for for

years.'

The same moment, a fierce flash of lightning, like a blue

sword-blade a thousand times shattered, quivered and palpitated

about us, leaving a thick darkness on the sense. I heard my

companion give a suppressed cry, and saw him run up against a heavy

drayman who was on the edge of the path, guiding his horses with his

long whip. He begged the man's pardon, put his hand to his head,

and murmured, 'I shall know him now.' I was afraid for a moment

that the lightning had struck him, but he assured me there was

nothing amiss. He looked a little excited and confused, however.

I should have forgotten the incident, had he not told me

afterwards--when I had come to know him intimately--that in the

moment of that lightning flash, he had had a strange experience: he

had seen the form of his father, as he had seen him that Sunday

afternoon, in the midst of the surrounding light. He was as certain

of the truth of the presentation as if a gradual revival of memory

had brought with it the clear conviction of its own accuracy. His

explanation of the phenomenon was, that, in some cases, all that

prevents a vivid conception from assuming objectivity, is the

self-assertion of external objects. The gradual approach of

darkness cannot surprise and isolate the phantasm; but the

suddenness of the lightning could and did, obliterating everything

without, and leaving that over which it had no power standing alone,

and therefore visible.

'But,' I ventured to ask, 'whence the minuteness of detail,

surpassing, you say, all that your memory could supply?'

'That I think was a quickening of the memory by the realism of the

presentation. Excited by the vision, it caught at its own past, as

it were, and suddenly recalled that which it had forgotten. In the

rapidity of all pure mental action, this at once took its part in

the apparent objectivity.'

To return to the narrative of my first evening in Falconer's

company.

It was strange how insensible the street population was to the

grandeur of the storm. While the thunder was billowing and

bellowing over and around us--

'A hundred pins for one ha'penny,' bawled a man from the gutter,

with the importance of a Cagliostro.

'Evening Star! Telegrauwff!' roared an ear-splitting urchin in my

very face. I gave him a shove off the pavement.

'Ah! don't do that,' said Falconer. 'It only widens the crack

between him and his fellows--not much, but a little.'

'You are right,' I said. 'I won't do it again.'

The same moment we heard a tumult in a neighbouring street. A crowd

was execrating a policeman, who had taken a woman into custody, and

was treating her with unnecessary rudeness. Falconer looked on for

a few moments.

'Come, policeman!' he said at length, in a tone of expostulation.

'You're rather rough, are you not? She's a woman, you know.'

'Hold your blasted humbug,' answered the man, an exceptional

specimen of the force at that time at all events, and shook the

tattered wretch, as if he would shake her out of her rags.

Falconer gently parted the crowd, and stood beside the two.

'I will help you,' he said, 'to take her to the station, if you

like, but you must not treat her that way.'

'I don't want your help,' said the policeman; 'I know you, and all

the damned lot of you.'

'Then I shall be compelled to give you a lesson,' said Falconer.

The man's only answer was a shake that made the woman cry out.

'I shall get into trouble if you get off,' said Falconer to her.

'Will you promise me, on your word, to go with me to the station, if

I rid you of the fellow?'

'I will, I will,' said the woman.

'Then, look out,' said Falconer to the policeman; 'for I'm going to

give you that lesson.'

The officer let the woman go, took his baton, and made a blow at

Falconer. In another moment--I could hardly see how--he lay in the

street.

'Now, my poor woman, come along,' said Falconer.

She obeyed, crying gently. Two other policemen came up.

'Do you want to give that woman in charge, Mr. Falconer?' asked one

of them.

'I give that man in charge,' cried his late antagonist, who had just

scrambled to his feet. 'Assaulting the police in discharge of their

duty.'

'Very well,' said the other. 'But you're in the wrong box, and that

you'll find. You had better come along to the station, sir.'

'Keep that fellow from getting hold of the woman--you two, and we'll

go together,' said Falconer.

Bewildered with the rapid sequence of events, I was following in the

crowd. Falconer looked about till he saw me, and gave me a nod

which meant come along. Before we reached Bow Street. however, the

offending policeman, who had been walking a little behind in

conversation with one of the others, advanced to Falconer, touched

his hat, and said something, to which Falconer replied.

'Remember, I have my eye upon you,' was all I heard, however, as he

left the crowd and rejoined me. We turned and walked eastward

again.

The storm kept on intermittently, but the streets were rather more

crowded than usual notwithstanding.

'Look at that man in the woollen jacket,' said Falconer. 'What a

beautiful outline of face! There must be something noble in that

man.'

'I did not see him,' I answered, 'I was taken up with a woman's

face, like that of a beautiful corpse. It's eyes were bright.

There was gin in its brain.'

The streets swarmed with human faces gleaming past. It was a night

of ghosts.

There stood a man who had lost one arm, earnestly pumping

bilge-music out of an accordion with the other, holding it to his

body with the stump. There was a woman, pale with hunger and gin,

three match-boxes in one extended hand, and the other holding a baby

to her breast. As we looked, the poor baby let go its hold, turned

its little head, and smiled a wan, shrivelled, old-fashioned smile

in our faces.

Another happy baby, you see, Mr. Gordon,' said Falconer. 'A child,

fresh from God, finds its heaven where no one else would. The devil

could drive woman out of Paradise; but the devil himself cannot

drive the Paradise out of a woman.'

'What can be done for them?' I said, and at the moment, my eye fell

upon a row of little children, from two to five years of age, seated

upon the curb-stone.

They were chattering fast, and apparently carrying on some game, as

happy as if they had been in the fields.

'Wouldn't you like to take all those little grubby things, and put

them in a great tub and wash them clean?' I said.

'They'd fight like spiders,' rejoined Falconer.

'They're not fighting now.'

'Then don't make them. It would be all useless. The probability is

that you would only change the forms of the various evils, and

possibly for worse. You would buy all that man's glue-lizards, and

that man's three-foot rules, and that man's dog-collars and chains,

at three times their value, that they might get more drink than

usual, and do nothing at all for their living to-morrow.--What a

happy London you would make if you were Sultan Haroun!' he added,

laughing. 'You would put an end to poverty altogether, would you

not?'

I did not reply at once.

'But I beg your pardon,' he resumed; 'I am very rude.'

'Not at all,' I returned. 'I was only thinking how to answer you.

They would be no worse after all than those who inherit property

and lead idle lives.'

'True; but they would be no better. Would you be content that your

quondam poor should be no better off than the rich? What would be

gained thereby? Is there no truth in the words "Blessed are the

poor"? A deeper truth than most Christians dare to see.--Did you

ever observe that there is not one word about the vices of the poor

in the Bible--from beginning to end?'

'But they have their vices.'

'Indubitably. I am only stating a fact. The Bible is full enough

of the vices of the rich. I make no comment.'

'But don't you care for their sufferings?'

'They are of secondary importance quite. But if you had been as

much amongst them as I, perhaps you would be of my opinion, that the

poor are not, cannot possibly feel so wretched as they seem to us.

They live in a climate, as it were, which is their own, by natural

law comply with it, and find it not altogether unfriendly. The

Laplander will prefer his wastes to the rich fields of England, not

merely from ignorance, but for the sake of certain blessings amongst

which he has been born and brought up. The blessedness of life

depends far more on its interest than upon its comfort. The need of

exertion and the doubt of success, renders life much more

interesting to the poor than it is to those who, unblessed with

anxiety for the bread that perisheth, waste their poor hearts about

rank and reputation.'

'I thought such anxiety was represented as an evil in the New

Testament.'

'Yes. But it is a still greater evil to lose it in any other way

than by faith in God. You would remove the anxiety by destroying its

cause: God would remove it by lifting them above it, by teaching

them to trust in him, and thus making them partakers of the divine

nature. Poverty is a blessing when it makes a man look up.'

'But you cannot say it does so always.'

'I cannot determine when, where, and how much; but I am sure it

does. And I am confident that to free those hearts from it by any

deed of yours would be to do them the greatest injury you could.

Probably their want of foresight would prove the natural remedy,

speedily reducing them to their former condition--not however

without serious loss.'

'But will not this theory prove at last an an sthetic rather than an?

anodyne? I mean that, although you may adopt it at first for refuge

from the misery the sight of their condition occasions you, there is

surely a danger of its rendering you at last indifferent to it.'

'Am I indifferent? But you do not know me yet. Pardon my egotism.

There may be such danger. Every truth has its own danger or

shadow. Assuredly I would have no less labour spent upon them. But

there can be no true labour done, save in as far as we are

fellow-labourers with God. We must work with him, not against him.

Every one who works without believing that God is doing the best,

the absolute good for them, is, must be, more or less, thwarting

God. He would take the poor out of God's hands. For others, as for

ourselves, we must trust him. If we could thoroughly understand

anything, that would be enough to prove it undivine; and that which

is but one step beyond our understanding must be in some of its

relations as mysterious as if it were a hundred. But through all

this darkness about the poor, at least I can see wonderful veins and

fields of light, and with the help of this partial vision, I trust

for the rest. The only and the greatest thing man is capable of is

Trust in God.'

'What then is a man to do for the poor? How is he to work with

God?' I asked.

'He must be a man amongst them--a man breathing the air of a higher

life, and therefore in all natural ways fulfilling his endless human

relations to them. Whatever you do for them, let your own being,

that is you in relation to them, be the background, that so you may

be a link between them and God, or rather I should say, between them

and the knowledge of God.'

While Falconer spoke, his face grew grander and grander, till at

last it absolutely shone. I felt that I walked with a man whose

faith was his genius.

'Of one thing I am pretty sure,' he resumed, 'that the same recipe

Goethe gave for the enjoyment of life, applies equally to all work:

"Do the thing that lies next you." That is all our business.

Hurried results are worse than none. We must force nothing, but be

partakers of the divine patience. How long it took to make the

cradle! and we fret that the baby Humanity is not reading Euclid and

Plato, even that it is not understanding the Gospel of St. John! If

there is one thing evident in the world's history, it is that God

hasteneth not. All haste implies weakness. Time is as cheap as

space and matter. What they call the church militant is only at

drill yet, and a good many of the officers too not out of the

awkward squad. I am sure I, for a private, am not. In the drill a

man has to conquer himself, and move with the rest by individual

attention to his own duty: to what mighty battlefields the recruit

may yet be led, he does not know. Meantime he has nearly enough to

do with his goose-step, while there is plenty of single combat,

skirmish, and light cavalry work generally, to get him ready for

whatever is to follow. I beg your pardon: I am preaching.'

'Eloquently,' I answered.

Of some of the places into which Falconer led me that night I will

attempt no description--places blazing with lights and mirrors,

crowded with dancers, billowing with music, close and hot, and full

of the saddest of all sights, the uninteresting faces of commonplace

women.

'There is a passion,' I said, as we came out of one of these

dreadful places, 'that lingers about the heart like the odour of

violets, like a glimmering twilight on the borders of moonrise; and

there is a passion that wraps itself in the vapours of patchouli and

coffins, and streams from the eyes like gaslight from a tavern. And

yet the line is ill to draw between them. It is very dreadful.

These are women.'

'They are in God's hands,' answered Falconer. 'He hasn't done with

them yet. Shall it take less time to make a woman than to make a

world? Is not the woman the greater? She may have her ages of

chaos, her centuries of crawling slime, yet rise a woman at last.'

'How much alike all those women were!'

'A family likeness, alas! which always strikes you first.'

'Some of them looked quite modest.'

'There are great differences. I do not know anything more touching

than to see how a woman will sometimes wrap around her the last

remnants of a soiled and ragged modesty. It has moved me almost to

tears to see such a one hanging her head in shame during the singing

of a detestable song. That poor thing's shame was precious in the

eyes of the Master, surely.'

'Could nothing be done for her?'

'I contrived to let her know where she would find a friend if she

wanted to be good: that is all you can do in such cases. If the

horrors of their life do not drive them out at such an open door,

you can do nothing else, I fear--for the time.'

'Where are you going now, may I ask?'

'Into the city--on business,' he added with a smile.

'There will be nobody there so late.'

'Nobody! One would think you were the beadle of a city church, Mr.

Gordon.'

We came into a very narrow, dirty street. I do not know where it

is. A slatternly woman advanced from an open door, and said,

'Mr. Falconer.'

He looked at her for a moment.

'Why, Sarah, have you come to this already?' he said.

'Never mind me, sir. It's no more than you told me to expect. You

knowed him better than I did. Leastways I'm an honest woman.'

'Stick to that, Sarah; and be good-tempered.'

'I'll have a try anyhow, sir. But there's a poor cretur a dyin'

up-stairs; and I'm afeard it'll go hard with her, for she throwed a

Bible out o' window this very morning, sir.'

'Would she like to see me? I'm afraid not.'

'She's got Lilywhite, what's a sort of a reader, readin' that same

Bible to her now.'

'There can be no great harm in just looking in,' he said, turning to

me.

'I shall be happy to follow you--anywhere,' I returned.

'She's awful ill, sir; cholerer or summat,' said Sarah, as she led

the way up the creaking stair.

We half entered the room softly. Two or three women sat by the

chimney, and another by a low bed, covered with a torn patchwork

counterpane, spelling out a chapter in the Bible. We paused for a

moment to hear what she was reading. Had the book been opened by

chance, or by design? It was the story of David and Bathsheba.

Moans came from the bed, but the candle in a bottle, by which the

woman was reading, was so placed that we could not see the sufferer.

We stood still and did not interrupt the reading.

'Ha! ha! ha!' laughed a coarse voice from the side of the chimney:

'the saint, you see, was no better than some of the rest of us!'

'I think he was a good deal worse just then,' said Falconer,

stepping forward.

'Gracious! there's Mr. Falconer,' said another woman, rising, and

speaking in a flattering tone.

'Then,' remarked the former speaker, 'there's a chance for old Moll

and me yet. King David was a saint, wasn't he? Ha! ha!'

'Yes, and you might be one too, if you were as sorry for your faults

as he was for his.'

'Sorry, indeed! I'll be damned if I be sorry. What have I to be

sorry for? Where's the harm in turning an honest penny? I ha' took

no man's wife, nor murdered himself neither. There's yer saints!

He was a rum 'un. Ha! ha!'

Falconer approached her, bent down and whispered something no one

could hear but herself. She gave a smothered cry, and was silent.

'Give me the book,' he said, turning towards the bed. 'I'll read you

something better than that. I'll read about some one that never did

anything wrong.'

'I don't believe there never was no sich a man,' said the previous

reader, as she handed him the book, grudgingly.

'Not Jesus Christ himself?' said Falconer.

'Oh! I didn't know as you meant him.'

'Of course I meant him. There never was another.'

'I have heard tell--p'raps it was yourself, sir--as how he didn't

come down upon us over hard after all, bless him!'

Falconer sat down on the side of the bed, and read the story of

Simon the Pharisee and the woman that was a sinner. When he ceased,

the silence that followed was broken by a sob from somewhere in the

room. The sick woman stopped her moaning, and said,

'Turn down the leaf there, please, sir. Lilywhite will read it to

me when you're gone.'

The some one sobbed again. It was a young slender girl, with a face

disfigured by the small-pox, and, save for the tearful look it wore,

poor and expressionless. Falconer said something gentle to her.

'Will he ever come again?' she sobbed.

'Who?' asked Falconer.

'Him--Jesus Christ. I've heard tell, I think, that he was to come

again some day.'

'Why do you ask?'

'Because--' she said, with a fresh burst of tears, which rendered

the words that followed unintelligible. But she recovered herself

in a few moments, and, as if finishing her sentence, put her hand up

to her poor, thin, colourless hair, and said,

'My hair ain't long enough to wipe his feet.'

'Do you know what he would say to you, my girl?' Falconer asked.

'No. What would he say to me? He would speak to me, would he?'

'He would say: Thy sins are forgiven thee.'

'Would he, though? Would he?' she cried, starting up. 'Take me to

him--take me to him. Oh! I forgot. He's dead. But he will come

again, won't he? He was crucified four times, you know, and he must

ha' come four times for that. Would they crucify him again, sir?'

'No, they wouldn't crucify him now--in England at least. They would

only laugh at him, shake their heads at what he told them, as much

as to say it wasn't true, and sneer and mock at him in some of the

newspapers.'

'Oh dear! I've been very wicked.'

'But you won't be so any more.'

'No, no, no. I won't, I won't, I won't.'

She talked hurriedly, almost wildly. The coarse old woman tapped

her forehead with her finger. Falconer took the girl's hand.

'What is your name?' he said.

'Nell.'

'What more?'

'Nothing more.'

'Well, Nelly,' said Falconer.

'How kind of you to call me Nelly!' interrupted the poor girl. 'They

always calls me Nell, just.'

'Nelly,' repeated Falconer, 'I will send a lady here to-morrow to

take you away with her, if you like, and tell you how you must do to

find Jesus.--People always find him that want to find him.'

The elderly woman with the rough voice, who had not spoken since he

whispered to her, now interposed with a kind of cowed fierceness.

'Don't go putting humbug into my child's head now, Mr.

Falconer--'ticing her away from her home. Everybody knows my Nell's

been an idiot since ever she was born. Poor child!'

'I ain't your child,' cried the girl, passionately. 'I ain't

nobody's child.'

'You are God's child,' said Falconer, who stood looking on with his

eyes shining, but otherwise in a state of absolute composure.

'Am I? Am I? You won't forget to send for me, sir?'

'That I won't,' he answered.

She turned instantly towards the woman, and snapped her fingers in

her face.

'I don't care that for you,' she cried. 'You dare to touch me now,

and I'll bite you.'

'Come, come, Nelly, you mustn't be rude,' said Falconer.

'No, sir, I won't no more, leastways to nobody but she. It's she

makes me do all the wicked things, it is.'

She snapped her fingers in her face again, and then burst out

crying.

'She will leave you alone now, I think,' said Falconer. 'She knows

it will be quite as well for her not to cross me.'

This he said very significantly, as he turned to the door, where he

bade them a general good-night. When we reached the street, I was

too bewildered to offer any remark. Falconer was the first to

speak.

'It always comes back upon me, as if I had never known it before,

that women like some of those were of the first to understand our

Lord.'

'Some of them wouldn't have understood him any more than the

Pharisee, though.'

'I'm not so sure of that. Of course there are great differences.

There are good and bad amongst them as in every class. But one

thing is clear to me, that no indulgence of passion destroys the

spiritual nature so much as respectable selfishness.'

'I am afraid you will not get society to agree with you,' I said,

foolishly.

'I have no wish that society should agree with me; for if it did, it

would be sure to do so upon the worst of principles. It is better

that society should be cruel, than that it should call the horrible

thing a trifle: it would know nothing between.'

Through the city--though it was only when we crossed one of the main

thoroughfares that I knew where we were--we came into the region of

Bethnal Green. From house to house till it grew very late, Falconer

went, and I went with him. I will not linger on this part of our

wanderings. Where I saw only dreadful darkness, Falconer always

would see some glimmer of light. All the people into whose houses

we went knew him. They were all in the depths of poverty. Many of

them were respectable. With some of them he had long talks in

private, while I waited near. At length he said,

'I think we had better be going home, Mr. Gordon. You must be

tired.'

'I am, rather,' I answered. 'But it doesn't matter, for I have

nothing to do to-morrow.'

'We shall get a cab, I dare say, before we go far.'

'Not for me. I am not so tired, but that I would rather walk,' I

said.

'Very well,' he returned. 'Where do you live?'

I told him.

'I will take you the nearest way.'

'You know London marvellously.'

'Pretty well now,' he answered.

We were somewhere near Leather Lane about one o'clock. Suddenly we

came upon two tiny children standing on the pavement, one on each

side of the door of a public-house. They could not have been more

than two and three. They were sobbing a little--not much. The tiny

creatures stood there awfully awake in sleeping London, while even

their own playmates were far off in the fairyland of dreams.

'This is the kind of thing,' I said, 'that makes me doubt whether

there be a God in heaven.'

'That is only because he is down here,' answered Falconer, 'taking

such good care of us all that you can't see him. There is not a

gin-palace, or yet lower hell in London, in which a man or woman can

be out of God. The whole being love, there is nothing for you to set

it against and judge it by. So you are driven to fancies.'

The house was closed, but there was light above the door. We went

up to the children, and spoke to them, but all we could make out was

that mammie was in there. One of them could not speak at all.

Falconer knocked at the door. A good-natured-looking Irishwoman

opened it a little way and peeped out.

'Here are two children crying at your door, ma'am,' said Falconer.

'Och, the darlin's! they want their mother.'

'Do you know her, then?'

'True for you, and I do. She's a mighty dacent woman in her way

when the drink's out uv her, and very kind to the childher; but

oncet she smells the dhrop o' gin, her head's gone intirely. The

purty craytures have waked up, an' she not come home, and they've

run out to look after her.'

Falconer stood a moment as if thinking what would be best. The

shriek of a woman rang through the night.

'There she is!' said the Irishwoman. 'For God's sake don't let her

get a hould o' the darlints. She's ravin' mad. I seen her try to

kill them oncet.'

The shrieks came nearer and nearer, and after a few moments the

woman appeared in the moonlight, tossing her arms over her head, and

screaming with a despair for which she yet sought a defiant

expression. Her head was uncovered, and her hair flying in tangles;

her sleeves were torn, and her gaunt arms looked awful in the

moonlight. She stood in the middle of the street, crying again and

again, with shrill laughter between, 'Nobody cares for me, and I

care for nobody! Ha! ha! ha!'

'Mammie! mammie!' cried the elder of the children, and ran towards

her.

The woman heard, and rushed like a fury towards the child. Falconer

too ran, and caught up the child. The woman gave a howl and rushed

towards the other. I caught up that one. With a last shriek, she

dashed her head against the wall of the public-house, dropped on the

pavement, and lay still.

Falconer set the child down, lifted the wasted form in his arms, and

carried it into the house. The face was blue as that of a strangled

corpse. She was dead.

'Was she a married woman?' Falconer asked.

'It's myself can't tell you sir,' the Irishwoman answered. 'I never

saw any boy with her.'

'Do you know where she lived?'

'No, sir. Somewhere not far off, though. The children will know.'

But they stood staring at their mother, and we could get nothing out

of them. They would not move from the corpse.

'I think we may appropriate this treasure-trove,' said Falconer,

turning at last to me; and as he spoke, he took the eldest in his

arms. Then, turning to the woman, he gave her a card, saying, 'If

any inquiry is made about them, there is my address.--Will you take

the other, Mr. Gordon?'

I obeyed. The children cried no more. After traversing a few

streets, we found a cab, and drove to a house in Queen Square,

Bloomsbury.

Falconer got out at the door of a large house, and rung the bell;

then got the children out, and dismissed the cab. There we stood in

the middle of the night, in a silent, empty square, each with a

child in his arms. In a few minutes we heard the bolts being

withdrawn. The door opened, and a tall graceful form wrapped in a

dressing-gown, appeared.

'I have brought you two babies, Miss St. John,' said Falconer. 'Can

you take them?'

'To be sure I can,' she answered, and turned to lead the way. 'Bring

them in.'

We followed her into a little back room. She put down her candle,

and went straight to the cupboard, whence she brought a sponge-cake,

from which she cut a large piece for each of the children.

'What a mercy they are, Robert,--those little gates in the face!

Red Lane leads direct to the heart,' she said, smiling, as if she

rejoiced in the idea of taming the little wild angelets. 'Don't you

stop. You are tired enough, I am sure. I will wake my maid, and

we'll get them washed and put to bed at once.'

She was closing the door, when Falconer turned.

'Oh! Miss St. John,' he said, 'I was forgetting. Could you go down

to No. 13 in Soap Lane--you know it, don't you?'

'Yes. Quite well.'

'Ask for a girl called Nell--a plain, pock-marked young girl--and

take her away with you.'

'When shall I go?'

'To-morrow morning. But I shall be in. Don't go till you see me.

Good-night.'

We took our leave without more ado.

'What a lady-like woman to be the matron of an asylum!' I said.

Falconer gave a little laugh.

'That is no asylum. It is a private house.'

'And the lady?'

'Is a lady of private means,' he answered, 'who prefers Bloomsbury

to Belgravia, because it is easier to do noble work in it. Her

heaven is on the confines of hell.'

'What will she do with those children?'

'Kiss them and wash them and put them to bed.'

'And after that?'

'Give them bread and milk in the morning.'

'And after that?'

'Oh! there's time enough. We'll see. There's only one thing she

won't do.'

'What is that?'

'Turn them out again.'

A pause followed, I cogitating.

'Are you a society, then?' I asked at length.

'No. At least we don't use the word. And certainly no other society

would acknowledge us.'

'What are you, then?'

'Why should we be anything, so long as we do our work?'

'Don't you think there is some affectation in refusing a name?'

'Yes, if the name belongs to you? Not otherwise.'

'Do you lay claim to no epithet of any sort?'

'We are a church, if you like. There!'

'Who is your clergyman?'

'Nobody.'

'Where do you meet?'

'Nowhere.'

'What are your rules, then?'

'We have none.'

'What makes you a church?'

'Divine Service.'

'What do you mean by that?'

'The sort of thing you have seen to-night.'

'What is your creed?'

'Christ Jesus.'

'But what do you believe about him?'

'What we can. We count any belief in him--the smallest--better than

any belief about him--the greatest--or about anything else besides.

But we exclude no one.'

'How do you manage without?'

'By admitting no one.'

'I cannot understand you.'

'Well, then: we are an undefined company of people, who have grown

into human relations with each other naturally, through one

attractive force--love for human beings, regarding them as human

beings only in virtue of the divine in them.'

'But you must have some rules,' I insisted.

'None whatever. They would cause us only trouble. We have nothing

to take us from our work. Those that are most in earnest, draw most

together; those that are on the outskirts have only to do nothing,

and they are free of us. But we do sometimes ask people to help

us--not with money.'

'But who are the we?'

'Why you, if you will do anything, and I and Miss St. John and

twenty others--and a great many more I don't know, for every one is

a centre to others. It is our work that binds us together.'

'Then when that stops you drop to pieces.'

'Yes, thank God. We shall then die. There will be no corporate

body--which means a bodied body, or an unsouled body, left behind to

simulate life, and corrupt, and work no end of disease. We go to

ashes at once, and leave no corpse for a ghoul to inhabit and make a

vampire of. When our spirit is dead, our body is vanished.'

'Then you won't last long.'

'Then we oughtn't to last long.'

'But the work of the world could not go on so.'

'We are not the life of the world. God is. And when we fail, he

can and will send out more and better labourers into his

harvest-field. It is a divine accident by which we are thus

associated.'

'But surely the church must be otherwise constituted.'

'My dear sir, you forget: I said we were a church, not the church.'

'Do you belong to the Church of England?'

'Yes, some of us. Why should we not? In as much as she has

faithfully preserved the holy records and traditions, our

obligations to her are infinite. And to leave her would be to

quarrel, and start a thousand vermiculate questions, as Lord Bacon

calls them, for which life is too serious in my eyes. I have no

time for that.'

'Then you count the Church of England the Church?' 'Of England, yes;

of the universe, no: that is constituted just like ours, with the

living working Lord for the heart of it.'

'Will you take me for a member?'

'No.'

'Will you not, if--?'

'You may make yourself one if you will. I will not speak a word to

gain you. I have shown you work. Do something, and you are of

Christ's Church.'

We were almost at the door of my lodging, and I was getting very

weary in body, and indeed in mind, though I hope not in heart.

Before we separated, I ventured to say,

'Will you tell me why you invited me to come and see you? Forgive

my presumption, but you seemed to seek acquaintance with me,

although you did make me address you first.'

He laughed gently, and answered in the words of the ancient

mariner:--

'The moment that his face I see,

I know the man that must hear me:

To him my tale I teach.'

Without another word, he shook hands with me, and left me. Weary as

I was, I stood in the street until I could hear his footsteps no

longer.

CHAPTER IX.

THE BROTHERS.

One day, as Falconer sat at a late breakfast, Shargar burst into his

room. Falconer had not even known that he was coming home, for he

had outstripped the letter he had sent. He had his arm in a sling,

which accounted for his leave.

'Shargar!' cried Falconer, starting up in delight.

'Major Shargar, if you please. Give me all my honours, Robert,'

said Moray, presenting his left hand.

'I congratulate you, my boy. Well, this is delightful! But you are

wounded.'

'Bullet--broken--that's all. It's nearly right again. I'll tell

you about it by and by. I am too full of something else to talk

about trifles of that sort. I want you to help me.'

He then rushed into the announcement that he had fallen desperately

in love with a lady who had come on board with her maid at Malta,

where she had been spending the winter. She was not very young,

about his own age, but very beautiful, and of enchanting address.

How she could have remained so long unmarried he could not think.

It could not be but that she had had many offers. She was an

heiress, too, but that Shargar felt to be a disadvantage for him.

All the progress he could yet boast of was that his attentions had

not been, so far as he could judge, disagreeable to her. Robert

thought even less of the latter fact than Shargar himself, for he

did not believe there were many women to whom Shargar's attentions

would be disagreeable: they must always be simple and manly. What

was more to the point, she had given him her address in London, and

he was going to call upon her the next day. She was on a visit to

Lady Janet Gordon, an elderly spinster, who lived in Park-street.

'Are you quite sure she's not an adventuress, Shargar?'

'It's o' no mainner o' use to tell ye what I'm sure or no sure o',

Robert, in sic a case. But I'll manage, somehoo, 'at ye sall see

her yersel', an' syne I'll speir back yer ain queston at ye.'

'Weel, hae ye tauld her a' aboot yersel'?'

'No!' answered Shargar, growing suddenly pale. 'I never thocht aboot

that. But I had no richt, for a' that passed, to intrude mysel'

upo' her to that extent.'

'Weel, I reckon ye're richt. Yer wounds an' yer medals ought to

weigh weel against a' that. There's this comfort in 't, that gin

she bena richt weel worthy o' ye, auld frien', she winna tak ye.'

Shargar did not seem to see the comfort of it. He was depressed for

the remainder of the day. In the morning he was in wild spirits

again. Just before he started, however, he said, with an expression

of tremulous anxiety,

'Oucht I to tell her a' at ance--already--aboot--aboot my mither?'

'I dinna say that. Maybe it wad be equally fair to her and to

yersel' to lat her ken ye a bit better afore ye do that.--We'll

think that ower.--Whan ye gang doon the stair, ye'll see a bit

brougham at the door waitin' for ye. Gie the coachman ony orders ye

like. He's your servant as lang 's ye're in London. Commit yer way

to the Lord, my boy.'

Though Shargar did not say much, he felt strengthened by Robert's

truth to meet his fate with something of composure. But it was not

to be decided that day. Therein lay some comfort.

He returned in high spirits still. He had been graciously received

both by Miss Hamilton and her hostess--a kind-hearted old lady, who

spoke Scotch with the pure tone of a gentlewoman, he said--a treat

not to be had once in a twelvemonth. She had asked him to go to

dinner in the evening, and to bring his friend with him. Robert,

however, begged him to make his excuse, as he had an engagement

in--a very different sort of place.

When Shargar returned, Robert had not come in. He was too excited

to go to bed, and waited for him. It was two o'clock before he came

home. Shargar told him there was to be a large party at Lady

Patterdale's the next evening but one, and Lady Janet had promised

to procure him an invitation.

The next morning Robert went to see Mary St. John, and asked if she

knew anything of Lady Patterdale, and whether she could get him an

invitation. Miss St. John did not know her, but she thought she

could manage it for him. He told her all about Shargar, for whose

sake he wished to see Miss Hamilton before consenting to be

introduced to her. Miss St. John set out at once, and Falconer

received a card the next day. When the evening came, he allowed

Shargar to set out alone in his brougham, and followed an hour later

in a hansom.

When he reached the house, the rooms were tolerably filled, and as

several parties had arrived just before him, he managed to enter

without being announced. After a little while he caught sight of

Shargar. He stood alone, almost in a corner, with a strange, rather

raised expression in his eyes. Falconer could not see the object to

which they were directed. Certainly, their look was not that of

love. He made his way up to him and laid his hand on his arm.

Shargar betrayed no little astonishment when he saw him.

'You here, Robert!' he said.

'Yes, I'm here. Have you seen her yet? Is she here?'

'Wha do ye think 's speakin' till her this verra minute? Look

there!' Shargar said in a low voice, suppressed yet more to hide

his excitement.

Following his directions, Robert saw, amidst a little group of

gentlemen surrounding a seated lady, of whose face he could not get

a peep, a handsome elderly man, who looked more fashionable than his

years justified, and whose countenance had an expression which he

felt repulsive. He thought he had seen him before, but Shargar gave

him no time to come to a conclusion of himself.

'It's my brither Sandy, as sure 's deith!' he said; 'and he's been

hingin' aboot her ever sin' she cam in. But I dinna think she likes

him a'thegither by the leuk o' her.'

'What for dinna ye gang up till her yersel', man? I wadna stan'

that gin 'twas me.'

'I'm feared 'at he ken me. He's terrible gleg. A' the Morays are

gleg, and yon marquis has an ee like a hawk.'

'What does 't maitter? Ye hae dune naething to be ashamed o' like

him.'

'Ay; but it's this. I wadna hae her hear the trowth aboot me frae

that boar's mou' o' his first. I wad hae her hear 't frae my ain,

an' syne she canna think I meant to tak her in.'

At this moment there was a movement in the group. Shargar,

receiving no reply, looked round at Robert. It was now Shargar's

turn to be surprised at his expression.

'Are ye seein' a vraith, Robert?' he said. 'What gars ye leuk like

that, man?'

'Oh!' answered Robert, recovering himself, 'I thought I saw some one

I knew. But I'm not sure. I'll tell you afterwards. We've been

talking too earnestly. People are beginning to look at us.'

So saying, he moved away towards the group of which the marquis

still formed one. As he drew near he saw a piano behind Miss

Hamilton. A sudden impulse seized him, and he yielded to it. He

made his way to the piano, and seating himself, began to play very

softly--so softly that the sounds could scarcely be heard beyond the

immediate neighbourhood of the instrument. There was no change on

the storm of talk that filled the room. But in a few minutes a face

white as a shroud was turned round upon him from the group in front,

like the moon dawning out of a cloud. He stopped at once, saying to

himself, 'I was right;' and rising, mingled again with the crowd. A

few minutes after, he saw Shargar leading Miss Hamilton out of the

room, and Lady Janet following. He did not intend to wait his

return, but got near the door, that he might slip out when he should

re-enter. But Shargar did not return. For, the moment she reached

the fresh air, Miss Hamilton was so much better that Lady Janet,

whose heart was as young towards young people as if she had never

had the unfortunate love affair tradition assigned her, asked him to

see them home, and he followed them into her carriage. Falconer

left a few minutes after, anxious for quiet that he might make up

his mind as to what he ought to do. Before he had walked home, he

had resolved on the next step. But not wishing to see Shargar yet,

and at the same time wanting to have a night's rest, he went home

only to change his clothes, and betook himself to a hotel in Covent

Garden.

He was at Lady Janet's door by ten o'clock the next morning, and

sent in his card to Miss Hamilton. He was shown into the

drawing-room, where she came to him.

'May I presume on old acquaintance?' he asked, holding out his hand.

She looked in his face quietly, took his hand, pressed it warmly,

and said,

'No one has so good a right, Mr. Falconer. Do sit down.'

He placed a chair for her, and obeyed.

After a moment's silence on both sides:

'Are you aware, Miss--?' he said and hesitated.

'Miss Hamilton,' she said with a smile. 'I was Miss Lindsay when you

knew me so many years ago. I will explain presently.'

Then with an air of expectation she awaited the finish of his

sentence.

'Are you aware, Miss Hamilton, that I am Major Moray's oldest

friend?'

'I am quite aware of it, and delighted to know it. He told me so

last night.'

Somewhat dismayed at this answer, Falconer resumed,

'Did Major Moray likewise communicate with you concerning his own

history?'

'He did. He told me all.'

Falconer was again silent for some moments.

'Shall I be presuming too far if I venture to conclude that my

friend will not continue his visits?'

'On the contrary,' she answered, with the same delicate blush that

in old times used to overspread the lovely whiteness of her face, 'I

expect him within half-an-hour.'

'Then there is no time to be lost,' thought Falconer.

'Without presuming to express any opinion of my own,' he said

quietly, 'a social code far less severe than that which prevails in

England, would take for granted that an impassable barrier existed

between Major Moray and Miss Hamilton.'

'Do not suppose, Mr. Falconer, that I could not meet Major Moray's

honesty with equal openness on my side.'

Falconer, for the first time almost in his life, was incapable of

speech from bewilderment. But Miss Hamilton did not in the least

enjoy his perplexity, and made haste to rescue both him and herself.

With a blush that was now deep as any rose, she resumed,

'But I owe you equal frankness, Mr. Falconer. There is no barrier

between Major Moray and myself but the foolish--no,

wicked--indiscretion of an otherwise innocent and ignorant girl.

Listen, Mr. Falconer: under the necessity of the circumstances you

will not misjudge me if I compel myself to speak calmly. This, I

trust, will be my final penance. I thought Lord Rothie was going to

marry me. To do him justice, he never said so. Make what excuse

for my folly you can. I was lost in a mist of vain imaginations. I

had had no mother to teach me anything, Mr. Falconer, and my father

never suspected the necessity of teaching me anything. I was very

ill on the passage to Antwerp, and when I began to recover a little,

I found myself beginning to doubt both my own conduct and his

lordship's intentions. Possibly the fact that he was not quite so

kind to me in my illness as I had expected, and that I felt hurt in

consequence, aided the doubt. Then the thought of my father

returning and finding that I had left him, came and burned in my

heart like fire. But what was I to do? I had never been out of

Aberdeen before. I did not know even a word of French. I was

altogether in Lord Rothie's power. I thought I loved him, but it

was not much of love that sea-sickness could get the better of.

With a heart full of despair I went on shore. The captain slipped

a note into my hand. I put it in my pocket, but pulled it out with

my handkerchief in the street. Lord Rothie picked it up. I begged

him to give it me, but he read it, and then tore it in pieces. I

entered the hotel, as wretched as girl could well be. I began to

dislike him. But during dinner he was so kind and attentive that I

tried to persuade myself that my fears were fanciful. After dinner

he took me out. On the stairs we met a lady whose speech was

Scotch. Her maid called her Lady Janet. She looked kindly at me as

I passed. I thought she could read my face. I remembered

afterwards that Lord Rothie turned his head away when we met her.

We went into the cathedral. We were standing under that curious

dome, and I was looking up at its strange lights, when down came a

rain of bell-notes on the roof over my head. Before the first tune

was over, I seemed to expect the second, and then the third, without

thinking how I could know what was coming; but when they ended with

the ballad of the Witch Lady, and I lifted up my head and saw that I

was not by my father's fireside, but in Antwerp Cathedral with Lord

Rothie, despair filled me with a half-insane resolution. Happily

Lord Rothie was at some little distance talking to a priest about

one of Rubens's pictures. I slipped unseen behind the nearest

pillar, and then flew from the church. How I got to the hotel I do

not know, but I did reach it. 'Lady Janet,' was all I could say.

The waiter knew the name, and led me to her room. I threw myself

on my knees, and begged her to save me. She assured me no one

should touch me. I gasped 'Lord Rothie,' and fainted. When I came

to myself--but I need not tell you all the particulars. Lady Janet

did take care of me. Till last night I never saw Lord Rothie again.

I did not acknowledge him, but he persisted in talking to me,

behave as I would, and I saw well enough that he knew me.'

Falconer took her hand and kissed it.

'Thank God,' he said. 'That spire was indeed the haunt of angels as

I fancied while I played upon those bells.'

'I knew it was you--that is, I was sure of it when I came to think

about it; but at the time I took it for a direct message from

heaven, which nobody heard but myself.'

'It was such none the less that I was sent to deliver it,' said

Falconer. 'I little thought during my imprisonment because of it,

that the end of my journey was already accomplished.'

Mysie put her hand in his.

'You have saved me, Mr. Falconer.'

'For Ericson's sake, who was dying and could not,' returned

Falconer.

'Ah!' said Mysie, her large eyes opening with wonder. It was

evident she had had no suspicion of his attachment to her.

'But,' said Falconer, 'there was another in it, without whom I could

have done nothing.'

'Who was that?'

'George Moray.'

'Did he know me then?'

'No. Fortunately not. You would not have looked at him then. It

was all done for love of me. He is the truest fellow in the world,

and altogether worthy of you, Miss Hamilton. I will tell you the

whole story some day, lest he should not do himself justice.'

'Ah, that reminds me. Hamilton sounds strange in your voice. You

suspected me of having changed my name to hide my history?'

It was so, and Falconer's silence acknowledged the fact.

'Lady Janet brought me home, and told my father all. When he died a

few years after, she took me to live with her, and never rested till

she had brought me acquainted with Sir John Hamilton, in favour of

whom my father had renounced his claim to some disputed estates.

Sir John had lost his only son, and he had no daughter. He was a

kind-hearted old man, rather like my own father. He took to me, as

they say, and made me change my name to his, leaving me the property

that might have been my father's, on condition that whoever I

married should take the same name. I don't think your friend will

mind making the exchange,' said Mysie in conclusion, as the door

opened and Shargar came in.

'Robert, ye're a' gait (everywhere)!' he exclaimed as he entered.

Then, stopping to ask no questions, 'Ye see I'm to hae a name o' my

ain efter a',' he said, with a face which looked even handsome in

the light of his gladness.

Robert shook hands with him, and wished him joy heartily.

'Wha wad hae thocht it, Shargar,' he added, 'that day 'at ye pat

bonnets for hose upo' Black Geordie's huves?'

The butler announced the Marquis of Boarshead. Mysie's eyes

flashed. She rose from her seat, and advanced to meet the marquis,

who entered behind the servant. He bowed and held out his hand.

Mysie retreated one step, and stood.

'Your lordship has no right to force yourself upon me. You must

have seen that I had no wish to renew the acquaintance I was unhappy

enough to form--now, thank God, many years ago.'

'Forgive me, Miss Hamilton. One word in private,' said the marquis.

'Not a word,' returned Mysie.

'Before these gentlemen, then, whom I have not the honour of

knowing, I offer you my hand.'

'To accept that offer would be to wrong myself even more than your

lordship has done.'

She went back to where Moray was standing, and stood beside him.

The evil spirit in the marquis looked out at its windows.

'You are aware, madam,' he said, 'that your reputation is in the

hand I offer you?'

'The worse for it, my lord,' returned Mysie, with a scornful smile.

'But your lordship's brother will protect it.'

'My brother!' said the marquis. 'What do you mean? I have no

brother!'

'Ye hae mair brithers than ye ken o', Lord Sandy, and I'm ane o'

them,' said Shargar.

'You are either a liar or a bastard, then,' said the marquis, who

had not been brought up in a school of which either self-restraint

or respect for women were prominent characteristics.

Falconer forgot himself for a moment, and made a stride forward.

'Dinna hit him, Robert,' cried Shargar. 'He ance gae me a shillin',

an' it helpit, as ye ken, to haud me alive to face him this day.--No

liar, my lord, but a bastard, thank heaven.' Then, with a laugh, he

instantly added, 'Gin I had been ain brither to you, my lord, God

only knows what a rascal I micht hae been.'

'By God, you shall answer for your damned insolence,' said the

marquis, and, lifting his riding-whip from the table where he had

laid it, he approached his brother.

Mysie rang the bell.

'Haud yer han', Sandy,' cried Shargar. 'I hae faced mair fearsome

foes than you. But I hae some faimily-feelin', though ye hae nane:

I wadna willin'ly strike my brither.'

As he spoke, he retreated a little. The marquis came on with raised

whip. But Falconer stepped between, laid one of his great hands on

the marquis's chest, and flung him to the other end of the room,

where he fell over an ottoman. The same moment the servant entered.

'Ask your mistress to oblige me by coming to the drawing-room,' said

Mysie.

The marquis had risen, but had not recovered his presence of mind

when Lady Janet entered. She looked inquiringly from one to the

other.

'Please, Lady Janet, will you ask the Marquis of Boarshead to leave

the house,' said Mysie.

'With all my hert,' answered Lady Janet; 'and the mair that he's a

kin' o' a cousin o' my ain. Gang yer wa's, Sandy. Ye're no fit

company for decent fowk; an' that ye wad ken yersel', gin ye had ony

idea left o' what decency means.'

Without heeding her, the marquis went up to Falconer.

'Your card, sir.'

Lady Janet followed him.

''Deed ye s' get nae cairds here,' she said, pushing him aside. 'So

you allow your friends to insult me in your own house as they

please, cousin Janet?' said the marquis, who probably felt her

opposition the most formidable of all.

''Deed they canna say waur o' ye nor I think. Gang awa', an'

repent. Consider yer gray hairs, man.'

This was the severest blow he had yet received. He left the room,

'swearing at large.'

Falconer followed him; but what came of it nobody ever heard.

Major and Miss Hamilton were married within three months, and went

out to India together, taking Nancy Kennedy with them.

CHAPTER X.

A NEOPHYTE.

Before many months had passed, without the slightest approach to any

formal recognition, I found myself one of the church of labour of

which Falconer was clearly the bishop. As he is the subject, or

rather object of my book, I will now record a fact which may serve

to set forth his views more clearly. I gained a knowledge of some

of the circumstances, not merely from the friendly confidences of

Miss St. John and Falconer, but from being a kind of a Scotch cousin

of Lady Janet Gordon, whom I had taken an opportunity of acquainting

with the relation. She was old-fashioned enough to acknowledge it

even with some eagerness. The ancient clan-feeling is good in this,

that it opens a channel whose very existence is a justification for

the flow of simply human feelings along all possible levels of

social position. And I would there were more of it. Only something

better is coming instead of it--a recognition of the infinite

brotherhood in Christ. All other relations, all attempts by

churches, by associations, by secret societies--of Freemasons and

others, are good merely as they tend to destroy themselves in the

wider truth; as they teach men to be dissatisfied with their

limitations. But I wander; for I mentioned Lady Janet now, merely

to account for some of the information I possess concerning Lady

Georgina Betterton.

I met her once at my so-called cousin's, whom she patronized as a

dear old thing. To my mind, she was worth twenty of her, though she

was wrinkled and Scottishly sententious. 'A sweet old bat,' was

another epithet of Lady Georgina's. But she came to see her,

notwithstanding, and did not refuse to share in her nice little

dinners, and least of all, when Falconer was of the party, who had

been so much taken with Lady Janet's behaviour to the Marquis of

Boarshead, just recorded, that he positively cultivated her

acquaintance thereafter.

Lady Georgina was of an old family--an aged family, indeed; so old,

in fact, that some envious people professed to think it decrepit

with age. This, however, may well be questioned if any argument

bearing on the point may be drawn from the person of Lady Georgina.

She was at least as tall as Mary St. John, and very handsome--only

with somewhat masculine features and expression. She had very

sloping shoulders and a long neck, which took its finest curves when

she was talking to inferiors: condescension was her forte. Of the

admiration of the men, she had had more than enough, although either

they were afraid to go farther, or she was hard to please.

She had never contemplated anything admirable long enough to

comprehend it; she had never looked up to man or woman with anything

like reverence; she saw too quickly and too keenly into the foibles

of all who came near her to care to look farther for their virtues.

If she had ever been humbled, and thence taught to look up, she

might by this time have been a grand woman, worthy of a great man's

worship. She patronized Miss St. John, considerably to her

amusement, and nothing to her indignation. Of course she could not

understand her. She had a vague notion of how she spent her time;

and believing a certain amount of fanaticism essential to religion,

wondered how so sensible and ladylike a person as Miss St. John

could go in for it.

Meeting Falconer at Lady Janet's, she was taken with him. Possibly

she recognized in him a strength that would have made him her

master, if he had cared for such a distinction; but nothing she

could say attracted more than a passing attention on his part.

Falconer was out of her sphere, and her influences were powerless

to reach him.

At length she began to have a glimmering of the relation of labour

between Miss St. John and him, and applied to the former for some

enlightenment. But Miss St. John was far from explicit, for she had

no desire for such assistance as Lady Georgina's. What motives next

led her to seek the interview I am now about to record, I cannot

satisfactorily explain, but I will hazard a conjecture or two,

although I doubt if she understood them thoroughly herself.

She was, if not blas e, at least ennuy e, and began to miss? ?

excitement, and feel blindly about her for something to make life

interesting. She was gifted with far more capacity than had ever

been exercised, and was of a large enough nature to have grown

sooner weary of trifles than most women of her class. She might

have been an artist, but she drew like a young lady; she might have

been a prophetess, and Byron was her greatest poet. It is no wonder

that she wanted something she had not got.

Since she had been foiled in her attempt on Miss St. John, which she

attributed to jealousy, she had, in quite another circle, heard

strange, wonderful, even romantic stories about Falconer and his

doings among the poor. A new world seemed to open before her

longing gaze--a world, or a calenture, a mirage? for would she cross

the 'wandering fields of barren foam,' to reach the green grass that

did wave on the far shore? the dewless desert to reach the fair

water that did lie leagues beyond its pictured sweetness? But I

think, mingled with whatever motives she may have had, there must

have been some desire to be a nobler, that is a more useful woman

than she had been.

She had not any superabundance of feminine delicacy, though she had

plenty of good-breeding, and she trusted to her position in society

to cover the eccentricity of her present undertaking.

One morning after breakfast she called upon Falconer; and accustomed

to visits from all sorts of people, Mrs. Ashton showed her into his

sitting-room without even asking her name. She found him at his

piano, apologized, in her fashionable drawl, for interrupting his

music, and accepted his offer of a chair without a shade of

embarrassment. Falconer seated himself and sat waiting.

'I fear the step I have taken will appear strange to you, Mr.

Falconer. Indeed it appears strange to myself. I am afraid it may

appear stranger still.'

'It is easy for me to leave all judgment in the matter to yourself,

Miss--I beg your pardon; I know we have met; but for the moment I

cannot recall your name.'

'Lady Georgina Betterton,' drawled the visitor carelessly, hiding

whatever annoyance she may have felt.

Falconer bowed. Lady Georgina resumed.

'Of course it only affects myself; and I am willing to take the

risk, notwithstanding the natural desire to stand well in the

opinion of any one with whom even my boldness could venture such a

step.'

A smile, intended to be playful, covered the retreat of the

sentence. Falconer bowed again. Lady Georgina had yet again to

resume.

'From the little I have seen, and the much I have heard of

you--excuse me, Mr. Falconer--I cannot help thinking that you know

more of the secret of life than other people--if indeed it has any

secret.'

'Life certainly is no burden to me,' returned Falconer. 'If that

implies the possession of any secret which is not common property, I

fear it also involves a natural doubt whether such secret be

communicable.'

'Of course I mean only some secret everybody ought to know.'

'I do not misunderstand you.'

'I want to live. You know the world, Mr. Falconer. I need not tell

you what kind of life a girl like myself leads. I am not old, but

the gilding is worn off. Life looks bare, ugly, uninteresting. I

ask you to tell me whether there is any reality in it or not;

whether its past glow was only gilt; whether the best that can be

done is to get through with it as fast as possible?'

'Surely your ladyship must know some persons whose very countenances

prove that they have found a reality at the heart of life.'

'Yes. But none whose judgment I could trust. I cannot tell how soon

they may find reason to change their minds on the subject. Their

satisfaction may only be that they have not tried to rub the varnish

off the gilding so much as I, and therefore the gilding itself still

shines a little in their eyes.'

'If it be only gilding, it is better it should be rubbed off.'

'But I am unwilling to think it is. I am not willing to sign a bond

of farewell to hope. Life seemed good once. It is bad enough that

it seems such no longer, without consenting that it must and shall

be so. Allow me to add, for my own sake, that I speak from the

bitterness of no chagrin. I have had all I ever cared--or

condescended to wish for. I never had anything worth the name of a

disappointment in my life.'

'I cannot congratulate you upon that,' said Falconer, seriously.

'But if there be a truth or a heart in life, assurance of the fact

can only spring from harmony with that truth. It is not to be known

save by absolute contact with it; and the sole guide in the

direction of it must be duty: I can imagine no other possible

conductor. We must do before we can know.'

'Yes, yes,' replied Lady Georgina, hastily, in a tone that implied,

'Of course, of course: we know all about that.' But aware at once,

with the fine instinct belonging to her mental organization, that

she was thus shutting the door against all further communication,

she added instantly: 'But what is one's duty? There is the

question.'

'The thing that lies next you, of course. You are, and must remain,

the sole judge of that. Another cannot help you.'

'But that is just what I do not know.'

I interrupt Lady Georgina to remark--for I too have been a pupil of

Falconer--that I believe she must have suspected what her duty was,

and would not look firmly at her own suspicion. She added:

'I want direction.'

But the same moment she proceeded to indicate the direction in which

she wanted to be directed; for she went on:

'You know that now-a-days there are so many modes in which to employ

one's time and money that one does not know which to choose. The

lower strata of society, you know, Mr. Falconer--so many channels!

I want the advice of a man of experience, as to the best

investment, if I may use the expression: I do not mean of money

only, but of time as well.'

'I am not fitted to give advice in such a matter.'

'Mr. Falconer!'

'I assure you I am not. I subscribe to no society myself--not one.'

'Excuse me, but I can hardly believe the rumours I hear of

you--people will talk, you know--are all inventions. They say you

are for ever burrowing amongst the poor. Excuse the phrase.'

'I excuse or accept it, whichever you please. Whatever I do, I am

my own steward.'

'Then you are just the person to help me! I have a fortune, not

very limited, at my own disposal: a gentleman who is his own

steward, would find his labours merely facilitated by administering

for another as well--such labours, I mean.'

'I must beg to be excused, Lady Georgina. I am accountable only for

my own, and of that I have quite as much as I can properly manage.

It is far more difficult to use money for others than to spend it

for yourself.'

'Ah!' said Lady Georgina, thoughtfully, and cast an involuntary

glance round the untidy room, with its horse-hair furniture, its

ragged array of books on the wall, its side-table littered with

pamphlets he never read, with papers he never printed, with pipes he

smoked by chance turns. He saw the glance and understood it.

'I am accustomed,' he said, 'to be in such sad places for human

beings to live in, that I sometimes think even this dingy old room

an absolute palace of comfort.--But,' he added, checking himself, as

it were, 'I do not see in the least how your proposal would

facilitate an answer to your question.'

'You seem hardly inclined to do me justice,' said Lady Georgina,

with, for the first time, a perceptible, though slight shadow

crossing the disc of her resolution. 'I only meant it,' she went on,

'as a step towards a further proposal, which I think you will allow

looks at least in the direction you have been indicating.'

She paused.

'May I beg of you to state the proposal?' said Falconer.

But Lady Georgina was apparently in some little difficulty as to the

proper form in which to express her object. At last it appeared in

the cloak of a question.

'Do you require no assistance in your efforts for the elevation of

the lower classes?' she asked.

'I don't make any such efforts,' said Falconer.

Some of my lady-readers will probably be remarking to themselves,

'How disagreeable of him! I can't endure the man.' If they knew

how Falconer had to beware of the forwardness and annoyance of

well-meaning women, they would not dislike him so much. But

Falconer could be indifferent to much dislike, and therein I know

some men that envy him.

When he saw, however, that Lady Georgina was trying to swallow a

lump in her throat, he hastened to add,

'I have only relations with individuals--none with classes.'

Lady Georgina gathered her failing courage. 'Then there is the more

hope for me,' she said. 'Surely there are things a woman might be

useful in that a man cannot do so well--especially if she would do

as she was told, Mr. Falconer?'

He looked at her, inquiring of her whole person what numen abode in

the fane. She misunderstood the look.

'I could dress very differently, you know. I will be a sister of

charity, if you like.'

'And wear a uniform?--as if the god of another world wanted to make

proselytes or traitors in this! No, Lady Georgina, it was not of a

dress so easily altered that I was thinking; it was of the habit,

the dress of mind, of thought, of feeling. When you laid aside your

beautiful dress, could you avoid putting on the garment of

condescension, the most unchristian virtue attributed to Deity or

saint? Could you--I must be plain with you, Lady Georgina, for this

has nothing to do with the forms of so-called society--could your

temper endure the mortifications of low opposition and

misrepresentation of motive and end--which, avoid intrusion as you

might, would yet force themselves on your perception? Could you be

rudely, impudently thwarted by the very persons for whom you were

spending your strength and means, and show no resentment? Could you

make allowances for them as for your own brothers and sisters, your

own children?'

Lady Georgina was silent.

'I shall seem to glorify myself, but at that risk I must put the

reality before you.--Could you endure the ugliness both moral and

physical which you must meet at every turn? Could you look upon

loathsomeness, not merely without turning away in disgust, and thus

wounding the very heart you would heal, but without losing your

belief in the Fatherhood of God, by losing your faith in the actual

blood-relationship to yourself of these wretched beings? Could you

believe in the immortal essence hidden under all this garbage--God

at the root of it all? How would the delicate senses you probably

inherit receive the intrusions from which they could not protect

themselves? Would you be in no danger of finding personal refuge in

the horrid fancy, that these are but the slimy borders of humanity

where it slides into, and is one with bestiality? I could show you

one fearful baboon-like woman, whose very face makes my nerves

shudder: could you believe that woman might one day become a lady,

beautiful as yourself, and therefore minister to her? Would you not

be tempted, for the sake of your own comfort, if not for the pride

of your own humanity, to believe that, like untimely blossoms, these

must fall from off the boughs of the tree of life, and come to

nothing at all--a theory that may do for the preacher, but will not

do for the worker: him it would paralyze?--or, still worse,

infinitely worse, that they were doomed, from their birth, to

endless ages of a damnation, filthy as that in which you now found

them, and must probably leave them? If you could come to this, you

had better withhold your hand; for no desire for the betterment of

the masses, as they are stupidly called, can make up for a lack of

faith in the individual. If you cannot hope for them in your heart,

your hands cannot reach them to do them good. They will only hurt

them.'

Lady Georgina was still silent. Falconer's eloquence had perhaps

made her ashamed.

'I want you to sit down and count the cost, before you do any

mischief by beginning what you are unfit for. Last week I was

compelled more than once to leave the house where my duty led me,

and to sit down upon a stone in the street, so ill that I was in

danger of being led away as intoxicated, only the policeman happened

to know me. Twice I went back to the room I had left, crowded with

human animals, and one of them at least dying. It was all I could

do, and I have tolerable nerve and tolerable experience.'

A mist was gathering over Lady Georgina's eyes. She confessed it

afterwards to Miss St. John. And through the mist he looked larger

than human.

'And then the time you must spend before you can lay hold upon them

at all, that is with the personal relation which alone is of any

real influence! Our Saviour himself had to be thirty years in the

world before he had footing enough in it to justify him in beginning

to teach publicly: he had been laying the needful foundations all

the time. Not under any circumstances could I consent to make use

of you before you had brought yourself into genuine relations with

some of them first.'

'Do you count societies, then, of no use whatever?' Lady Georgina

asked, more to break the awkwardness of her prolonged silence than

for any other reason.

'In as far as any of the persons they employ fulfil the conditions

of which I have spoken, they are useful--that is, just in as far as

they come into genuine human relations with those whom they would

help. In as far as their servants are incapable of this, the

societies are hurtful. The chief good which societies might effect

would be the procuring of simple justice for the poor. That is what

they need at the hands of the nation, and what they do not receive.

But though few can have the knowledge of the poor I have, many

could do something, if they would only set about it simply, and not

be too anxious to convert them; if they would only be their friends

after a common-sense fashion. I know, say, a hundred wretched men

and women far better than a man in general knows him with whom he

claims an ordinary intimacy. I know many more by sight whose names

in the natural course of events I shall probably know soon. I know

many of their relations to each other, and they talk about each

other to me as if I were one of themselves, which I hope in God I

am. I have been amongst them a good many years now, and shall

probably spend my life amongst them. When I went first, I was

repeatedly robbed; now I should hardly fear to carry another man's

property. Two years ago I had my purse taken, but next morning it

was returned, I do not know by whom: in fact it was put into my

pocket again--every coin, as far as I could judge, as it left me. I

seldom pretend to teach them--only now and then drop a word of

advice. But possibly, before I die, I may speak to them in public.

At present I avoid all attempt at organization of any sort, and as

far as I see, am likely of all things to avoid it. What I want is

first to be their friend, and then to be at length recognized as

such. It is only in rare cases that I seek the acquaintance of any

of them: I let it come naturally. I bide my time. Almost never do

I offer assistance. I wait till they ask it, and then often refuse

the sort they want. The worst thing you can do for them is to

attempt to save them from the natural consequences of wrong: you may

sometimes help them out of them. But it is right to do many things

for them when you know them, which it would not be right to do for

them until you know them. I am amongst them; they know me; their

children know me; and something is always occurring that makes this

or that one come to me. Once I have a footing, I seldom lose it.

So you see, in this my labour I am content to do the thing that

lies next me. I wait events. You have had no training, no

blundering to fit you for such work. There are many other modes of

being useful; but none in which I could undertake to direct you. I

am not in the habit of talking so much about my ways--but that is of

no consequence. I think I am right in doing so in this instance.'

'I cannot misunderstand you,' faltered Lady Georgina.

Falconer was silent. Without looking up from the floor on which her

eyes had rested all the time he spoke, Lady Georgina said at last,

'Then what is my next duty? What is the thing that lies nearest to

me?'

'That, I repeat, belongs to your every-day history. No one can

answer that question but yourself. Your next duty is just to

determine what your next duty is.--Is there nothing you neglect? Is

there nothing you know you ought not to do?--You would know your

duty, if you thought in earnest about it, and were not ambitious of

great things.'

'Ah then,' responded Lady Georgina, with an abandoning sigh, 'I

suppose it is something very commonplace, which will make life more

dreary than ever. That cannot help me.'

'It will, if it be as dreary as reading the newspapers to an old

deaf aunt. It will soon lead you to something more. Your duty will

begin to comfort you at once, but will at length open the unknown

fountain of life in your heart.'

Lady Georgina lifted up her head in despair, looked at Falconer

through eyes full of tears, and said vehemently,

'Mr. Falconer, you can have no conception how wretched a life like

mine is. And the futility of everything is embittered by the

consciousness that it is from no superiority to such things that I

do not care for them.'

'It is from superiority to such things that you do not care for

them. You were not made for such things. They cannot fill your

heart. It has whole regions with which they have no relation.'

'The very thought of music makes me feel ill. I used to be

passionately fond of it.'

'I presume you got so far in it that you asked, "Is there nothing

more?" Concluding there was nothing more, and yet needing more, you

turned from it with disappointment?'

'It is the same,' she went on hurriedly, 'with painting, modelling,

reading--whatever I have tried. I am sick of them all. They do

nothing for me.'

'How can you enjoy music, Lady Georgina, if you are not in harmony

with the heart and source of music?'

'How do you mean?'

'Until the human heart knows the divine heart, it must sigh and

complain like a petulant child, who flings his toys from him because

his mother is not at home. When his mother comes back to him he

finds his toys are good still. When we find Him in our own hearts,

we shall find him in everything, and music will be deep enough then,

Lady Georgina. It is this that the Brahmin and the Platonist seek;

it is this that the mystic and the anchorite sigh for; towards this

the teaching of the greatest of men would lead us: Lord Bacon

himself says, "Nothing can fill, much less extend the soul of man,

but God, and the contemplation of God." It is Life you want. If you

will look in your New Testament, and find out all that our Lord says

about Life, you will find the only cure for your malady. I know

what such talk looks like; but depend upon it, what I am talking

about is something very different from what you fancy it. Anyhow to

this you must come, one day or other.'

'But how am I to gain this indescribable good, which so many seek,

and so few find?'

'Those are not my words,' said Falconer emphatically. 'I should have

said--"which so few yet seek; but so many shall at length find."'

'Do not quarrel with my foolish words, but tell me how I am to find

it; for I suppose there must be something in what so many good

people assert.'

'You thought I could give you help?'

'Yes. That is why I came to you.'

'Just so. I cannot give you help. Go and ask it of one who can.'

'Speak more plainly.'

'Well then: if there be a God, he must hear you if you call to him.

If there be a father, he will listen to his child. He will teach

you everything.'

'But I don't know what I want.'

'He does: ask him to tell you what you want. It all comes back to

the old story: "If ye then being evil, know how to give good gifts

to your children, how much more will your heavenly Father give the

holy Spirit to them that ask him!" But I wish you would read your

New Testament--the Gospels I mean: you are not in the least fit to

understand the Epistles yet. Read the story of our Saviour as if

you had never read it before. He at least was a man who seemed to

have that secret of life after the knowledge of which your heart is

longing.'

Lady Georgina rose. Her eyes were again full of tears. Falconer

too was moved. She held out her hand to him, and without another

word left the room. She never came there again.

Her manner towards Falconer was thereafter much altered. People

said she was in love with him: if she was, it did her no harm. Her

whole character certainly was changed. She sought the friendship of

Miss St. John, who came at length to like her so much, that she took

her with her in some of her walks among the poor. By degrees she

began to do something herself after a quiet modest fashion. But

within a few years, probably while so engaged, she caught a fever

from which she did not recover. It was not till after her death

that Falconer told any one of the interview he had had with her.

And by that time I had the honour of being very intimate with him.

When she knew that she was dying, she sent for him. Mary St. John

was with her. She left them together. When he came out, he was

weeping.

CHAPTER XI.

THE SUICIDE.

Falconer lived on and laboured on in London. Wherever he found a

man fitted for the work, he placed him in such office as De Fleuri

already occupied. At the same time he went more into society, and

gained the friendship of many influential people. Besides the use

he made of this to carry out plans for individual rescue, it enabled

him to bestir himself for the first and chief good which he believed

it was in the power of the government to effect for the class

amongst which he laboured. As I have shown, he did not believe in

any positive good being effected save through individual

contact--through faith, in a word--faith in the human helper--which

might become a stepping-stone through the chaotic misery towards

faith in the Lord and in his Father. All that association could do,

as such, was only, in his judgment, to remove obstructions from the

way of individual growth and education--to put better conditions

within reach--first of all, to provide that the people should be

able, if they would, to live decently. He had no notion of domestic

inspection, or of offering prizes for cleanliness and order. He

knew that misery and wretchedness are the right and best condition

of those who live so that misery and wretchedness are the natural

consequences of their life. But there ought always to be the

possibility of emerging from these; and as things were, over the

whole country, for many who would if they could, it was impossible

to breathe fresh air, to be clean, to live like human beings. And

he saw this difficulty ever on the increase, through the rapacity of

the holders of small house-property, and the utter wickedness of

railway companies, who pulled down every house that stood in their

way, and did nothing to provide room for those who were thus

ejected--most probably from a wretched place, but only, to be driven

into a more wretched still. To provide suitable dwellings for the

poor he considered the most pressing of all necessary reforms. His

own fortune was not sufficient for doing much in this way, but he

set about doing what he could by purchasing houses in which the poor

lived, and putting them into the hands of persons whom he could

trust, and who were immediately responsible to him for their

proceedings: they had to make them fit for human abodes, and let

them to those who desired better accommodation, giving the

preference to those already tenants, so long as they paid their

reasonable rent, which he considered far more necessary for them to

do than for him to have done.

One day he met by appointment the owner of a small block, of which

he contemplated the purchase. They were in a dreadfully dilapidated

condition, a shame that belonged more to the owner than the

inhabitants. The man wanted to sell the houses, or at least was

willing to sell them, but put an exorbitant price upon them.

Falconer expostulated.

'I know the whole of the rent these houses could bring you in,' he

said, 'without making any deduction for vacancies and defalcations:

what you ask is twice as much as they would fetch if the full rent

were certain.'

The poor wretch looked up at him with the leer of a ghoul. He was

dressed like a broken-down clergyman, in rusty black, with a

neck-cloth of whitey-brown.

'I admit it,' he said in good English, and a rather educated tone.

'Your arguments are indisputable. I confess besides that so far

short does the yield come of the amount on paper, that it would pay

me to give them away. But it's the funerals, sir, that make it

worth my while. I'm an undertaker, as you may judge from my

costume. I count back-rent in the burying. People may cheat their

landlord, but they can't cheat the undertaker. They must be buried.

That's the one indispensable--ain't it, sir?'

Falconer had let him run on that he might have the measure of him.

Now he was prepared with his reply.

'You've told me your profession,' he said: 'I'll tell you mine. I

am a lawyer. If you don't let me have those houses for five

hundred, which is the full market value, I'll prosecute you. It'll

take a good penny from the profits of your coffins to put those

houses in a state to satisfy the inspector.'

The wretched creature was struck dumb. Falconer resumed.

'You're the sort of man that ought to be kept to your pound of

filthy flesh. I know what I say; and I'll do it. The law costs me

nothing. You won't find it so.'

The undertaker sold the houses, and no longer in that quarter killed

the people he wanted to bury.

I give this as a specimen of the kind of thing Falconer did. But he

took none of the business part in his own hands, on the same

principle on which Paul the Apostle said it was unmeet for him to

leave the preaching of the word in order to serve tables--not that

the thing was beneath him, but that it was not his work so long as

he could be doing more important service still.

De Fleuri was one of his chief supports. The whole nature of the

man mellowed under the sun of Falconer, and over the work that

Falconer gave him to do. His daughter recovered, and devoted

herself to the same labour that had rescued her. Miss St. John was

her superior. By degrees, without any laws or regulations, a little

company was gathered, not of ladies and gentlemen, but of men and

women, who aided each, other, and without once meeting as a whole,

laboured not the less as one body in the work of the Lord, bound in

one by bonds that had nothing to do with cobweb committee meetings

or public dinners, chairmen or wine-flushed subscriptions. They

worked like the leaven of which the Lord spoke.

But De Fleuri, like almost every one in the community I believe, had

his own private schemes subserving the general good. He knew the

best men of his own class and his own trade, and with them his

superior intellectual gifts gave him influence. To them he told the

story of Falconer's behaviour to him, of Falconer's own need, and of

his hungry-hearted search. An enthusiasm of help seized upon the

men. To aid your superior is such a rousing gladness!--Was anything

of this in St. Paul's mind when he spoke of our being fellow-workers

with God? I only put the question.--Each one of these had his own

trustworthy acquaintances, or neighbours, rather--for like finds out

like all the world through, as well as over--and to them he told the

story of Falconer and his father, so that in all that region of

London it became known that the man who loved the poor was himself

needy, and looked to the poor for their help. Without them he could

not be made perfect.

Some of my readers may be inclined to say that it was dishonourable

in Falconer to have occasioned the publishing of his father's

disgrace. Such may recall to their minds that concealment is no law

of the universe; that, on the contrary, the Lord of the Universe

said once: 'There is nothing covered that shall not be revealed.'

Was the disgrace of Andrew Falconer greater because a thousand men

knew it, instead of forty, who could not help knowing it? Hope lies

in light and knowledge. Andrew would be none the worse that honest

men knew of his vice: they would be the first to honour him if he

should overcome it. If he would not--the disgrace was just, and

would fall upon his son only in sorrow, not in dishonour. The grace

of God--the making of humanity by his beautiful hand--no, heart--is

such, that disgrace clings to no man after repentance, any more than

the feet defiled with the mud of the world come yet defiled from the

bath. Even the things that proceed out of the man, and do terribly

defile him, can be cast off like the pollution of the leper by a

grace that goes deeper than they; and the man who says, 'I have

sinned: I will sin no more,' is even by the voice of his brothers

crowned as a conqueror, and by their hearts loved as one who has

suffered and overcome. Blessing on the God-born human heart! Let

the hounds of God, not of Satan, loose upon sin;--God only can rule

the dogs of the devil;--let them hunt it to the earth; let them drag

forth the demoniac to the feet of the Man who loved the people while

he let the devil take their swine; and do not talk about disgrace

from a thing being known when the disgrace is that the thing should

exist.

One night I was returning home from some poor attempts of my own. I

had now been a pupil of Falconer for a considerable time, but having

my own livelihood to make, I could not do so much as I would.

It was late, nearly twelve o'clock, as I passed through the region

of Seven Dials. Here and there stood three or four brutal-looking

men, and now and then a squalid woman with a starveling baby in her

arms, in the light of the gin-shops. The babies were the saddest to

see--nursery-plants already in training for the places these men and

women now held, then to fill a pauper's grave, or perhaps a

perpetual cell--say rather, for the awful spaces of silence, where

the railway director can no longer be guilty of a worse sin than

house-breaking, and his miserable brother will have no need of the

shelter of which he deprived him. Now and then a flaunting woman

wavered past--a night-shade, as our old dramatists would have called

her. I could hardly keep down an evil disgust that would have

conquered my pity, when a scanty white dress would stop beneath a

lamp, and the gay dirty bonnet, turning round, reveal a painted

face, from which shone little more than an animal intelligence, not

brightened by the gin she had been drinking. Vague noises of strife

and of drunken wrath flitted around me as I passed an alley, or an

opening door let out its evil secret. Once I thought I heard the

dull thud of a blow on the head. The noisome vapours were fit for

any of Swedenborg's hells. There were few sounds, but the very

quiet seemed infernal. The night was hot and sultry. A skinned

cat, possibly still alive, fell on the street before me. Under one

of the gas-lamps lay something long: it was a tress of dark hair,

torn perhaps from some woman's head: she had beautiful hair at

least. Once I heard the cry of murder, but where, in that chaos of

humanity, right or left, before or behind me, I could not even

guess. Home to such regions, from gorgeous stage-scenery and

dresses, from splendid, mirror-beladen casinos, from singing-halls,

and places of private and prolonged revelry, trail the daughters of

men at all hours from midnight till morning. Next day they drink

hell-fire that they may forget. Sleep brings an hour or two of

oblivion, hardly of peace; but they must wake, worn and miserable,

and the waking brings no hope: their only known help lies in the

gin-shop. What can be done with them? But the secrets God keeps

must be as good as those he tells.

But no sights of the night ever affected me so much as walking

through this same St. Giles's on a summer Sunday morning, when

church-goers were in church. Oh! the faces that creep out into the

sunshine then, and haunt their doors! Some of them but skins drawn

over skulls, living Death's-heads, grotesque in their hideousness.

I was not very far from Falconer's abode. My mind was oppressed

with sad thoughts and a sense of helplessness. I began to wonder

what Falconer might at that moment be about. I had not seen him for

a long time--a whole fortnight. He might be at home: I would go and

see, and if there were light in his windows I would ring his bell.

I went. There was light in his windows. He opened the door

himself, and welcomed me. I went up with him, and we began to talk.

I told him of my sad thoughts, and my feelings of helplessness.

'He that believeth shall not make haste,' he said. 'There is plenty

of time. You must not imagine that the result depends on you, or

that a single human soul can be lost because you may fail. The

question, as far as you are concerned, is, whether you are to be

honoured in having a hand in the work that God is doing, and will

do, whether you help him or not. Some will be honoured: shall it be

me? And this honour gained excludes no one: there is work, as there

is bread in his house, enough and to spare. It shows no faith in

God to make frantic efforts or frantic lamentations. Besides, we

ought to teach ourselves to see, as much as we may, the good that is

in the condition of the poor.'

'Teach me to see that, then,' I said. 'Show me something.'

'The best thing is their kindness to each other. There is an

absolute divinity in their self-denial for those who are poorer than

themselves. I know one man and woman, married people, who pawned

their very furniture and wearing apparel to procure cod-liver oil

for a girl dying in consumption. She was not even a relative, only

an acquaintance of former years. They had found her destitute and

taken her to their own poor home. There are fathers and mothers who

will work hard all the morning, and when dinner-time comes "don't

want any," that there may be enough for their children--or half

enough, more likely. Children will take the bread out of their own

mouths to put in that of their sick brother, or to stick in the fist

of baby crying for a crust--giving only a queer little helpless

grin, half of hungry sympathy, half of pleasure, as they see it

disappear. The marvel to me is that the children turn out so well

as they do; but that applies to the children in all ranks of life.

Have you ever watched a group of poor children, half-a-dozen of

them with babies in their arms?'

'I have, a little, and have seen such a strange mixture of

carelessness and devotion.'

'Yes. I was once stopped in the street by a child of ten, with face

absolutely swollen with weeping, asking me to go and see baby who

was very ill. She had dropped him four times that morning, but had

no idea that could have done him any harm. The carelessness is

ignorance. Their form of it is not half so shocking as that of the

mother who will tremble at the slightest sign of suffering in her

child, but will hear him lie against his brother without the

smallest discomfort. Ah! we shall all find, I fear, some day, that

we have differed from each other, where we have done best, only in

mode--perhaps not even in degree. A grinding tradesman takes

advantage of the over supply of labour to get his work done at

starvation prices: I owe him love, and have never thought of paying

my debt except in boundless indignation.'

'I wish I had your faith and courage, Mr. Falconer,' I said.

'You are in a fair way of having far more,' he returned. 'You are

not so old as I am, by a long way. But I fear you are getting out

of spirits. Is to-morrow a hard day with you?'

'I have next to nothing to do to-morrow.'

'Then will you come to me in the evening? We will go out together.'

Of course I was only too glad to accept the proposal. But our talk

did not end here. The morning began to shine before I rose to leave

him; and before I reached my abode it was broad daylight. But what

a different heart I carried within me! And what a different London

it was outside of me! The scent of the hayfields came on the

hardly-moving air. It was a strange morning--a new day of unknown

history--in whose young light the very streets were transformed,

looking clear and clean, and wondrously transparent in perspective,

with unknown shadows lying in unexpected nooks, with projection and

recess, line and bend, as I had never seen them before. The light

was coming as if for the first time since the city sprang into

being--as if a thousand years had rolled over it in darkness and

lamplight, and now, now, after the prayers and longings of ages, the

sun of God was ascending the awful east, and the spirit-voice had

gone forth: 'Arise, shine, for thy light is come.'

It was a well-behaved, proper London through which I walked home.

Here and there, it is true, a debauched-looking man, with pale

face, and red sleepy eyes, or a weary, withered girl, like a

half-moon in the daylight, straggled somewhither. But they looked

strange to the London of the morning. They were not of it. Alas

for those who creep to their dens, like the wild beasts when the sun

arises, because the light has shaken them out of the world. All the

horrid phantasms of the Valley of the Shadow of Death that had risen

from the pit with the vaporous night had sunk to escape the arrows

of the sun, once more into its bottomless depth. If any horrid deed

was doing now, how much more horrid in the awful still light of this

first hour of a summer morn! How many evil passions now lay sunk

under the holy waves of sleep! How many heartaches were gnawing

only in dreams, to wake with the brain, and gnaw in earnest again!

And over all brooded the love of the Lord Christ, who is Lord over

all blessed for ever, and shall yet cast death and hell into the

lake of fire--the holy purifying Fate.

I got through my sole engagement--a very dreary one, for surely

never were there stupider young people in the whole region of rank

than those to whom duty and necessity sent me on the Wednesday

mornings of that London season--even with some enjoyment. For the

lessons Falconer had been giving me clung to me and grew on me until

I said thus to myself: 'Am I to believe only for the poor, and not

for the rich? Am I not to bear with conceit even, hard as it is to

teach? for is not this conceit itself the measure as the consequence

of incapacity and ignorance? They cannot help being born stupid,

any more than some of those children in St. Giles's can help being

born preternaturally, unhealthily clever. I am going with my friend

this evening: that hope is enough to make me strong for one day at

least.' So I set myself to my task, and that morning wiled the

first gleam of intelligent delight out of the eyes of one poor

little washed-out ladyship. I could have kissed her from positive

thankfulness.

The day did wear over. The evening did come. I was with my

friend--for friend I could call him none the less and all the more

that I worshipped him.

'I have business in Westminster,' he said, 'and then on the other

side of the water.'

'I am more and more astonished at your knowledge of London, Mr.

Falconer,' I said. 'You must have a great faculty for places.'

'I think rather the contrary,' he answered. 'But there is no end to

the growth of a faculty, if one only uses it--especially when his

whole nature is interested in its efficiency, and makes demands upon

it. The will applies to the intellect; the intellect communicates

its necessities to the brain; the brain bestirs itself, and grows

more active; the eyes lend their aid; the memory tries not to be

behind; and at length you have a man gifted in localities.'

'How is it that people generally can live in such quiet ignorance of

the regions that surround them, and the kind of humanity so near

them?' I said after a pause.

'It does seem strange. It is as if a man should not know who were

in his own house. Would-be civilization has for the very centre of

its citadel, for the citizens of its innermost city, for the heart

around which the gay and fashionable, the learned, the artistic, the

virtuous, the religious are gathered, a people some of whom are

barbarous, some cruel, many miserable, many unhappy, save for brief

moments not of hope, but of defiance, distilled in the alembic of

the brain from gin: what better life could steam up from such a

Phlegethon! Look there: "Cream of the Valley!" As if the mocking

serpent must with sweet words of Paradise deepen the horrors of the

hellish compound, to which so many of our brothers and sisters made

in the image of God, fly as to their only Saviour from the misery of

feeling alive.'

'How is it that the civilized people of London do not make a

simultaneous inroad upon the haunts of the demons and drive them

out?'

'It is a mercy they do not. They would only do infinite mischief.

The best notion civilization seems to have is--not to drive out the

demons, but to drive out the possessed; to take from them the poor

refuges they have, and crowd them into deeper and more fetid

hells--to make room for what?--more and more temples in which Mammon

may be worshipped. The good people on the other hand invade them

with foolish tracts, that lie against God; or give their money to

build churches, where there is as yet no people that will go to

them. Why, the other day, a young clergyman bored me, and would

have been boring me till now, I think, if I would have let him, to

part with a block of my houses, where I know every man, woman, and

child, and keep them in comparative comfort and cleanliness and

decency, to say no more, that he might pull them down and build a

church upon the site--not quite five minutes' walk from the church

where he now officiates.'

It was a blowing, moon-lit night. The gaslights flickered and

wavered in the gusts of wind. It was cold, very cold for the

season. Even Falconer buttoned his coat over his chest. He got a

few paces in advance of me sometimes, when I saw him towering black

and tall and somewhat gaunt, like a walking shadow. The wind

increased in violence. It was a north-easter, laden with dust, and

a sense of frozen Siberian steppes. We had to stoop and head it at

the corners of streets. Not many people were out, and those who

were, seemed to be hurrying home. A few little provision-shops, and

a few inferior butchers' stalls were still open. Their great jets

of gas, which looked as if they must poison the meat, were flaming

fierce and horizontal, roaring like fiery flags, and anon dying into

a blue hiss. Discordant singing, more like the howling of wild

beasts, came from the corner houses, which blazed like the gates of

hell. Their doors were ever on the swing, and the hot odours of

death rushed out, and the cold blast of life rushed in. We paused a

little before one of them--over the door, upon the sign, was in very

deed the name Death. There were ragged women within who took their

half-dead babies from their bare, cold, cheerless bosoms, and gave

them of the poison of which they themselves drank renewed despair in

the name of comfort. They say that most of the gin consumed in

London is drunk by women. And the little clay-coloured baby-faces

made a grimace or two, and sank to sleep on the thin tawny breasts

of the mothers, who having gathered courage from the essence of

despair, faced the scowling night once more, and with bare necks and

hopeless hearts went--whither? Where do they all go when the

gin-hells close their yawning jaws? Where do they lie down at

night? They vanish like unlawfully risen corpses in the graves of

cellars and garrets, in the charnel-vaults of pestiferously-crowded

lodging-houses, in the prisons of police-stations, under dry arches,

within hoardings; or they make vain attempts to rest the night out

upon door-steps or curbstones. All their life long man denies them

the one right in the soil which yet is so much theirs, that once

that life is over, he can no longer deny it--the right of room to

lie down. Space itself is not allowed to be theirs by any right of

existence: the voice of the night-guardian commanding them to move

on, is as the howling of a death-hound hunting them out of the air

into their graves.

In St. James's we came upon a group around the gates of a great

house. Visitors were coming and going, and it was a show to be had

for nothing by those who had nothing to pay. Oh! the children with

clothes too ragged to hold pockets for their chilled hands, that

stared at the childless duchess descending from her lordly carriage!

Oh! the wan faces, once lovely as theirs, it may be, that gazed

meagre and pinched and hungry on the young maidens in rose-colour

and blue, tripping lightly through the avenue of their eager

eyes--not yet too envious of unattainable felicity to gaze with

admiring sympathy on those who seemed to them the angels, the

goddesses of their kind. 'O God!' I thought, but dared not speak,

'and thou couldst make all these girls so lovely! Thou couldst give

them all the gracious garments of rose and blue and white if thou

wouldst! Why should these not be like those? They are hungry even,

and wan and torn. These too are thy children. There is wealth

enough in thy mines and in thy green fields, room enough in thy

starry spaces, O God!' But a voice--the echo of Falconer's

teaching, awoke in my heart--'Because I would have these more

blessed than those, and those more blessed with them, for they are

all my children.'

By the Mall we came into Whitehall, and so to Westminster Bridge.

Falconer had changed his mind, and would cross at once. The

present bridge was not then finished, and the old bridge alongside

of it was still in use for pedestrians. We went upon it to reach

the other side. Its centre rose high above the other, for the line

of the new bridge ran like a chord across the arc of the old.

Through chance gaps in the boarding between, we looked down on the

new portion which was as yet used by carriages alone. The moon had,

throughout the evening, alternately shone in brilliance from amidst

a lake of blue sky, and been overwhelmed in billowy heaps of

wind-tormented clouds. As we stood on the apex of the bridge,

looking at the night, the dark river, and the mass of human effort

about us, the clouds gathered and closed and tumbled upon her in

crowded layers. The wind howled through the arches beneath, swept

along the boarded fences, and whistled in their holes. The

gas-lights blew hither and thither, and were perplexed to live at

all.

We were standing at a spot where some shorter pieces had been used

in the hoarding; and, although I could not see over them, Falconer,

whose head rose more than half a foot above mine, was looking on the

other bridge below. Suddenly he grasped the top with his great

hands, and his huge frame was over it in an instant. I was on the

top of the hoarding the same moment, and saw him prostrate some

twelve feet below. He was up the next instant, and running with

huge paces diagonally towards the Surrey side. He had seen the

figure of a woman come flying along from the Westminster side,

without bonnet or shawl. When she came under the spot where we

stood, she had turned across at an obtuse angle towards the other

side of the bridge, and Falconer, convinced that she meant to throw

herself into the river, went over as I have related. She had all

but scrambled over the fence--for there was no parapet yet--by the

help of the great beam that ran along to support it, when he caught

her by her garments. So poor and thin were those garments, that if

she had not been poor and thin too, she would have dropped from them

into the darkness below. He took her in his arms, lifted her down

upon the bridge, and stood as if protecting her from a pursuing

death. I had managed to find an easier mode of descent, and now

stood a little way from them.

'Poor girl! poor girl!' he said, as if to himself: 'was this the

only way left?'

Then he spoke tenderly to her. What he said I could not hear--I

only heard the tone.

'O sir!' she cried, in piteous entreaty, 'do let me go. Why should

a wretched creature like me be forced to live? It's no good to you,

sir. Do let me go.'

'Come here,' he said, drawing her close to the fence. 'Stand up

again on the beam. Look down.'

She obeyed, in a mechanical kind of way. But as he talked, and she

kept looking down on the dark mystery beneath, flowing past with

every now and then a dull vengeful glitter--continuous, forceful,

slow, he felt her shudder in his still clasping arm.

'Look,' he said, 'how it crawls along--black and slimy! how silent

and yet how fierce! Is that a nice place to go to down there?

Would there be any rest there, do you think, tumbled about among

filth and creeping things, and slugs that feed on the dead; among

drowned women like yourself drifting by, and murdered men, and

strangled babies? Is that the door by which you would like to go

out of the world?'

'It's no worse,' she faltered, '--not so bad as what I should leave

behind.'

'If this were the only way out of it, I would not keep you from it.

I would say, "Poor thing! there is no help: she must go." But

there is another way.'

'There is no other way, sir--if you knew all,' she said.

'Tell me, then.'

'I cannot. I dare not. Please--I would rather go.'

She looked, from the mere glimpses I could get of her, somewhere

about five-and-twenty, making due allowance for the wear of

suffering so evident even in those glimpses. I think she might have

been beautiful if the waste of her history could have been restored.

That she had had at least some advantages of education, was evident

from both her tone and her speech. But oh, the wild eyes, and the

tortured lips, drawn back from the teeth with an agony of

hopelessness, as she struggled anew, perhaps mistrusting them, to

escape from the great arms that held her!

'But the river cannot drown you,' Falconer said. 'It can only stop

your breath. It cannot stop your thinking. You will go on

thinking, thinking, all the same. Drowning people remember in a

moment all their past lives. All their evil deeds come up before

them, as if they were doing them all over again. So they plunge

back into the past and all its misery. While their bodies are

drowning, their souls are coming more and more awake.'

'That is dreadful,' she murmured, with her great eyes fixed on his,

and growing steadier in their regard. She had ceased to struggle,

so he had slackened his hold of her, and she was leaning back

against the fence.

'And then,' he went on, 'what if, instead of closing your eyes, as

you expected, and going to sleep, and forgetting everything, you

should find them come open all at once, in the midst of a multitude

of eyes all round about you, all looking at you, all thinking about

you, all judging you? What if you should hear, not a tumult of

voices and noises, from which you could hope to hide, but a solemn

company talking about you--every word clear and plain, piercing your

heart with what you could not deny,--and you standing naked and

shivering in the midst of them?'

'It is too dreadful!' she cried, making a movement as if the very

horror of the idea had a fascination to draw her towards the

realization of it. 'But,' she added, yielding to Falconer's renewed

grasp, 'they wouldn't be so hard upon me there. They would not be

so cruel as men are here.'

'Surely not. But all men are not cruel. I am not cruel,' he added,

forgetting himself for a moment, and caressing with his huge hand

the wild pale face that glimmered upon him as it were out of the

infinite night--all but swallowed up in it.

She drew herself back, and Falconer, instantly removing his hand,

said,

'Look in my face, child, and see whether you cannot trust me.'

As he uttered the words, he took off his hat, and stood bare-headed

in the moon, which now broke out clear from the clouds. She did

look at him. His hair blew about his face. He turned it towards

the wind and the moon, and away from her, that she might be

undisturbed in her scrutiny. But how she judged of him, I cannot

tell; for the next moment he called out in a tone of repressed

excitement,

'Gordon, Gordon, look there--above your head, on the other bridge.'

I looked and saw a gray head peering over the same gap through which

Falconer had looked a few minutes before. I knew something of his

personal quest by this time, and concluded at once that he thought

it was or might be his father.

'I cannot leave the poor thing--I dare not,' he said.

I understood him, and darted off at full speed for the Surrey end of

the bridge. What made me choose that end, I do not know; but I was

right.

I had some reason to fear that I might be stopped when I reached it,

as I had no business to be upon the new bridge. I therefore

managed, where the upper bridge sank again towards a level with the

lower, to scramble back upon it. As I did so the tall gray-headed

man passed me with an uncertain step. I did not see his face. I

followed him a few yards behind. He seemed to hear and dislike the

sound of my footsteps, for he quickened his pace. I let him

increase the distance between us, but followed him still. He turned

down the river. I followed. He began to double. I doubled after

him. Not a turn could he get before me. He crossed all the main

roads leading to the bridges till he came to the last--when he

turned toward London Bridge. At the other end, he went down the

stairs into Thames Street, and held eastward still. It was not

difficult to keep up with him, for his stride though long was slow.

He never looked round, and I never saw his face; but I could not

help fancying that his back and his gait and his carriage were very

like Falconer's.

We were now in a quarter of which I knew nothing, but as far as I

can guess from after knowledge, it was one of the worst districts in

London, lying to the east of Spital Square. It was late, and there

were not many people about.

As I passed a court, I was accosted thus:

''Ain't you got a glass of ale for a poor cove, gov'nor?'

'I have no coppers,' I said hastily. 'I am in a hurry besides,' I

added as I walked on.

'Come, come!' he said, getting up with me in a moment, 'that ain't a

civil answer to give a cove after his lush, that 'ain't got a

blessed mag.'

As he spoke he laid his hand rather heavily on my arm. He was a

lumpy-looking individual, like a groom who had been discharged for

stealing his horse's provender, and had not quite worn out the

clothes he had brought with him. From the opposite side at the same

moment, another man appeared, low in stature, pale, and marked with

the small-pox.

He advanced upon me at right angles. I shook off the hand of the

first, and I confess would have taken to my heels, for more reasons

than one, but almost before I was clear of him, the other came

against me, and shoved me into one of the low-browed entries which

abounded.

I was so eager to follow my chase that I acted foolishly throughout.

I ought to have emptied my pockets at once; but I was unwilling to

lose a watch which was an old family piece, and of value besides.

'Come, come! I don't carry a barrel of ale in my pocket,' I said,

thinking to keep them in good-humour. I know better now. Some of

these roughs will take all you have in the most good-humoured way in

the world, bandying chaff with you all the time. I had got amongst

another set, however.

'Leastways you've got as good,' said a third, approaching from the

court, as villanous-looking a fellow as I have ever seen.

'This is hardly the right way to ask for it,' I said, looking out

for a chance of bolting, but putting my hand in my pocket at the

same time. I confess again I acted very stupidly throughout the

whole affair, but it was my first experience.

'It's a way we've got down here, anyhow,' said the third with a

brutal laugh. 'Look out, Savoury Sam,' he added to one of them.

'Now I don't want to hurt you,' struck in the first, coming nearer,

'but if you gives tongue, I'll make cold meat of you, and gouge your

pockets at my leisure, before ever a blueskin can turn the corner.'

Two or three more came sidling up with their hands in their pockets.

'What have you got there, Slicer?' said one of them, addressing the

third, who looked like a ticket-of-leave man.

'We've cotched a pig-headed counter-jumper here, that didn't know

Jim there from a man-trap, and went by him as if he'd been a

bull-dog on a long-chain. He wants to fight cocum. But we won't

trouble him. We'll help ourselves. Shell out now.'

As he spoke he made a snatch at my watch-chain. I forgot myself and

hit him. The same moment I received a blow on the head, and felt

the blood running down my face. I did not quite lose my senses,

though, for I remember seeing yet another man--a tall fellow, coming

out of the gloom of the court. How it came into my mind, I do not

know, and what I said I do not remember, but I must have mentioned

Falconer's name somehow.

The man they called Slicer, said,

'Who's he? Don't know the--.'

Words followed which I cannot write.

'What! you devil's gossoon!' returned an Irish voice I had not heard

before. 'You don't know Long Bob, you gonnof!'

All that passed I heard distinctly, but I was in a half faint, I

suppose, for I could no longer see.

'Now what the devil in a dice-box do you mean?' said Slicer,

possessing himself of my watch. 'Who is the blasted cove?--not that

I care a flash of damnation.'

'A man as 'll knock you down if he thinks you want it, or give you a

half-a-crown if he thinks you want it--all's one to him, only he'll

have the choosing which.'

'What the hell's that to me? Look spry. He mustn't lie there all

night. It's too near the ken. Come along, you Scotch haddock.'

I was aware of a kick in the side as he spoke.

'I tell you what it is, Slicer,' said one whose voice I had not yet

heard, 'if so be this gentleman's a friend of Long Bob, you just let

him alone, I say.'

I opened my eyes now, and saw before me a tall rather slender man in

a big loose dress-coat, to whom Slicer had turned with the words,

'You say! Ha! ha! Well, I say--There's my Scotch haddock! who'll

touch him?'

'I'll take him home,' said the tall man, advancing towards me. I

made an attempt to rise. But I grew deadly ill, fell back, and

remember nothing more.

When I came to myself I was lying on a bed in a miserable place. A

middle-aged woman of degraded countenance, but kindly eyes, was

putting something to my mouth with a teaspoon: I knew it by the

smell to be gin. But I could not yet move. They began to talk

about me, and I lay and listened. Indeed, while I listened, I lost

for a time all inclination to get up, I was so much interested in

what I heard.

'He's comin' to hisself,' said the woman. 'He'll be all right by and

by. I wonder what brings the likes of him into the likes of this

place. It must look a kind of hell to them gentle-folks, though we

manage to live and die in it.'

'I suppose,' said another, 'he's come on some of Mr. Falconer's

business.'

'That's why Job's took him in charge. They say he was after

somebody or other, they think.--No friend of Mr. Falconer's would be

after another for any mischief,' said my hostess.

'But who is this Mr. Falconer?--Is Long Bob and he both the same

alias?' asked a third.

'Why, Bessy, ain't you no better than that damned Slicer, who ought

to ha' been hung up to dry this many a year? But to be sure you

'ain't been long in our quarter. Why, every child hereabouts knows

Mr. Falconer. Ask Bobby there.'

'Who's Mr. Falconer, Bobby?'

A child's voice made reply,

'A man with a long, long beard, that goes about, and sometimes grows

tired and sits on a door-step. I see him once. But he ain't Mr.

Falconer, nor Long Bob neither,' added Bobby in a mysterious tone.

'I know who he is.'

'What do you mean, Bobby? Who is he, then?'

The child answered very slowly and solemnly,

'He's Jesus Christ.'

The woman burst into a rude laugh.

'Well,' said Bobby in an offended tone, 'Slicer's own Tom says so,

and Polly too. We all says so. He allus pats me on the head, and

gives me a penny.'

Here Bobby began to cry, bitterly offended at the way Bessy had

received his information, after considering him sufficiently

important to have his opinion asked.

'True enough,' said his mother. 'I see him once a-sittin' on a

door-step, lookin' straight afore him, and worn-out like, an' a lot

o' them childer standin' all about him, an' starin' at him as mum as

mice, for fear of disturbin' of him. When I come near, he got up

with a smile on his face, and give each on 'em a penny all round,

and walked away. Some do say he's a bit crazed like; but I never

saw no sign o' that; and if any one ought to know, that one's Job's

Mary; and you may believe me when I tell you that he was here night

an' mornin' for a week, and after that off and on, when we was all

down in the cholerer. Ne'er a one of us would ha' come through but

for him.'

I made an attempt to rise. The woman came to my bedside.

'How does the gentleman feel hisself now?' she asked kindly.

'Better, thank you,' I said. 'I am ashamed of lying like this, but I

feel very queer.'

'And it's no wonder, when that devil Slicer give you one o' his even

down blows on the top o' your head. Nobody knows what he carry in

his sleeve that he do it with--only you've got off well, young man,

and that I tell you, with a decent cut like that. Only don't you go

tryin' to get up now. Don't be in a hurry till your blood comes

back like.'

I lay still again for a little. When I lifted my hand to my head, I

found it was bandaged up. I tried again to rise. The woman went to

the door, and called out,

'Job, the gentleman's feelin' better. He'll soon be able to move, I

think. What will you do with him now?'

'I'll go and get a cab,' said Job; and I heard him go down a stair.

I raised myself, and got on the floor, but found I could not stand.

By the time the cab arrived, however, I was able to crawl to it.

When Job came, I saw the same tall thin man in the long dress coat.

His head was bound up too.

'I am sorry to see you too have been hurt--for my sake, of course,'

I said. 'Is it a bad blow?'

'Oh! it ain't over much. I got in with a smeller afore he came

right down with his slogger. But I say, I hope as how you are a

friend of Mr. Falconer's, for you see we can't afford the likes of

this in this quarter for every chance that falls in Slicer's way.

Gentlemen has no business here.'

'On the contrary, I mean to come again soon, to thank you all for

being so good to me.'

'Well, when you comes next, you'd better come with him, you know.'

'You mean with Mr. Falconer?'

'Yes, who else? But are you able to go now? for the sooner you're

out of this the better.'

'Quite able. Just give me your arm.'

He offered it kindly. Taking a grateful farewell of my hostess, I

put my hand in my pocket, but there was nothing there. Job led me

to the mouth of the court, where a cab, evidently of a sort with the

neighbourhood, was waiting for us. I got in. Job was shutting the

door.

'Come along with me, Job,' I said. 'I'm going straight to Mr.

Falconer's. He will like to see you, especially after your kindness

to me.'

'Well, I don't mind if I do look arter you a little longer; for to

tell the truth,' said Job, as he opened the door, and got in beside

me, 'I don't over and above like the look of the--horse.'

'It's no use trying to rob me over again,' I said; but he gave no

reply. He only shouted to the cabman to drive to John Street,

telling him the number.

I can scarcely recall anything more till we reached Falconer's

chambers. Job got out and rang the bell. Mrs. Ashton came down.

Her master was not come home.

'Tell Mr. Falconer,' I said, 'that I'm all right, only I couldn't

make anything of it.'

'Tell him,' growled Job, 'that he's got his head broken, and won't

be out o' bed to-morrow. That's the way with them fine-bred ones.

They lies a-bed when the likes o' me must go out what they calls

a-custamongering, broken head and all.'

'You shall stay at home for a week if you like, Job--that is if I've

got enough to give you a week's earnings. I'm not sure though till

I look, for I'm not a rich man any more than yourself.'

'Rubbish!' said Job as he got in again; 'I was only flummuxing the

old un. Bless your heart, sir, I wouldn't stay in--not for nothink.

Not for a bit of a pat on the crown, nohow. Home ain't none so

nice a place to go snoozing in--nohow. Where do you go to,

gov'nor?'

I told him. When I got out, and was opening the door, leaning on

his arm, I said I was very glad they hadn't taken my keys.

'Slicer nor Savoury Sam neither's none the better o' you, and I

hopes you're not much the worse for them,' said Job, as he put into

my hands my purse and watch. 'Count it, gov'nor, and see if it's all

right. Them pusses is mannyfactered express for the convenience o'

the fakers. Take my advice, sir, and keep a yellow dump (sovereign)

in yer coat-tails, a flatch yenork (half-crown) in yer waistcoat,

and yer yeneps (pence) in yer breeches. You won't lose much nohow

then. Good-night, sir, and I wish you better.'

'But I must give you something for plaster,' I said. 'You'll take a

yellow dump, at least?'

'We'll talk about that another day,' said Job; and with a second

still heartier good-night, he left me. I managed to crawl up to my

room, and fell on my bed once more fainting. But I soon recovered

sufficiently to undress and get into it. I was feverish all night

and next day, but towards evening begun to recover.

I kept expecting Falconer to come and inquire after me; but he never

came. Nor did he appear the next day or the next, and I began to be

very uneasy about him. The fourth day I sent for a cab, and drove

to John Street. He was at home, but Mrs. Ashton, instead of showing

me into his room, led me into her kitchen, and left me there.

A minute after, Falconer came to me. The instant I saw him I

understood it all. I read it in his face: he had found his father.

CHAPTER XII.

ANDREW AT LAST.

Having at length persuaded the woman to go with him, Falconer made

her take his arm, and led her off the bridge. In Parliament Street

he was looking about for a cab as they walked on, when a man he did

not know, stopped, touched his hat, and addressed him.

'I'm thinkin', sir, ye'll be sair wantit at hame the nicht It wad be

better to gang at ance, an' lat the puir fowk luik efter themsels

for ae nicht.'

'I'm sorry I dinna ken ye, man. Do ye ken me?'

'Fine that, Mr. Falconer. There's mony ane kens you and praises

God.'

'God be praised!' returned Falconer. 'Why am I wanted at home?'

''Deed I wad raither not say, sir.--Hey!'

This last exclamation was addressed to a cab just disappearing down

King Street from Whitehall. The driver heard, turned, and in a

moment more was by their side.

'Ye had better gang into her an' awa' hame, and lea' the poor lassie

to me. I'll tak guid care o' her.'

She clung to Falconer's arm. The man opened the door of the cab.

Falconer put her in, told the driver to go to Queen Square, and if

he could not make haste, to stop the first cab that could, got in

himself, thanked his unknown friend, who did not seem quite

satisfied, and drove off.

Happily Miss St. John was at home, and there was no delay. Neither

was any explanation of more than six words necessary. He jumped

again into the cab and drove home. Fortunately for his mood, though

in fact it mattered little for any result, the horse was fresh, and

both able and willing.

When he entered John Street, he came to observe before reaching his

own door that a good many men were about in little quiet

groups--some twenty or so, here and there. When he let himself in

with his pass-key, there were two men in the entry. Without

stopping to speak, he ran up to his own chambers. When he got into

his sitting-room, there stood De Fleuri, who simply waved his hand

towards the old sofa. On it lay an elderly man, with his eyes half

open, and a look almost of idiocy upon his pale, puffed face, which

was damp and shining. His breathing was laboured, but there was no

further sign of suffering. He lay perfectly still. Falconer saw at

once that he was under the influence of some narcotic, probably

opium; and the same moment the all but conviction darted into his

mind that Andrew Falconer, his grandmother's son, lay there before

him. That he was his own father he had no feeling yet. He turned

to De Fleuri.

'Thank you, friend,' he said. 'I shall find time to thank you.'

'Are we right?' asked De Fleuri.

'I don't know. I think so,' answered Falconer; and without another

word the man withdrew.

His first mood was very strange. It seemed as if all the romance

had suddenly deserted his life, and it lay bare and hopeless. He

felt nothing. No tears rose to the brim of their bottomless

wells--the only wells that have no bottom, for they go into the

depths of the infinite soul. He sat down in his chair, stunned as

to the heart and all the finer chords of his nature. The man on the

horsehair sofa lay breathing--that was all. The gray hair about the

pale ill-shaven face glimmered like a cloud before him. What should

he do or say when he awaked? How approach this far-estranged soul?

How ever send the cry of father into that fog-filled world? Could

he ever have climbed on those knees and kissed those lips, in the

far-off days when the sun and the wind of that northern atmosphere

made his childhood blessed beyond dreams? The actual--that is the

present phase of the ever-changing--looked the ideal in the face;

and the mirror that held them both, shook and quivered at the

discord of the faces reflected. A kind of moral cold seemed to

radiate from the object before him, and chill him to the very bones.

This could not long be endured. He fled from the actual to the

source of all the ideal--to that Saviour who, the infinite mediator,

mediates between all hopes and all positions; between the most

debased actual and the loftiest ideal; between the little scoffer of

St. Giles's and his angel that ever beholds the face of the Father

in heaven. He fell on his knees, and spoke to God, saying that he

had made this man; that the mark of his fingers was on the man's

soul somewhere. He prayed to the making Spirit to bring the man to

his right mind, to give him once more the heart of a child, to begin

him yet again at the beginning. Then at last, all the evil he had

done and suffered would but swell his gratitude to Him who had

delivered him from himself and his own deeds. Having breathed this

out before the God of his life, Falconer rose, strengthened to meet

the honourable debased soul when it should at length look forth from

the dull smeared windows of those ill-used eyes.

He felt his pulse. There was no danger from the narcotic. The coma

would pass away. Meantime he would get him to bed. When he began

to undress him a new reverence arose which overcame all disgust at

the state in which he found him. At length one sad little fact

about his dress, revealing the poverty-stricken attempt of a man to

preserve the shadow of decency, called back the waters of the

far-ebbed ocean of his feelings. At the prick of a pin the heart's

blood will flow: at the sight of--a pin it was--Robert burst into

tears, and wept like a child; the deadly cold was banished from his

heart, and he not only loved, but knew that he loved--felt the love

that was there. Everything then about the worn body and shabby

garments of the man smote upon the heart of his son, and through his

very poverty he was sacred in his eyes. The human heart awakened

the filial--reversing thus the ordinary process of Nature, who by

means of the filial, when her plans are unbroken, awakes the human;

and he reproached himself bitterly for his hardness, as he now

judged his late mental condition--unfairly, I think. He soon had

him safe in bed, unconscious of the helping hands that had been busy

about him in his heedless sleep; unconscious of the radiant planet

of love that had been folding him round in its atmosphere of

affection.

But while he thus ministered, a new question arose in his mind--to

meet with its own new, God-given answer. What if this should not be

the man after all?--if this love had been spent in mistake, and did

not belong to him at all? The answer was, that he was a man. The

love Robert had given he could not, would not withdraw. The man who

had been for a moment as his father he could not cease to regard

with devotion. At least he was a man with a divine soul. He might

at least be somebody's father. Where love had found a moment's rest

for the sole of its foot, there it must build its nest.

When he had got him safe in bed, he sat down beside him to think

what he would do next. This sleep gave him very needful leisure to

think. He could determine nothing--not even how to find out if he

was indeed his father. If he approached the subject without guile,

the man might be fearful and cunning--might have reasons for being

so, and for striving to conceal the truth. But this was the first

thing to make sure of, because, if it was he, all the hold he had

upon him lay in his knowing it for certain. He could not think. He

had had little sleep the night before. He must not sleep this

night. He dragged his bath into his sitting-room, and refreshed his

faculties with plenty of cold water, then lighted his pipe and went

on thinking--not without prayer to that Power whose candle is the

understanding of man. All at once he saw how to begin. He went

again into the chamber, and looked at the man, and handled him, and

knew by his art that a waking of some sort was nigh. Then he went

to a corner of his sitting-room, and from beneath the table drew out

a long box, and from the box lifted Dooble Sandy's auld wife, tuned

the somewhat neglected strings, and laid the instrument on the

table.

When, keeping constant watch over the sleeping man, he judged at

length that his soul had come near enough to the surface of the

ocean of sleep to communicate with the outer world through that

bubble his body, which had floated upon its waves all the night

unconscious, he put his chair just outside the chamber door, which

opened from his sitting-room, and began to play gently, softly, far

away. For a while he extemporized only, thinking of Rothieden, and

the grandmother, and the bleach-green, and the hills, and the waste

old factory, and his mother's portrait and letters. As he dreamed

on, his dream got louder, and, he hoped, was waking a more and more

vivid dream in the mind of the sleeper. 'For who can tell,' thought

Falconer, 'what mysterious sympathies of blood and childhood's

experience there may be between me and that man?--such, it may be,

that my utterance on the violin will wake in his soul the very

visions of which my soul is full while I play, each with its own

nebulous atmosphere of dream-light around it.' For music wakes its

own feeling, and feeling wakes thought, or rather, when perfected,

blossoms into thought, thought radiant of music as those lilies that

shine phosphorescent in the July nights. He played more and more

forcefully, growing in hope. But he had been led astray in some

measure by the fulness of his expectation. Strange to tell, doctor

as he was, he had forgotten one important factor in his calculation:

how the man would awake from his artificial sleep. He had not

reckoned of how the limbeck of his brain would be left discoloured

with vile deposit, when the fumes of the narcotic should have

settled and given up its central spaces to the faintness of

desertion.

Robert was very keen of hearing. Indeed he possessed all his senses

keener than any other man I have known. He heard him toss on his

bed. Then he broke into a growl, and damned the miauling, which, he

said, the strings could never have learned anywhere but in a cat's

belly. But Robert was used to bad language; and there are some bad

things which, seeing that there they are, it is of the greatest

consequence to get used to. It gave him, no doubt, a pang of

disappointment to hear such an echo to his music from the soul which

he had hoped especially fitted to respond in harmonious unison with

the wail of his violin. But not for even this moment did he lose

his presence of mind. He instantly moderated the tone of the

instrument, and gradually drew the sound away once more into the

distance of hearing. But he did not therefore let it die. Through

various changes it floated in the thin ther of the soul, changes?

delicate as when the wind leaves the harp of the reeds by a river's

brink, and falls a-ringing at the heather bells, or playing with the

dry silvery pods of honesty that hang in the poor man's garden, till

at length it drew nearer once more, bearing on its wings the wail of

red Flodden, the Flowers of the Forest. Listening through the

melody for sounds of a far different kind, Robert was aware that

those sounds had ceased; the growling was still; he heard no more

turnings to and fro. How it was operating he could not tell,

further than that there must be some measure of soothing in its

influence. He ceased quite, and listened again. For a few moments

there was no sound. Then he heard the half-articulate murmuring of

one whose organs have been all but overcome by the beneficent

paralysis of sleep, but whose feeble will would compel them to

utterance. He was nearly asleep again. Was it a fact, or a fancy

of Robert's eager heart? Did the man really say,

'Play that again, father. It's bonnie, that! I aye likit the

Flooers o' the Forest. Play awa'. I hae had a frichtsome dream. I

thocht I was i' the ill place. I doobt I'm no weel. But yer fiddle

aye did me gude. Play awa', father!'

All the night through, till the dawn of the gray morning, Falconer

watched the sleeping man, all but certain that he was indeed his

father. Eternities of thought passed through his mind as he

watched--this time by the couch, as he hoped, of a new birth. He

was about to see what could be done by one man, strengthened by all

the aids that love and devotion could give, for the redemption of

his fellow. As through the darkness of the night and a sluggish fog

to aid it, the light of a pure heaven made its slow irresistible

way, his hope grew that athwart the fog of an evil life, the

darkness that might be felt, the light of the Spirit of God would

yet penetrate the heart of the sinner, and shake the wickedness out

of it. Deeper and yet deeper grew his compassion and his sympathy,

in prospect of the tortures the man must go through, before the will

that he had sunk into a deeper sleep than any into which opium could

sink his bodily being, would shake off its deathly lethargy, and

arise, torn with struggling pain, to behold the light of a new

spiritual morning. All that he could do he was prepared to do,

regardless of entreaty, regardless of torture, anger, and hate, with

the inexorable justice of love, the law that will not, must not,

dares not yield--strong with an awful tenderness, a wisdom that

cannot be turned aside, to redeem the lost soul of his father. And

he strengthened his heart for the conflict by saying that if he

would do thus for his father, what would not God do for his child?

Had He not proved already, if there was any truth in the grand

story of the world's redemption through that obedience unto the

death, that his devotion was entire, and would leave nothing undone

that could be done to lift this sheep out of the pit into whose

darkness and filth he had fallen out of the sweet Sabbath of the

universe?

He removed all his clothes, searched the pockets, found in them one

poor shilling and a few coppers, a black cutty pipe, a box of snuff,

a screw of pigtail, a knife with a buckhorn handle and one broken

blade, and a pawn-ticket for a keyed flute, on the proceeds of which

he was now sleeping--a sleep how dearly purchased, when he might

have had it free, as the gift of God's gentle darkness! Then he

destroyed the garments, committing them to the fire as the hoped

farewell to the state of which they were the symbols and signs.

He found himself perplexed, however, by the absence of some of the

usual symptoms of the habit of opium, and concluded that his poor

father was in the habit of using stimulants as well as narcotics,

and that the action of the one interfered with the action of the

other.

He called his housekeeper. She did not know whom her master

supposed his guest to be, and regarded him only as one of the many

objects of his kindness. He told her to get some tea ready, as the

patient would most likely wake with a headache. He instructed her

to wait upon him as a matter of course, and explain nothing. He had

resolved to pass for the doctor, as indeed he was; and he told her

that if he should be at all troublesome, he would be with her at

once. She must keep the room dark. He would have his own breakfast

now; and if the patient remained quiet, would sleep on the sofa.

He woke murmuring, and evidently suffered from headache and nausea.

Mrs. Ashton took him some tea. He refused it with an oath--more of

discomfort than of ill-nature--and was too unwell to show any

curiosity about the person who had offered it. Probably he was

accustomed to so many changes of abode, and to so many bewilderments

of the brain, that he did not care to inquire where he was or who

waited upon him. But happily for the heart's desire of Falconer,

the debauchery of his father had at length reached one of many

crises. He had caught cold before De Fleuri and his comrades found

him. He was now ill--feverish and oppressed. Through the whole of

the following week they nursed and waited upon him without his

asking a single question as to where he was or who they were; during

all which time Falconer saw no one but De Fleuri and the many poor

fellows who called to inquire after him and the result of their

supposed success. He never left the house, but either watched by

the bedside, or waited in the next room. Often would the patient

get out of bed, driven by the longing for drink or for opium,

gnawing him through all the hallucinations of delirium; but he was

weak, and therefore manageable. If in any lucid moments he thought

where he was, he no doubt supposed that he was in a hospital, and

probably had sense enough to understand that it was of no use to

attempt to get his own way there. He was soon much worn, and his

limbs trembled greatly. It was absolutely necessary to give him

stimulants, or he would have died, but Robert reduced them gradually

as he recovered strength.

But there was an infinite work to be done beyond even curing him of

his evil habits. To keep him from strong drink and opium, even till

the craving after them was gone, would be but the capturing of the

merest outwork of the enemy's castle. He must be made such that,

even if the longing should return with tenfold force, and all the

means for its gratification should lie within the reach of his

outstretched hand, he would not touch them. God only was able to do

that for him. He would do all that he knew how to do, and God would

not fail of his part. For this he had raised him up; to this he had

called him; for this work he had educated him, made him a physician,

given him money, time, the love and aid of his fellows, and, beyond

all, a rich energy of hope and faith in his heart, emboldening him

to attempt whatever his hand found to do.

CHAPTER XIII.

ANDREW REBELS.

As Andrew Falconer grew better, the longing of his mind after former

excitement and former oblivion, roused and kept alive the longing of

his body, until at length his thoughts dwelt upon nothing but his

diseased cravings. His whole imagination, naturally not a feeble

one, was concentrated on the delights in store for him as soon as he

was well enough to be his own master, as he phrased it, once more.

He soon began to see that, if he was in a hospital, it must be a

private one, and at last, irresolute as he was both from character

and illness, made up his mind to demand his liberty. He sat by his

bedroom fire one afternoon, for he needed much artificial warmth.

The shades of evening were thickening the air. He had just had one

of his frequent meals, and was gazing, as he often did, into the

glowing coals. Robert had come in, and after a little talk was

sitting silent at the opposite corner of the chimney-piece.

'Doctor,' said Andrew, seizing the opportunity, 'you've been very

kind to me, and I don't know how to thank you, but it is time I was

going. I am quite well now. Would you kindly order the nurse to

bring me my clothes to-morrow morning, and I will go.'

This he said with the quavering voice of one who speaks because he

has made up his mind to speak. A certain something, I believe a

vague molluscous form of conscience, made him wriggle and shift

uneasily upon his chair as he spoke.

'No, no,' said Robert, 'you are not fit to go. Make yourself

comfortable, my dear sir. There is no reason why you should go.'

'There is something I don't understand about it. I want to go.'

'It would ruin my character as a professional man to let a patient

in your condition leave the house. The weather is unfavourable. I

cannot--I must not consent.'

'Where am I? I don't understand it. I want to understand it.'

'Your friends wish you to remain where you are for the present.'

'I have no friends.'

'You have one, at least, who puts his house here at your service.'

'There's something about it I don't like. Do you suppose I am

incapable of taking care of myself?'

'I do indeed,' answered his son with firmness.

'Then you are quite mistaken,' said Andrew, angrily. 'I am quite

well enough to go, and have a right to judge for myself. It is very

kind of you, but I am in a free country, I believe.'

'No doubt. All honest men are free in this country. But--'

He saw that his father winced, and said no more. Andrew resumed,

after a pause in which he had been rousing his feeble

drink-exhausted anger,

'I tell you I will not be treated like a child. I demand my clothes

and my liberty.'

'Do you know where you were found that night you were brought here?'

'No. But what has that to do with it? I was ill. You know that as

well as I.'

'You are ill now because you were lying then on the wet ground under

a railway-arch--utterly incapable from the effects of opium, or

drink, or both. You would have been taken to the police-station,

and would probably have been dead long before now, if you had not

been brought here.'

He was silent for some time. Then he broke out,

'I tell you I will go. I do not choose to live on charity. I will

not. I demand my clothes.'

'I tell you it is of no use. When you are well enough to go out you

shall go out, but not now.'

'Where am I? Who are you?'

He looked at Robert with a keen, furtive glance, in which were

mingled bewilderment and suspicion.

'I am your best friend at present.'

He started up--fiercely and yet feebly, for a thought of terror had

crossed him.

'You do not mean I am in a madhouse?'

Robert made no reply. He left him to suppose what he pleased.

Andrew took it for granted that he was in a private asylum, sank

back in his chair, and from that moment was quiet as a lamb. But it

was easy to see that he was constantly contriving how to escape.

This mental occupation, however, was excellent for his recovery;

and Robert dropped no hint of his suspicion. Nor were many

precautions necessary in consequence; for he never left the house

without having De Fleuri there, who was a man of determination,

nerve, and, now that he ate and drank, of considerable strength.

As he grew better, the stimulants given him in the form of medicine

at length ceased. In their place Robert substituted other

restoratives, which prevented him from missing the stimulants so

much, and at length got his system into a tolerably healthy

condition, though at his age, and after so long indulgence, it could

hardly be expected ever to recover its tone.

He did all he could to provide him with healthy amusement--played

backgammon, draughts, and cribbage with him, brought him Sir

Walter's and other novels to read, and often played on his violin,

to which he listened with great delight. At times of depression,

which of course were frequent, the Flowers of the Forest made the

old man weep. Falconer put yet more soul into the sounds than he

had ever put into them before. He tried to make the old man talk of

his childhood, asking him about the place of his birth, the kind of

country, how he had been brought up, his family, and many questions

of the sort. His answers were vague, and often contradictory.

Indeed, the moment the subject was approached, he looked suspicious

and cunning. He said his name was John Mackinnon, and Robert,

although his belief was strengthened by a hundred little

circumstances, had as yet received no proof that he was Andrew

Falconer. Remembering the pawn-ticket, and finding that he could

play on the flute, he brought him a beautiful instrument--in fact a

silver one--the sight of which made the old man's eyes sparkle. He

put it to his lips with trembling hands, blew a note or two, burst

into the tears of weakness, and laid it down. But he soon took it

up again, and evidently found both pleasure in the tones and sadness

in the memories they awakened. At length Robert brought a tailor,

and had him dressed like a gentleman--a change which pleased him

much. The next step was to take him out every day for a drive, upon

which his health began to improve more rapidly. He ate better, grew

more lively, and began to tell tales of his adventures, of the truth

of which Robert was not always certain, but never showed any doubt.

He knew only too well that the use of opium is especially

destructive to the conscience. Some of his stories he believed more

readily than others, from the fact that he suddenly stopped in them,

as if they were leading him into regions of confession which must be

avoided, resuming with matter that did not well connect itself with

what had gone before. At length he took him out walking, and he

comported himself with perfect propriety.

But one day as they were going along a quiet street, Robert met an

acquaintance, and stopped to speak with him. After a few moments'

chat he turned, and found that his father, whom he had supposed to

be standing beside him, had vanished. A glance at the other side of

the street showed the probable refuge--a public-house. Filled but

not overwhelmed with dismay, although he knew that months might be

lost in this one moment, Robert darted in. He was there, with a

glass of whisky in his hand, trembling now more from eagerness than

weakness. He struck it from his hold. But he had already swallowed

one glass, and he turned in a rage. He was a tall and naturally

powerful man--almost as strongly built as his son, with long arms

like his, which were dangerous even yet in such a moment of

factitious strength and real excitement. Robert could not lift his

arm even to defend himself from his father, although, had he judged

it necessary, I believe he would not, in the cause of his

redemption, have hesitated to knock him down, as he had often served

others whom he would rather a thousand times have borne on his

shoulders. He received his father's blow on the cheek. For one

moment it made him dizzy, for it was well delivered. But when the

bar-keeper jumped across the counter and approached with his fist

doubled, that was another matter. He measured his length on the

floor, and Falconer seized his father, who was making for the

street, and notwithstanding his struggles and fierce efforts to

strike again, held him secure and himself scathless, and bore him

out of the house.

A crowd gathers in a moment in London, speeding to a fray as the

vultures to carrion. On the heels of the population of the

neighbouring mews came two policemen, and at the same moment out

came the barman to the assistance of Andrew. But Falconer was as

well known to the police as if he had a ticket-of-leave, and a good

deal better.

'Call a four-wheel cab,' he said to one of them. 'I'm all right.'

The man started at once. Falconer turned to the other.

'Tell that man in the apron,' he said, 'that I'll make him all due

reparation. But he oughtn't to be in such a hurry to meddle. He

gave me no time but to strike hard.'

'Yes, sir,' answered the policeman obediently. The crowd thought he

must be a great man amongst the detectives; but the bar-keeper vowed

he would 'summons' him for the assault.

'You may, if you like,' said Falconer. 'When I think of it, you

shall do so. You know where I live?' he said, turning to the

policeman.

'No, sir, I don't. I only know you well enough.'

'Put your hand in my coat-pocket, then, and you'll find a card-case.

The other. There! Help yourself.'

He said this with his arms round Andrew's, who had ceased to cry out

when he saw the police.

'Do you want to give this gentleman in charge, sir?'

'No. It is a little private affair of my own, this.'

'Hadn't you better let him go, sir, and we'll find him for you when

you want him?'

'No. He may give me in charge if he likes. Or if you should want

him, you will find him at my house.'

Then pinioning his prisoner still more tightly in his arms, he

leaned forward, and whispered in his ear,

'Will you go home quietly, or give me in charge? There is no other

way, Andrew Falconer.'

He ceased struggling. Through all the flush of the contest his face

grew pale. His arms dropped by his side. Robert let him go, and he

stood there without offering to move. The cab came up; the

policeman got out; Andrew stepped in of his own accord, and Robert

followed.

'You see it's all right,' he said. 'Here, give the barman a

sovereign. If he wants more, let me know. He deserved all he got,

but I was wrong. John Street.'

His father did not speak a word, or ask a question all the way home.

Evidently he thought it safer to be silent. But the drink he had

taken, though not enough to intoxicate him, was more than enough to

bring back the old longing with redoubled force. He paced about the

room the rest of the day like a wild beast in a cage, and in the

middle of the night, got up and dressed, and would have crept

through the room in which Robert lay, in the hope of getting out.

But Robert slept too anxiously for that. The captive did not make

the slightest noise, but his very presence was enough to wake his

son. He started at a bound from his couch, and his father retreated

in dismay to his chamber.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE BROWN LETTER.

At length the time arrived when Robert would make a further attempt,

although with a fear and trembling to quiet which he had to seek the

higher aid. His father had recovered his attempt to rush anew upon

destruction. He was gentler and more thoughtful, and would again

sit for an hour at a time gazing into the fire. From the expression

of his countenance upon such occasions, Robert hoped that his

visions were not of the evil days, but of those of his innocence.

One evening when he was in one of these moods--he had just had his

tea, the gas was lighted, and he was sitting as I have

described--Robert began to play in the next room, hoping that the

music would sink into his heart, and do something to prepare the way

for what was to follow. Just as he had played over the Flowers of

the Forest for the third time, his housekeeper entered the room, and

receiving permission from her master, went through into Andrew's

chamber, and presented a packet, which she said, and said truly, for

she was not in the secret, had been left for him. He received it

with evident surprise, mingled with some consternation, looked at

the address, looked at the seal, laid it on the table, and gazed

again with troubled looks into the fire. He had had no

correspondence for many years. Falconer had peeped in when the

woman entered, but the moment she retired he could watch him no

longer. He went on playing a slow, lingering voluntary, such as the

wind plays, of an amber autumn evening, on the olian harp of its?

pines. He played so gently that he must hear if his father should

speak.

For what seemed hours, though it was but half-an-hour, he went on

playing. At length he heard a stifled sob. He rose, and peeped

again into the room. The gray head was bowed between the hands, and

the gaunt frame was shaken with sobs. On the table lay the

portraits of himself and his wife; and the faded brown letter, so

many years folded in silence and darkness, lay open beside them. He

had known the seal, with the bush of rushes and the Gaelic motto.

He had gently torn the paper from around it, and had read the

letter from the grave--no, from the land beyond, the land of light,

where human love is glorified. Not then did Falconer read the

sacred words of his mother; but afterwards his father put them into

his hands. I will give them as nearly as I can remember them, for

the letter is not in my possession.

'My beloved Andrew, I can hardly write, for I am at the point of

death. I love you still--love you as dearly as before you left me.

Will you ever see this? I will try to send it to you. I will

leave it behind me, that it may come into your hands when and how it

may please God. You may be an old man before you read these words,

and may have almost forgotten your young wife. Oh! if I could take

your head on my bosom where it used to lie, and without saying a

word, think all that I am thinking into your heart. Oh! my love, my

love! will you have had enough of the world and its ways by the time

this reaches you? Or will you be dead, like me, when this is found,

and the eyes of your son only, my darling little Robert, read the

words? Oh, Andrew, Andrew! my heart is bleeding, not altogether for

myself, not altogether for you, but both for you and for me. Shall

I never, never be able to let out the sea of my love that swells

till my heart is like to break with its longing after you, my own

Andrew? Shall I never, never see you again? That is the terrible

thought--the only thought almost that makes me shrink from dying.

If I should go to sleep, as some think, and not even dream about

you, as I dream and weep every night now! If I should only wake in

the crowd of the resurrection, and not know where to find you! Oh,

Andrew, I feel as if I should lose my reason when I think that you

may be on the left hand of the Judge, and I can no longer say my

love, because you do not, cannot any more love God. I will tell you

the dream I had about you last night, which I think was what makes

me write this letter. I was standing in a great crowd of people,

and I saw the empty graves about us on every side. We were waiting

for the great white throne to appear in the clouds. And as soon as

I knew that, I cried, "Andrew, Andrew!" for I could not help it.

And the people did not heed me; and I cried out and ran about

everywhere, looking for you. At last I came to a great gulf. When

I looked down into it, I could see nothing but a blue deep, like the

blue of the sky, under my feet. It was not so wide but that I could

see across it, but it was oh! so terribly deep. All at once, as I

stood trembling on the very edge, I saw you on the other side,

looking towards me, and stretching out your arms as if you wanted

me. You were old and much changed, but I knew you at once, and I

gave a cry that I thought all the universe must have heard. You

heard me. I could see that. And I was in a terrible agony to get

to you. But there was no way, for if I fell into the gulf I should

go down for ever, it was so deep. Something made me look away, and

I saw a man coming quietly along the same side of the gulf, on the

edge, towards me. And when he came nearer to me, I saw that he was

dressed in a gown down to his feet, and that his feet were bare and

had a hole in each of them. So I knew who it was, Andrew. And I

fell down and kissed his feet, and lifted up my hands, and looked

into his face--oh, such a face! And I tried to pray. But all I

could say was, "O Lord, Andrew, Andrew!" Then he smiled, and said,

"Daughter, be of good cheer. Do you want to go to him?" And I

said, "Yes, Lord." Then he said, "And so do I. Come." And he took my

hand and led me over the edge of the precipice; and I was not

afraid, and I did not sink, but walked upon the air to go to you.

But when I got to you, it was too much to bear; and when I thought

I had you in my arms at last, I awoke, crying as I never cried

before, not even when I found that you had left me to die without

you. Oh, Andrew, what if the dream should come true! But if it

should not come true! I dare not think of that, Andrew. I couldn't

be happy in heaven without you. It may be very wicked, but I do not

feel as if it were, and I can't help it if it is. But, dear

husband, come to me again. Come back, like the prodigal in the New

Testament. God will forgive you everything. Don't touch drink

again, my dear love. I know it was the drink that made you do as

you did. You could never have done it. It was the drink that drove

you to do it. You didn't know what you were doing. And then you

were ashamed, and thought I would be angry, and could not bear to

come back to me. Ah, if you were to come in at the door, as I

write, you would see whether or not I was proud to have my Andrew

again. But I would not be nice for you to look at now. You used to

think me pretty--you said beautiful--so long ago. But I am so thin

now, and my face so white, that I almost frighten myself when I look

in the glass. And before you get this I shall be all gone to dust,

either knowing nothing about you, or trying to praise God, and

always forgetting where I am in my psalm, longing so for you to

come. I am afraid I love you too much to be fit to go to heaven.

Then, perhaps, God will send me to the other place, all for love of

you, Andrew. And I do believe I should like that better. But I

don't think he will, if he is anything like the man I saw in my

dream. But I am growing so faint that I can hardly write. I never

felt like this before. But that dream has given me strength to die,

because I hope you will come too. Oh, my dear Andrew, do, do repent

and turn to God, and he will forgive you. Believe in Jesus, and he

will save you, and bring me to you across the deep place. But I

must make haste. I can hardly see. And I must not leave this

letter open for anybody but you to read after I am dead. Good-bye,

Andrew. I love you all the same. I am, my dearest Husband, your

affectionate Wife,

'H. FALCONER.'

Then followed the date. It was within a week of her death. The

letter was feebly written, every stroke seeming more feeble by the

contrasted strength of the words. When Falconer read it afterwards,

in the midst of the emotions it aroused--the strange lovely feelings

of such a bond between him and a beautiful ghost, far away somewhere

in God's universe, who had carried him in her lost body, and nursed

him at her breasts--in the midst of it all, he could not help

wondering, he told me, to find the forms and words so like what he

would have written himself. It seemed so long ago when that faded,

discoloured paper, with the gilt edges, and the pale brown ink, and

folded in the large sheet, and sealed with the curious wax, must

have been written; and here were its words so fresh, so new! not

withered like the rose-leaves that scented the paper from the

work-box where he had found it, but as fresh as if just shaken from

the rose-trees of the heart's garden. It was no wonder that Andrew

Falconer should be sitting with his head in his hands when Robert

looked in on him, for he had read this letter.

When Robert saw how he sat, he withdrew, and took his violin again,

and played all the tunes of the old country he could think of,

recalling Dooble Sandy's workshop, that he might recall the music he

had learnt there.

No one who understands the bit and bridle of the association of

ideas, as it is called in the skeleton language of mental

philosophy, wherewith the Father-God holds fast the souls of his

children--to the very last that we see of them, at least, and

doubtless to endless ages beyond--will sneer at Falconer's notion of

making God's violin a ministering spirit in the process of

conversion. There is a well-authenticated story of a convict's

having been greatly reformed for a time, by going, in one of the

colonies, into a church, where the matting along the aisle was of

the same pattern as that in the church to which he had gone when a

boy--with his mother, I suppose. It was not the matting that so far

converted him: it was not to the music of his violin that Falconer

looked for aid, but to the memories of childhood, the mysteries of

the kingdom of innocence which that could recall--those memories

which

Are yet the fountain light of all our day,

Are yet a master light of all our seeing.

For an hour he did not venture to go near him. When he entered the

room he found him sitting in the same place, no longer weeping, but

gazing into the fire with a sad countenance, the expression of which

showed Falconer at once that the soul had come out of its cave of

obscuration, and drawn nearer to the surface of life. He had not

seen him look so much like one 'clothed, and in his right mind,'

before. He knew well that nothing could be built upon this; that

this very emotion did but expose him the more to the besetting sin;

that in this mood he would drink, even if he knew that he would in

consequence be in danger of murdering the wife whose letter had made

him weep. But it was progress, notwithstanding. He looked up at

Robert as he entered, and then dropped his eyes again. He regarded

him perhaps as a presence doubtful whether of angel or devil, even

as the demoniacs regarded the Lord of Life who had come to set them

free. Bewildered he must have been to find himself, towards the

close of a long life of debauchery, wickedness, and the growing

pains of hell, caught in a net of old times, old feelings, old

truths.

Now Robert had carefully avoided every indication that might

disclose him to be a Scotchman even, nor was there the least sign of

suspicion in Andrew's manner. The only solution of the mystery that

could have presented itself to him was, that his friends were at the

root of it--probably his son, of whom he knew absolutely nothing.

His mother could not be alive still. Of his wife's relatives there

had never been one who would have taken any trouble about him after

her death, hardly even before it. John Lammie was the only person,

except Dr. Anderson, whose friendship he could suppose capable of

this development. The latter was the more likely person. But he

would be too much for him yet; he was not going to be treated like a

child, he said to himself, as often as the devil got uppermost.

My reader must understand that Andrew had never been a man of

resolution. He had been wilful and headstrong; and these qualities,

in children especially, are often mistaken for resolution, and

generally go under the name of strength of will. There never was a

greater mistake. The mistake, indeed, is only excusable from the

fact that extremes meet, and that this disposition is so opposite to

the other, that it looks to the careless eye most like it. He never

resisted his own impulses, or the enticements of evil companions.

Kept within certain bounds at home, after he had begun to go wrong,

by the weight of opinion, he rushed into all excesses when abroad

upon business, till at length the vessel of his fortune went to

pieces, and he was a waif on the waters of the world. But in

feeling he had never been vulgar, however much so in action. There

was a feeble good in him that had in part been protected by its very

feebleness. He could not sin so much against it as if it had been

strong. For many years he had fits of shame, and of grief without

repentance; for repentance is the active, the divine part--the

turning again; but taking more steadily both to strong drink and

opium, he was at the time when De Fleuri found him only the dull

ghost of Andrew Falconer walking in a dream of its lost carcass.

CHAPTER XV.

FATHER AND SON.

Once more Falconer retired, but not to take his violin. He could

play no more. Hope and love were swelling within him. He could not

rest. Was it a sign from heaven that the hour for speech had

arrived? He paced up and down the room. He kneeled and prayed for

guidance and help. Something within urged him to try the rusted

lock of his father's heart. Without any formed resolution, without

any conscious volition, he found himself again in his room. There

the old man still sat, with his back to the door, and his gaze fixed

on the fire, which had sunk low in the grate. Robert went round in

front of him, kneeled on the rug before him, and said the one word,

'Father!'

Andrew started violently, raised his hand, which trembled as with a

palsy, to his head, and stared wildly at Robert. But he did not

speak. Robert repeated the one great word. Then Andrew spoke, and

said in a trembling, hardly audible voice,

'Are you my son?--my boy Robert, sir?'

'I am. I am. Oh, father, I have longed for you by day, and dreamed

about you by night, ever since I saw that other boys had fathers,

and I had none. Years and years of my life--I hardly know how

many--have been spent in searching for you. And now I have found

you!'

The great tall man, in the prime of life and strength, laid his big

head down on the old man's knee, as if he had been a little child.

His father said nothing, but laid his hand on the head. For some

moments the two remained thus, motionless and silent. Andrew was

the first to speak. And his words were the voice of the spirit that

striveth with man.

'What am I to do, Robert?'

No other words, not even those of passionate sorrow, or overflowing

affection, could have been half so precious in the ears of Robert.

When a man once asks what he is to do, there is hope for him.

Robert answered instantly,

'You must come home to your mother.'

'My mother!' Andrew exclaimed. 'You don't mean to say she's alive?'

'I heard from her yesterday--in her own hand, too,' said Robert.

'I daren't. I daren't,' murmured Andrew.

'You must, father,' returned Robert. 'It is a long way, but I will

make the journey easy for you. She knows I have found you. She is

waiting and longing for you. She has hardly thought of anything but

you ever since she lost you. She is only waiting to see you, and

then she will go home, she says. I wrote to her and said, "Grannie,

I have found your Andrew." And she wrote back to me and said, "God

be praised. I shall die in peace."'

A silence followed.

'Will she forgive me?' said Andrew.

'She loves you more than her own soul,' answered Robert. 'She loves

you as much as I do. She loves you as God loves you.'

'God can't love me,' said Andrews, feebly. 'He would never have left

me if he had loved me.'

'He has never left you from the very first. You would not take his

way, father, and he just let you try your own. But long before that

he had begun to get me ready to go after you. He put such love to

you in my heart, and gave me such teaching and such training, that I

have found you at last. And now I have found you, I will hold you.

You cannot escape--you will not want to escape any more, father?'

Andrew made no reply to this appeal. It sounded like imprisonment

for life, I suppose. But thought was moving in him. After a long

pause, during which the son's heart was hungering for a word whereon

to hang a further hope, the old man spoke again, muttering as if he

were only speaking his thoughts unconsciously.

'Where's the use? There's no forgiveness for me. My mother is

going to heaven. I must go to hell. No. It's no good. Better

leave it as it is. I daren't see her. It would kill me to see

her.'

'It will kill her not to see you; and that will be one sin more on

your conscience, father.'

Andrew got up and walked about the room. And Robert only then arose

from his knees.

'And there's my mother,' he said.

Andrew did not reply; but Robert saw when he turned next towards the

light, that the sweat was standing in beads on his forehead.

'Father,' he said, going up to him.

The old man stopped in his walk, turned, and faced his son.

'Father,' repeated Robert, 'you've go to repent; and God won't let

you off; and you needn't think it. You'll have to repent some day.'

'In hell, Robert,' said Andrew, looking him full in the eyes, as he

had never looked at him before. It seemed as if even so much

acknowledgment of the truth had already made him bolder and

honester.

'Yes. Either on earth or in hell. Would it not be better on earth?'

'But it will be no use in hell,' he murmured.

In those few words lay the germ of the preference for hell of poor

souls, enfeebled by wickedness. They will not have to do anything

there--only to moan and cry and suffer for ever, they think. It is

effort, the out-going of the living will that they dread. The

sorrow, the remorse of repentance, they do not so much regard: it is

the action it involves; it is the having to turn, be different, and

do differently, that they shrink from; and they have been taught to

believe that this will not be required of them there--in that awful

refuge of the will-less. I do not say they think thus: I only say

their dim, vague, feeble feelings are such as, if they grew into

thought, would take this form. But tell them that the fire of God

without and within them will compel them to bethink themselves; that

the vision of an open door beyond the smoke and the flames will ever

urge them to call up the ice-bound will, that it may obey; that the

torturing spirit of God in them will keep their consciences awake,

not to remind them of what they ought to have done, but to tell them

what they must do now, and hell will no longer fascinate them. Tell

them that there is no refuge from the compelling Love of God, save

that Love itself--that He is in hell too, and that if they make

their bed in hell they shall not escape him, and then, perhaps, they

will have some true presentiment of the worm that dieth not and the

fire that is not quenched.

'Father, it will be of use in hell,' said Robert. 'God will give you

no rest even there. You will have to repent some day, I do

believe--if not now under the sunshine of heaven, then in the

torture of the awful world where there is no light but that of the

conscience. Would it not be better and easier to repent now, with

your wife waiting for you in heaven, and your mother waiting for you

on earth?'

Will it be credible to my reader, that Andrew interrupted his son

with the words,

'Robert, it is dreadful to hear you talk like that. Why, you don't

believe in the Bible!'

His words will be startling to one who has never heard the lips of a

hoary old sinner drivel out religion. To me they are not so

startling as the words of Christian women and bishops of the Church

of England, when they say that the doctrine of the everlasting

happiness of the righteous stands or falls with the doctrine of the

hopeless damnation of the wicked. Can it be that to such the word

is everything, the spirit nothing? No. It is only that the devil is

playing a very wicked prank, not with them, but in them: they are

pluming themselves on being selfish after a godly sort.

'I do believe the Bible, father,' returned Robert, 'and have ordered

my life by it. If I had not believed the Bible, I fear I should

never have looked for you. But I won't dispute about it. I only

say I believe that you will be compelled to repent some day, and

that now is the best time. Then, you will not only have to repent,

but to repent that you did not repent now. And I tell you, father,

that you shall go to my grandmother.'

CHAPTER XVI.

CHANGE OF SCENE.

But various reasons combined to induce Falconer to postpone yet for

a period their journey to the North. Not merely did his father

require an unremitting watchfulness, which it would be difficult to

keep up in his native place amongst old friends and acquaintances,

but his health was more broken than he had at first supposed, and

change of air and scene without excitement was most desirable. He

was anxious too that the change his mother must see in him should be

as little as possible attributable to other causes than those that

years bring with them. To this was added that his own health had

begun to suffer from the watching and anxiety he had gone through,

and for his father's sake, as well as for the labour which yet lay

before him, he would keep that as sound as he might. He wrote to

his grandmother and explained the matter. She begged him to do as

he thought best, for she was so happy that she did not care if she

should never see Andrew in this world: it was enough to die in the

hope of meeting him in the other. But she had no reason to fear

that death was at hand; for, although much more frail, she felt as

well as ever.

By this time Falconer had introduced me to his father. I found him

in some things very like his son; in others, very different. His

manners were more polished; his pleasure in pleasing much greater:

his humanity had blossomed too easily, and then run to seed. Alas,

to no seed that could bear fruit! There was a weak expression about

his mouth--a wavering interrogation: it was so different from the

firmly-closed portals whence issued the golden speech of his son!

He had a sly, sidelong look at times, whether of doubt or cunning,

I could not always determine. His eyes, unlike his son's, were of a

light blue, and hazy both in texture and expression. His hands were

long-fingered and tremulous. He gave your hand a sharp squeeze, and

the same instant abandoned it with indifference. I soon began to

discover in him a tendency to patronize any one who showed him a

particle of respect as distinguished from common-place civility.

But under all outward appearances it seemed to me that there was a

change going on: at least being very willing to believe it, I found

nothing to render belief impossible.

He was very fond of the flute his son had given him, and on that

sweetest and most expressionless of instruments he played

exquisitely.

One evening when I called to see them, Falconer said,

'We are going out of town for a few weeks, Gordon: will you go with

us?'

'I am afraid I can't.'

'Why? You have no teaching at present, and your writing you can do

as well in the country as in town.'

'That is true; but still I don't see how I can. I am too poor for

one thing.'

'Between you and me that is nonsense.'

'Well, I withdraw that,' I said. 'But there is so much to be done,

specially as you will be away, and Miss St John is at the Lakes.'

'That is all very true; but you need a change. I have seen for some

weeks that you are failing. Mind, it is our best work that He

wants, not the dregs of our exhaustion. I hope you are not of the

mind of our friend Mr. Watts, the curate of St. Gregory's.'

'I thought you had a high opinion of Mr. Watts,' I returned.

'So I have. I hope it is not necessary to agree with a man in

everything before we can have a high opinion of him.'

'Of course not. But what is it you hope I am not of his opinion

in?'

'He seems ambitious of killing himself with work--of wearing himself

out in the service of his master--and as quickly as possible. A

good deal of that kind of thing is a mere holding of the axe to the

grindstone, not a lifting of it up against thick trees. Only he

won't be convinced till it comes to the helve. I met him the other

day; he was looking as white as his surplice. I took upon me to

read him a lecture on the holiness of holidays. "I can't leave my

poor," he said. "Do you think God can't do without you?" I asked.

"Is he so weak that he cannot spare the help of a weary man? But I

think he must prefer quality to quantity, and for healthy work you

must be healthy yourself. How can you be the visible sign of the

Christ-present amongst men, if you inhabit an exhausted, irritable

brain? Go to God's infirmary and rest a while. Bring back health

from the country to those that cannot go to it. If on the way it be

transmuted into spiritual forms, so much the better. A little more

of God will make up for a good deal less of you.'

'What did he say to that?'

'He said our Lord died doing the will of his Father. I told

him--"Yes, when his time was come, not sooner. Besides, he often

avoided both speech and action." "Yes," he answered, "but he could

tell when, and we cannot." "Therefore," I rejoined, "you ought to

accept your exhaustion as a token that your absence will be the best

thing for your people. If there were no God, then perhaps you ought

to work till you drop down dead--I don't know."'

'Is he gone yet?'

'No. He won't go. I couldn't persuade him.'

'When do you go?'

'To-morrow.'

'I shall be ready, if you really mean it.'

'That's an if worthy only of a courtier. There may be much virtue

in an if, as Touchstone says, for the taking up of a quarrel; but

that if is bad enough to breed one,' said Falconer, laughing. 'Be at

the Paddington Station at noon to-morrow. To tell the whole truth,

I want you to help me with my father.'

This last was said at the door as he showed me out.

In the afternoon we were nearing Bristol. It was a lovely day in

October. Andrew had been enjoying himself; but it was evidently

rather the pleasure of travelling in a first-class carriage like a

gentleman than any delight in the beauty of heaven and earth. The

country was in the rich sombre dress of decay.

'Is it not remarkable,' said my friend to me, 'that the older I

grow, I find autumn affecting me the more like spring?'

'I am thankful to say,' interposed Andrew, with a smile in which was

mingled a shade of superiority, 'that no change of the seasons ever

affects me.'

'Are you sure you are right in being thankful for that, father?'

asked his son.

His father gazed at him for a moment, seemed to bethink himself

after some feeble fashion or other, and rejoined,

'Well, I must confess I did feel a touch of the rheumatism this

morning.'

How I pitied Falconer! Would he ever see of the travail of his soul

in this man? But he only smiled a deep sweet smile, and seemed to

be thinking divine things in that great head of his.

At Bristol we went on board a small steamer, and at night were

landed at a little village on the coast of North Devon. The hotel

to which we went was on the steep bank of a tumultuous little river,

which tumbled past its foundation of rock, like a troop of watery

horses galloping by with ever-dissolving limbs. The elder Falconer

retired almost as soon as we had had supper. My friend and I

lighted our pipes, and sat by the open window, for although the

autumn was so far advanced, the air here was very mild. For some

time we only listened to the sound of the waters.

'There are three things,' said Falconer at last, taking his pipe out

of his mouth with a smile, 'that give a peculiarly perfect feeling

of abandonment: the laughter of a child; a snake lying across a

fallen branch; and the rush of a stream like this beneath us, whose

only thought is to get to the sea.'

We did not talk much that night, however, but went soon to bed.

None of us slept well. We agreed in the morning that the noise of

the stream had been too much for us all, and that the place felt

close and torpid. Andrew complained that the ceaseless sound

wearied him, and Robert that he felt the aimless endlessness of it

more than was good for him. I confess it irritated me like an

anodyne unable to soothe. We were clearly all in want of something

different. The air between the hills clung to them, hot and

moveless. We would climb those hills, and breathe the air that

flitted about over their craggy tops.

As soon as we had breakfasted, we set out. It was soon evident that

Andrew could not ascend the steep road. We returned and got a

carriage. When we reached the top, it was like a resurrection, like

a dawning of hope out of despair. The cool friendly wind blew on

our faces, and breathed strength into our frames. Before us lay the

ocean, the visible type of the invisible, and the vessels with their

white sails moved about over it like the thoughts of men feebly

searching the unknown. Even Andrew Falconer spread out his arms to

the wind, and breathed deep, filling his great chest full.

'I feel like a boy again,' he said.

His son strode to his side, and laid his arm over his shoulders.

'So do I, father,' he returned; 'but it is because I have got you.'

The old man turned and looked at him with a tenderness I had never

seen on his face before. As soon as I saw that, I no longer doubted

that he could be saved.

We found rooms in a farm-house on the topmost height.

'These are poor little hills, Falconer,' I said. 'Yet they help one

like mountains.'

'The whole question is,' he returned, 'whether they are high enough

to lift you out of the dirt. Here we are in the airs of

heaven--that is all we need.'

'They make me think how often, amongst the country people of

Scotland, I have wondered at the clay-feet upon which a golden head

of wisdom stood! What poor needs, what humble aims, what a narrow

basement generally, was sufficient to support the statues of

pure-eyed Faith and white-handed Hope,'

'Yes,' said Falconer: 'he who is faithful over a few things is a

lord of cities. It does not matter whether you preach in

Westminster Abbey, or teach a ragged class, so you be faithful. The

faithfulness is all.'

After an early dinner we went out for a walk, but we did not go far

before we sat down upon the grass. Falconer laid himself at full

length and gazed upwards.

'When I look like this into the blue sky,' he said, after a moment's

silence, 'it seems so deep, so peaceful, so full of a mysterious

tenderness, that I could lie for centuries, and wait for the dawning

of the face of God out of the awful loving-kindness.'

I had never heard Falconer talk of his own present feelings in this

manner; but glancing at the face of his father with a sense of his

unfitness to hear such a lofty utterance, I saw at once that it was

for his sake that he had thus spoken. The old man had thrown

himself back too, and was gazing into the sky, puzzling himself, I

could see, to comprehend what his son could mean. I fear he

concluded, for the time, that Robert was not gifted with the amount

of common-sense belonging of right to the Falconer family, and that

much religion had made him a dreamer. Still, I thought I could see

a kind of awe pass like a spiritual shadow across his face as he

gazed into the blue gulfs over him. No one can detect the first

beginnings of any life, and those of spiritual emotion must more

than any lie beyond our ken: there is infinite room for hope.

Falconer said no more. We betook ourselves early within doors, and

he read King Lear to us, expounding the spiritual history of the

poor old king after a fashion I had never conceived--showing us how

the said history was all compressed, as far as human eye could see

of it, into the few months that elapsed between his abdication and

his death; how in that short time he had to learn everything that he

ought to have been learning all his life; and how, because he had

put it off so long, the lessons that had then to be given him were

awfully severe.

I thought what a change it was for the old man to lift his head into

the air of thought and life, out of the sloughs of misery in which

he had been wallowing for years.

CHAPTER XVII.

IN THE COUNTRY.

The next morning Falconer, who knew the country, took us out for a

drive. We passed through lanes and gates out upon all open moor,

where he stopped the carriage, and led us a few yards on one side.

Suddenly, hundreds of feet below us, down what seemed an almost

precipitous descent, we saw the wood-embosomed, stream-trodden

valley we had left the day before. Enough had been cleft and

scooped seawards out of the lofty table-land to give room for a few

little conical hills with curious peaks of bare rock. At the bases

of these hills flowed noisily two or three streams, which joined in

one, and trotted out to sea over rocks and stones. The hills and

the sides of the great cleft were half of them green with grass, and

half of them robed in the autumnal foliage of thick woods. By the

streams and in the woods nestled pretty houses; and away at the

mouth of the valley and the stream lay the village. All around, on

our level, stretched farm and moorland.

When Andrew Falconer stood so unexpectedly on the verge of the steep

descent, he trembled and started back with fright. His son made him

sit down a little way off, where yet we could see into the valley.

The sun was hot, the air clear and mild, and the sea broke its blue

floor into innumerable sparkles of radiance. We sat for a while in

silence.

'Are you sure,' I said, in the hope of setting my friend talking,

'that there is no horrid pool down there? no half-trampled thicket,

with broken pottery and shreds of tin lying about? no dead carcass,

or dirty cottage, with miserable wife and greedy children? When I

was a child, I knew a lovely place that I could not half enjoy,

because, although hidden from my view, an ugly stagnation, half mud,

half water, lay in a certain spot below me. When I had to pass it,

I used to creep by with a kind of dull terror, mingled with hopeless

disgust, and I have never got over the feeling.'

'You remind me much of a friend of mine of whom I have spoken to you

before,' said Falconer, 'Eric Ericson. I have shown you many of his

verses, but I don't think I ever showed you one little poem

containing an expression of the same feeling. I think I can repeat

it.

'Some men there are who cannot spare

A single tear until they feel

The last cold pressure, and the heel

Is stamped upon the outmost layer.

And, waking, some will sigh to think

The clouds have borrowed winter's wing--

Sad winter when the grasses spring

No more about the fountain's brink.

And some would call me coward-fool:

I lay a claim to better blood;

But yet a heap of idle mud

Hath power to make me sorrowful.

I sat thinking over the verses, for I found the feeling a little

difficult to follow, although the last stanza was plain enough.

Falconer resumed.

'I think this is as likely as any place,' he said, 'to be free of

such physical blots. For the moral I cannot say. But I have

learned, I hope, not to be too fastidious--I mean so as to be unjust

to the whole because of the part. The impression made by a whole is

just as true as the result of an analysis, and is greater and more

valuable in every respect. If we rejoice in the beauty of the

whole, the other is sufficiently forgotten. For moral ugliness, it

ceases to distress in proportion as we labour to remove it, and

regard it in its true relations to all that surrounds it. There is

an old legend which I dare say you know. The Saviour and his

disciples were walking along the way, when they came upon a dead

dog. The disciples did not conceal their disgust. The Saviour

said: "How white its teeth are!"'

'That is very beautiful,' I rejoined. 'Thank God for that. It is

true, whether invented or not. But,' I added, 'it does not quite

answer to the question about which we have been talking. The Lord

got rid of the pain of the ugliness by finding the beautiful in it.'

'It does correspond, however, I think, in principle,' returned

Falconer; 'only it goes much farther, making the exceptional beauty

hallow the general ugliness--which is the true way, for beauty is

life, and therefore infinitely deeper and more powerful than

ugliness which is death. "A dram of sweet," says Spenser, 'is worth

a pound of sour."'

It was so delightful to hear him talk--for what he said was not only

far finer than my record of it, but the whole man spoke as well as

his mouth--that I sought to start him again.

'I wish,' I said, 'that I could see things as you do--in great

masses of harmonious unity. I am only able to see a truth sparkling

here and there, and to try to lay hold of it. When I aim at more, I

am like Noah's dove, without a place to rest the sole of my foot.'

'That is the only way to begin. Leave the large vision to itself,

and look well after your sparkles. You will find them grow and

gather and unite, until you are afloat on a sea of radiance--with

cloud shadows no doubt.'

'And yet,' I resumed, 'I never seem to have room.'

'That is just why.'

'But I feel that I cannot find it. I know that if I fly to that

bounding cape on the far horizon there, I shall only find a place--a

place to want another in. There is no fortunate island out on that

sea.'

'I fancy,' said Falconer, 'that until a man loves space, he will

never be at peace in a place. At least so I have found it. I am

content if you but give me room. All space to me throbs with being

and life; and the loveliest spot on the earth seems but the

compression of space till the meaning shines out of it, as the fire

flies out of the air when you drive it close together. To seek

place after place for freedom, is a constant effort to flee from

space, and a vain one, for you are ever haunted by the need of it,

and therefore when you seek most to escape it, fancy that you love

it and want it.'

'You are getting too mystical for me now,' I said. 'I am not able to

follow you.'

'I fear I was on the point of losing myself. At all events I can go

no further now. And indeed I fear I have been but skirting the

Limbo of Vanities.'

He rose, for we could both see that this talk was not in the least

interesting to our companion. We got again into the carriage,

which, by Falconer's orders, was turned and driven in the opposite

direction, still at no great distance from the lofty edge of the

heights that rose above the shore.

We came at length to a lane bounded with stone walls, every stone of

which had its moss and every chink its fern. The lane grew more and

more grassy; the walls vanished; and the track faded away into a

narrow winding valley, formed by the many meeting curves of opposing

hills. They were green to the top with sheep-grass, and spotted

here and there with patches of fern, great stones, and tall withered

foxgloves. The air was sweet and healthful, and Andrew evidently

enjoyed it because it reminded him again of his boyhood. The only

sound we heard was the tinkle of a few tender sheep-bells, and now

and then the tremulous bleating of a sheep. With a gentle winding,

the valley led us into a more open portion of itself, where the old

man paused with a look of astonished pleasure.

Before us, seaward, rose a rampart against the sky, like the

turreted and embattled wall of a huge eastern city, built of loose

stones piled high, and divided by great peaky rocks. In the centre

rose above them all one solitary curiously-shaped mass, one of the

oddest peaks of the Himmalays in miniature. From its top on the

further side was a sheer descent to the waters far below the level

of the valley from which it immediately rose. It was altogether a

strange freaky fantastic place, not without its grandeur. It looked

like the remains of a frolic of the Titans, or rather as if reared

by the boys and girls, while their fathers and mothers 'lay

stretched out huge in length,' and in breadth too, upon the slopes

around, and laughed thunderously at the sportive invention of their

sons and daughters. Falconer helped his father up to the edge of

the rampart that he might look over. Again he started back, 'afraid

of that which was high,' for the lowly valley was yet at a great

height above the diminished waves. On the outside of the rampart

ran a narrow path whence the green hill-side went down steep to the

sea. The gulls were screaming far below us; we could see the little

flying streaks of white. Beyond was the great ocean. A murmurous

sound came up from its shore.

We descended and seated ourselves on the short springy grass of a

little mound at the foot of one of the hills, where it sank slowly,

like the dying gush of a wave, into the hollowest centre of the

little vale.

'Everything tends to the cone-shape here,' said Falconer,--'the

oddest and at the same time most wonderful of mathematical figures.'

'Is it not strange,' I said, 'that oddity and wonder should come so

near?'

'They often do in the human world as well,' returned he. 'Therefore

it is not strange that Shelley should have been so fond of this

place. It is told of him that repeated sketches of the spot were

found on the covers of his letters. I know nothing more like

Shelley's poetry than this valley--wildly fantastic and yet

beautiful--as if a huge genius were playing at grandeur, and

producing little models of great things. But there is one grand

thing I want to show you a little further on.'

We rose, and walked out of the valley on the other side, along the

lofty coast. When we reached a certain point, Falconer stood and

requested us to look as far as we could, along the cliffs to the

face of the last of them.

'What do you see?' he asked.

'A perpendicular rock, going right down into the blue waters,' I

answered.

'Look at it: what is the outline of it like? Whose face is it?'

'Shakspere's, by all that is grand!' I cried.

'So it is,' said Andrew.

'Right. Now I'll tell you what I would do. If I were very rich,

and there were no poor people in the country, I would give a

commission to some great sculptor to attack that rock and work out

its suggestion. Then, it I had any money left, we should find one

for Bacon, and one for Chaucer, and one for Milton; and, as we are

about it, we may fancy as many more as we like; so that from the

bounding rocks of our island, the memorial faces of our great

brothers should look abroad over the seas into the infinite sky

beyond.'

'Well, now,' said the elder, 'I think it is grander as it is.'

'You are quite right, father,' said Robert. 'And so with many of our

fancies for perfecting God's mighty sketches, which he only can

finish.'

Again we seated ourselves and looked out over the waves.

'I have never yet heard,' I said, 'how you managed with that poor

girl that wanted to drown herself--on Westminster Bridge, I

mean--that night, you remember.'

'Miss St. John has got her in her own house at present. She has

given her those two children we picked up at the door of the

public-house to take care of. Poor little darlings! they are

bringing back the life in her heart already. There is actually a

little colour in her cheek--the dawn, I trust, of the eternal life.

That is Miss St. John's way. As often as she gets hold of a poor

hopeless woman, she gives her a motherless child. It is wonderful

what the childless woman and motherless child do for each other.'

'I was much amused the other day with the lecture one of the police

magistrates gave a poor creature who was brought before him for

attempting to drown herself. He did give her a sovereign out of the

poor box, though.'

'Well, that might just tide her over the shoal of self-destruction,'

said Falconer. 'But I cannot help doubting whether any one has a

right to prevent a suicide from carrying out his purpose, who is not

prepared to do a good deal more for him than that. What would you

think of the man who snatched the loaf from a hungry thief, threw it

back into the baker's cart, and walked away to his club-dinner?

Harsh words of rebuke, and the threat of severe punishment upon a

second attempt--what are they to the wretch weary of life? To some

of them the kindest punishment would be to hang them for it. It is

something else than punishment that they need. If the comfortable

alderman had but "a feeling of their afflictions," felt in himself

for a moment how miserable he must be, what a waste of despair must

be in his heart, before he would do it himself, before the awful

river would appear to him a refuge from the upper air, he would

change his tone. I fear he regards suicide chiefly as a burglarious

entrance into the premises of the respectable firm of Vension, Port,

& Co.'

'But you mustn't be too hard upon him, Falconer; for if his God is

his belly, how can he regard suicide as other than the most awful

sacrilege?'

'Of course not. His well-fed divinity gives him one great

commandment: "Thou shalt love thyself with all thy heart. The great

breach is to hurt thyself--worst of all to send thyself away from

the land of luncheons and dinners, to the country of thought and

vision." But, alas! he does not reflect on the fact that the god

Belial does not feed all his votaries; that he has his elect; that

the altar of his inner-temple too often smokes with no sacrifice of

which his poor meagre priests may partake. They must uphold the

Divinity which has been good to them, and not suffer his worship to

fall into disrepute.'

'Really, Robert,' said his father, 'I am afraid to think what you

will come to. You will end in denying there is a God at all. You

don't believe in hell, and now you justify suicide. Really--I must

say--to say the least of it--I have not been accustomed to hear such

things.'

The poor old man looked feebly righteous at his wicked son. I

verily believe he was concerned for his eternal fate. Falconer gave

a pleased glance at me, and for a moment said nothing. Then he

began, with a kind of logical composure:

'In the first place, father, I do not believe in such a God as some

people say they believe in. Their God is but an idol of the

heathen, modified with a few Christian qualities. For hell, I don't

believe there is any escape from it but by leaving hellish things

behind. For suicide, I do not believe it is wicked because it hurts

yourself, but I do believe it is very wicked. I only want to put it

on its own right footing.'

'And pray what do you consider its right footing?'

'My dear father, I recognize no duty as owing to a man's self.

There is and can be no such thing. I am and can be under no

obligation to myself. The whole thing is a fiction, and of evil

invention. It comes from the upper circles of the hell of

selfishness. Or, perhaps, it may with some be merely a form of

metaphysical mistake; but an untruth it is. Then for the duty we do

owe to other people: how can we expect the men or women who have

found life to end, as it seems to them, in a dunghill of misery--how

can we expect such to understand any obligation to live for the sake

of the general others, to no individual of whom, possibly, do they

bear an endurable relation? What remains?--The grandest, noblest

duty from which all other duty springs: the duty to the possible

God. Mind, I say possible God, for I judge it the first of my duties

towards my neighbour to regard his duty from his position, not from

mine.'

'But,' said I, 'how would you bring that duty to bear on the mind of

a suicide?'

'I think some of the tempted could understand it, though I fear not

one of those could who judge them hardly, and talk sententiously of

the wrong done to a society which has done next to nothing for her,

by the poor, starved, refused, husband-tortured wretch perhaps, who

hurries at last to the might of the filthy flowing river which, the

one thread of hope in the web of despair, crawls through the city of

death. What should I say to him? I should say: "God liveth: thou

art not thine own but his. Bear thy hunger, thy horror in his name.

I in his name will help thee out of them, as I may. To go before

he calleth thee, is to say 'Thou forgettest,' unto him who numbereth

the hairs of thy head. Stand out in the cold and the sleet and the

hail of this world, O son of man, till thy Father open the door and

call thee. Yea, even if thou knowest him not, stand and wait, lest

there should be, after all, such a loving and tender one, who, for

the sake of a good with which thou wilt be all-content, and without

which thou never couldst be content, permits thee there to

stand--for a time--long to his sympathizing as well as to thy

suffering heart."'

Here Falconer paused, and when he spoke again it was from the

ordinary level of conversation. Indeed I fancied that he was a

little uncomfortable at the excitement into which his feelings had

borne him.

'Not many of them could understand this, I dare say: but I think

most of them could feel it without understanding it. Certainly the

"belly with good capon lined" will neither understand nor feel it.

Suicide is a sin against God, I repeat, not a crime over which

human laws have any hold. In regard to such, man has a duty

alone--that, namely, of making it possible for every man to live.

And where the dread of death is not sufficient to deter, what can

the threat of punishment do? Or what great thing is gained if it

should succeed? What agonies a man must have gone through in whom

neither the horror of falling into such a river, nor of the knife in

the flesh instinct with life, can extinguish the vague longing to

wrap up his weariness in an endless sleep!'

'But,' I remarked, 'you would, I fear, encourage the trade in

suicide. Your kindness would be terribly abused. What would you do

with the pretended suicides?'

'Whip them, for trifling with and trading upon the feelings of their

kind.'

'Then you would drive them to suicide in earnest.'

'Then they might be worth something, which they were not before.'

'We are a great deal too humane for that now-a-days, I fear. We

don't like hurting people.'

'No. We are infested with a philanthropy which is the offspring of

our mammon-worship. But surely our tender mercies are cruel. We

don't like to hang people, however unfit they may be to live amongst

their fellows. A weakling pity will petition for the life of the

worst murderer--but for what? To keep him alive in a confinement as

like their notion of hell as they dare to make it--namely, a place

whence all the sweet visitings of the grace of God are withdrawn,

and the man has not a chance, so to speak, of growing better. In

this hell of theirs they will even pamper his beastly body.'

'They have the chaplain to visit them.'

'I pity the chaplain, cut off in his labours from all the aids which

God's world alone can give for the teaching of these men. Human

beings have not the right to inflict such cruel punishment upon

their fellow-man. It springs from a cowardly shrinking from

responsibility, and from mistrust of the mercy of God;--perhaps

first of all from an over-valuing of the mere life of the body.

Hanging is tenderness itself to such a punishment.'

'I think you are hardly fair, though, Falconer. It is the fear of

sending them to hell that prevents them from hanging them.'

'Yes. You are right, I dare say. They are not of David's mind, who

would rather fall into the hands of God than of men. They think

their hell is not so hard as his, and may be better for them. But I

must not, as you say, forget that they do believe their everlasting

fate hangs upon their hands, for if God once gets his hold of them

by death, they are lost for ever.'

'But the chaplain may awake them to a sense of their sins.'

'I do not think it is likely that talk will do what the discipline

of life has not done. It seems to me, on the contrary, that the

clergyman has no commission to rouse people to a sense of their

sins. That is not his work. He is far more likely to harden them

by any attempt in that direction. Every man does feel his sins,

though he often does not know it. To turn his attention away from

what he does feel by trying to rouse in him feelings which are

impossible to him in his present condition, is to do him a great

wrong. The clergyman has the message of salvation, not of sin, to

give. Whatever oppression is on a man, whatever trouble, whatever

conscious something that comes between him and the blessedness of

life, is his sin; for whatever is not of faith is sin; and from all

this He came to save us. Salvation alone can rouse in us a sense of

our sinfulness. One must have got on a good way before he can be

sorry for his sins. There is no condition of sorrow laid down as

necessary to forgiveness. Repentance does not mean sorrow: it means

turning away from the sins. Every man can do that, more or less.

And that every man must do. The sorrow will come afterwards, all

in good time. Jesus offers to take us out of our own hands into

his, if we will only obey him.'

The eyes of the old man were fixed on his son as he spoke, He did

seem to be thinking. I could almost fancy that a glimmer of

something like hope shone in his eyes.

It was time to go home, and we were nearly silent all the way.

The next morning was so wet that we could not go out, and had to

amuse ourselves as we best might in-doors. But Falconer's resources

never failed. He gave us this day story after story about the poor

people he had known. I could see that his object was often to get

some truth into his father's mind without exposing it to rejection

by addressing it directly to himself; and few subjects could be more

fitted for affording such opportunity than his experiences among the

poor.

The afternoon was still rainy and misty. In the evening I sought to

lead the conversation towards the gospel-story; and then Falconer

talked as I never heard him talk before. No little circumstance in

the narratives appeared to have escaped him. He had thought about

everything, as it seemed to me. He had looked under the surface

everywhere, and found truth--mines of it--under all the upper soil

of the story. The deeper he dug the richer seemed the ore. This

was combined with the most pictorial apprehension of every outward

event, which he treated as if it had been described to him by the

lips of an eye-witness. The whole thing lived in his words and

thoughts.

'When anything looks strange, you must look the deeper,' he would

say.

At the close of one of our fits of talk, he rose and went to the

window.

'Come here,' he said, after looking for a moment.

All day a dropping cloud had filled the space below, so that the

hills on the opposite side of the valley were hidden, and the whole

of the sea, near as it was. But when we went to the window we found

that a great change had silently taken place. The mist continued to

veil the sky, and it clung to the tops of the hills; but, like the

rising curtain of a stage, it had rolled half-way up from their

bases, revealing a great part of the sea and shore, and half of a

cliff on the opposite side of the valley: this, in itself of a deep

red, was now smitten by the rays of the setting sun, and glowed over

the waters a splendour of carmine. As we gazed, the vaporous

curtain sank upon the shore, and the sun sank under the waves, and

the sad gray evening closed in the weeping night, and clouds and

darkness swathed the weary earth. For doubtless the earth needs its

night as well as the creatures that live thereon.

In the morning the rain had ceased, but the clouds remained. But

they were high in the heavens now, and, like a departing sorrow,

revealed the outline and form which had appeared before as an

enveloping vapour of universal and shapeless evil. The mist was now

far enough off to be seen and thought about. It was clouds now--no

longer mist and rain. And I thought how at length the evils of the

world would float away, and we should see what it was that made it

so hard for us to believe and be at peace.

In the afternoon the sky had partially cleared, but clouds hid the

sun as he sank towards the west. We walked out. A cold autumnal

wind blew, not only from the twilight of the dying day, but from the

twilight of the dying season. A sorrowful hopeless wind it seemed,

full of the odours of dead leaves--those memories of green woods,

and of damp earth--the bare graves of the flowers. Would the summer

ever come again?

We were pacing in silence along a terraced walk which overhung the

shore far below. More here than from the hilltop we seemed to look

immediately into space, not even a parapet intervening betwixt us

and the ocean. The sound of a mournful lyric, never yet sung, was

in my brain; it drew nearer to my mental grasp; but ere it alighted,

its wings were gone, and it fell dead on my consciousness. Its

meaning was this: 'Welcome, Requiem of Nature. Let me share in thy

Requiescat. Blow, wind of mournful memories. Let us moan together.

No one taketh from us the joy of our sorrow. We may mourn as we

will.'

But while I brooded thus, behold a wonder! The mass about the

sinking sun broke up, and drifted away in cloudy bergs, as if

scattered on the diverging currents of solar radiance that burst

from the gates of the west, and streamed east and north and south

over the heavens and over the sea. To the north, these masses built

a cloudy bridge across the sky from horizon to horizon, and beneath

it shone the rosy-sailed ships floating stately through their

triumphal arch up the channel to their home. Other clouds floated

stately too in the upper sea over our heads, with dense forms,

thinning into vaporous edges. Some were of a dull angry red; some

of as exquisite a primrose hue as ever the flower itself bore on its

bosom; and betwixt their edges beamed out the sweetest, purest, most

melting, most transparent blue, the heavenly blue which is the

symbol of the spirit as red is of the heart. I think I never saw a

blue to satisfy me before. Some of these clouds threw shadows of

many-shaded purple upon the green sea; and from one of the shadows,

so dark and so far out upon the glooming horizon that it looked like

an island, arose as from a pier, a wondrous structure of dim, fairy

colours, a multitude of rainbow-ends, side by side, that would have

spanned the heavens with a gorgeous arch, but failed from the very

grandeur of the idea, and grew up only a few degrees against the

clouded west. I stood rapt. The two Falconers were at some

distance before me, walking arm in arm. They stood and gazed

likewise. It was as if God had said to the heavens and the earth

and the chord of the seven colours, 'Comfort ye, comfort ye my

people.' And I said to my soul, 'Let the tempest rave in the world;

let sorrow wail like a sea-bird in the midst thereof; and let thy

heart respond to her shivering cry; but the vault of heaven encloses

the tempest and the shrieking bird and the echoing heart; and the

sun of God's countenance can with one glance from above change the

wildest winter day into a summer evening compact of poets' dreams.'

My companions were walking up over the hill. I could see that

Falconer was earnestly speaking in his father's ear. The old man's

head was bent towards the earth. I kept away. They made a turn

from home. I still followed at a distance. The evening began to

grow dark. The autumn wind met us again, colder, stronger, yet more

laden with the odours of death and the frosts of the coming winter.

But it no longer blew as from the charnel-house of the past; it

blew from the stars through the chinks of the unopened door on the

other side of the sepulchre. It was a wind of the worlds, not a

wind of the leaves. It told of the march of the spheres, and the

rest of the throne of God. We were going on into the universe--home

to the house of our Father. Mighty adventure! Sacred repose! And

as I followed the pair, one great star throbbed and radiated over my

head.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THREE GENERATIONS.

The next week I went back to my work, leaving the father and son

alone together. Before I left, I could see plainly enough that the

bonds were being drawn closer between them. A whole month passed

before they returned to London. The winter then had set in with

unusual severity. But it seemed to bring only health to the two

men. When I saw Andrew next, there was certainly a marked change

upon him. Light had banished the haziness from his eye, and his

step was a good deal firmer. I can hardly speak of more than the

physical improvement, for I saw very little of him now. Still I did

think I could perceive more of judgment in his face, as if he

sometimes weighed things in his mind. But it was plain that Robert

continued very careful not to let him a moment out of his knowledge.

He busied him with the various sights of London, for Andrew,

although he knew all its miseries well, had never yet been inside

Westminster Abbey. If he could only trust him enough to get him

something to do! But what was he fit for? To try him, he proposed

once that he should write some account of what he had seen and

learned in his wanderings; but the evident distress with which he

shrunk from the proposal was grateful to the eyes and heart of his

son.

It was almost the end of the year when a letter arrived from John

Lammie, informing Robert that his grandmother had caught a violent

cold, and that, although the special symptoms had disappeared, it

was evident her strength was sinking fast, and that she would not

recover.

He read the letter to his father.

'We must go and see her, Robert, my boy,' said Andrew.

It was the first time that he had shown the smallest desire to visit

her. Falconer rose with glad heart, and proceeded at once to make

arrangements for their journey.

It was a cold, powdery afternoon in January, with the snow thick on

the ground, save where the little winds had blown the crown of the

street bare before Mrs. Falconer's house. A post-chaise with four

horses swept wearily round the corner, and pulled up at her door.

Betty opened it, and revealed an old withered face very sorrowful,

and yet expectant. Falconer's feelings I dare not, Andrew's I

cannot attempt to describe, as they stepped from the chaise and

entered. Betty led the way without a word into the little parlour.

Robert went next, with long quiet strides, and Andrew followed with

gray, bowed head. Grannie was not in her chair. The doors which

during the day concealed the bed in which she slept, were open, and

there lay the aged woman with her eyes closed. The room was as it

had always been, only there seemed a filmy shadow in it that had not

been there before.

'She's deein', sir,' whispered Betty. 'Ay is she. Och hone!'

Robert took his father's hand, and led him towards the bed. They

drew nigh softly, and bent over the withered, but not even yet very

wrinkled face. The smooth, white, soft hands lay on the sheet,

which was folded back over her bosom. She was asleep, or rather,

she slumbered.

But the soul of the child began to grow in the withered heart of the

old man as he regarded his older mother, and as it grew it forced

the tears to his eyes, and the words to his lips.

'Mother!' he said, and her eyelids rose at once. He stooped to kiss

her, with the tears rolling down his face. The light of heaven

broke and flashed from her aged countenance. She lifted her weak

hands, took his head, and held it to her bosom.

'Eh! the bonnie gray heid!' she said, and burst into a passion of

weeping. She had kept some tears for the last. Now she would spend

all that her griefs had left her. But there came a pause in her

sobs, though not in her weeping, and then she spoke.

'I kent it a' the time, O Lord. I kent it a' the time. He's come

hame. My Anerew, my Anerew! I'm as happy 's a bairn. O Lord! O

Lord!'

And she burst again into sobs, and entered paradise in radiant

weeping.

Her hands sank away from his head, and when her son gazed in her

face he saw that she was dead. She had never looked at Robert.

The two men turned towards each other. Robert put out his arms.

His father laid his head on his bosom, and went on weeping. Robert

held him to his heart.

When shall a man dare to say that God has done all he can?

CHAPTER XIX.

THE WHOLE STORY.

The men laid their mother's body with those of the generations that

had gone before her, beneath the long grass in their country

churchyard near Rothieden--a dreary place, one accustomed to trim

cemeteries and sentimental wreaths would call it--to Falconer's mind

so friendly to the forsaken dust, because it lapt it in sweet

oblivion.

They returned to the dreary house, and after a simple meal such as

both had used to partake of in their boyhood, they sat by the fire,

Andrew in his mother's chair, Robert in the same chair in which he

had learned his Sallust and written his versions. Andrew sat for a

while gazing into the fire, and Robert sat watching his face, where

in the last few months a little feeble fatherhood had begun to dawn.

'It was there, father, that grannie used to sit, every day,

sometimes looking in the fire for hours, thinking about you, I

know,' Robert said at length.

Andrew stirred uneasily in his chair.

'How do you know that?' he asked.

'If there was one thing I could be sure of, it was when grannie was

thinking about you, father. Who wouldn't have known it, father,

when her lips were pressed together, as if she had some dreadful

pain to bear, and her eyes were looking away through the fire--so

far away! and I would speak to her three times before she would

answer? She lived only to think about God and you, father. God and

you came very close together in her mind. Since ever I can

remember, almost, the thought of you was just the one thing in this

house.'

Then Robert began at the beginning of his memory, and told his

father all that he could remember. When he came to speak about his

solitary musings in the garret, he said--and long before he reached

this part, he had relapsed into his mother tongue:

'Come and luik at the place, father. I want to see 't again,

mysel'.'

He rose. His father yielded and followed him. Robert got a candle

in the kitchen, and the two big men climbed the little narrow stair

and stood in the little sky of the house, where their heads almost

touched the ceiling.

'I sat upo' the flure there,' said Robert, 'an' thoucht and thoucht

what I wad du to get ye, father, and what I wad du wi' ye whan I had

gotten ye. I wad greit whiles, 'cause ither laddies had a father

an' I had nane. An' there's whaur I fand mamma's box wi' the letter

in 't and her ain picter: grannie gae me that ane o' you. An'

there's whaur I used to kneel doon an' pray to God. An' he's heard

my prayers, and grannie's prayers, and here ye are wi' me at last.

Instead o' thinkin' aboot ye, I hae yer ain sel'. Come, father, I

want to say a word o' thanks to God, for hearin' my prayer.'

He took the old man's hand, led him to the bedside, and kneeled with

him there.

My reader can hardly avoid thinking it was a poor sad triumph that

Robert had after all. How the dreams of the boy had dwindled in

settling down into the reality! He had his father, it was true, but

what a father! And how little he had him!

But this was not the end; and Robert always believed that the end

must be the greater in proportion to the distance it was removed, to

give time for its true fulfilment. And when he prayed aloud beside

his father, I doubt not that his thanksgiving and his hope were

equal.

The prayer over, he took his father's hand and led him down again to

the little parlour, and they took their seats again by the fire; and

Robert began again and went on with his story, not omitting the

parts belonging to Mary St. John and Eric Ericson.

When he came to tell how he had encountered him in the deserted

factory:

'Luik here, father, here's the mark o' the cut,' he said, parting

the thick hair on the top of his head.

His father hid his face in his hands.

'It wasna muckle o' a blow that ye gied me, father,' he went on,

'but I fell against the grate, and that was what did it. And I

never tellt onybody, nae even Miss St. John, wha plaistered it up,

hoo I had gotten 't. And I didna mean to say onything aboot it; but

I wantit to tell ye a queer dream, sic a queer dream it garred me

dream the same nicht.'

As he told the dream, his father suddenly grew attentive, and before

he had finished, looked almost scared; but he said nothing. When he

came to relate his grandmother's behaviour after having discovered

that the papers relating to the factory were gone, he hid his face

in his hands once more. He told him how grannie had mourned and

wept over him, from the time when he heard her praying aloud as he

crept through her room at night to their last talk together after

Dr. Anderson's death. He set forth, as he could, in the simplest

language, the agony of her soul over her lost son. He told him then

about Ericson, and Dr. Anderson, and how good they had been to him,

and at last of Dr. Anderson's request that he would do something for

him in India.

'Will ye gang wi' me, father?' he asked.

'I'll never leave ye again, Robert, my boy,' he answered. 'I have

been a bad man, and a bad father, and now I gie mysel' up to you to

mak the best o' me ye can. I daurna leave ye, Robert.'

'Pray to God to tak care o' ye, father. He'll do a'thing for ye,

gin ye'll only lat him.'

'I will, Robert.'

'I was mysel' dreidfu' miserable for a while,' Robert resumed, 'for

I cudna see or hear God at a'; but God heard me, and loot me ken

that he was there an' that a' was richt. It was jist like whan a

bairnie waukens up an' cries oot, thinkin' it 's its lane, an'

through the mirk comes the word o' the mither o' 't, sayin', "I'm

here, cratur: dinna greit." And I cam to believe 'at he wad mak you

a good man at last. O father, it's been my dream waukin' an'

sleepin' to hae you back to me an' grannie, an' mamma, an' the

Father o' 's a', an' Jesus Christ that's done a'thing for 's. An'

noo ye maun pray to God, father. Ye will pray to God to haud a grip

o' ye--willna ye, father?'

'I will, I will, Robert. But I've been an awfu' sinner. I believe

I was the death o' yer mother, laddie.'

Some closet of memory was opened; a spring of old tenderness gushed

up in his heart; at some window of the past the face of his dead

wife looked out: the old man broke into a great cry, and sobbed and

wept bitterly. Robert said no more, but wept with him.

Henceforward the father clung to his son like a child. The heart of

Falconer turned to his Father in heaven with speechless

thanksgiving. The ideal of his dreams was beginning to dawn, and

his life was new-born.

For a few days Robert took Andrew about to see those of his old

friends who were left, and the kindness with which they all received

him, moved Andrew's heart not a little. Every one who saw him

seemed to feel that he or she had a share in the redeeming duty of

the son. Robert was in their eyes like a heavenly messenger, whom

they were bound to aid; for here was the possessed of demons clothed

and in his right mind. Therefore they overwhelmed both father and

son with kindness. Especially at John Lammie's was he received with

a perfection of hospitality; as if that had been the father's house

to which he had returned from his prodigal wanderings.

The good old farmer begged that they would stay with him for a few

days.

'I hae sae mony wee things to luik efter at Rothieden, afore we

gang,' said Robert.

'Weel, lea' yer father here. We s' tak guid care o' 'im, I promise

ye.'

'There's only ae difficulty. I believe ye are my father's frien',

Mr. Lammie, as ye hae been mine, and God bless ye; sae I'll jist

tell you the trowth, what for I canna lea' him. I'm no sure eneuch

yet that he could withstan' temptation. It's the drink ye ken.

It's months sin' he's tasted it; but--ye ken weel eneuch--the

temptation's awfu'. Sin' ever I got him back, I haena tasted ae

mou'fu' o' onything that cud be ca'd strong drink mysel', an' as

lang 's he lives, not ae drap shall cross my lips--no to save my

life.'

'Robert,' said Mr. Lammie, giving him his hand with solemnity, 'I

sweir by God that he shanna see, smell, taste, nor touch drink in

this hoose. There's but twa boatles o' whusky, i' the shape o'

drink, i' the hoose; an' gin ye say 'at he sall bide, I'll gang and

mak them an' the midden weel acquant.'

Andrew was pleased at the proposal. Robert too was pleased that his

father should be free of him for a while. It was arranged for three

days. Half-an-hour after, Robert came upon Mr. Lammie emptying the

two bottles of whisky into the dunghill in the farmyard.

He returned with glad heart to Rothieden. It did not take him long

to arrange his grandmother's little affairs. He had already made up

his mind about her house and furniture. He rang the bell one

morning for Betty.

'Hae ye ony siller laid up, Betty?'

'Ay. I hae feifteen poun' i' the savin's bank.'

'An' what do ye think o' doin'?'

'I'll get a bit roomy, an' tak in washin'.

'Weel, I'll tell ye what I wad like ye to do. Ye ken Mistress

Elshender?'

'Fine that. An' a verra dacent body she is.'

'Weel, gin ye like, ye can haud this hoose, an' a' 'at's in't, jist

as it is, till the day o' yer deith. And ye'll aye keep it in

order, an' the ga'le-room ready for me at ony time I may happen to

come in upo' ye in want o' a nicht's quarters. But I wad like ye,

gin ye hae nae objections, to tak Mistress Elshender to bide wi' ye.

She's turnin' some frail noo, and I'm unner great obligation to her

Sandy, ye ken.'

'Ay, weel that. He learnt ye to fiddle, Robert--I hoombly beg your

pardon, sir, Mister Robert.'

'Nae offence, Betty, I assure ye. Ye hae been aye gude to me, and I

thank ye hertily.'

Betty could not stand this. Her apron went up to her eyes.

'Eh, sir,' she sobbed, 'ye was aye a gude lad.'

'Excep' whan I spak o' Muckledrum, Betty.'

She laughed and sobbed together.

'Weel, ye'll tak Mistress Elshender in, winna ye?'

'I'll do that, sir. And I'll try to do my best wi' her.'

'She can help ye, ye ken, wi' yer washin', an' sic like.'

'She's a hard-workin' wuman, sir. She wad do that weel.'

'And whan ye're in ony want o' siller, jist write to me. An' gin

onything suld happen to me, ye ken, write to Mr. Gordon, a frien' o'

mine. There's his address in Lonnon.'

'Eh, sir, but ye are kin'. God bless ye for a'.'

She could bear no more, and left the room crying.

Everything settled at Rothieden, he returned to Bodyfauld. The most

welcome greeting he had ever received in his life, lay in the shine

of his father's eyes when he entered the room where he sat with Miss

Lammie. The next day they left for London.

CHAPTER XX.

THE VANISHING.

They came to see me the very evening of their arrival. As to

Andrew's progress there could be no longer any doubt. All that was

necessary for conviction on the point was to have seen him before

and to see him now. The very grasp of his hand was changed. But

not yet would Robert leave him alone.

It will naturally occur to my reader that his goodness was not much

yet. It was not. It may have been greater than we could be sure

of, though. But if any one object that such a conversion, even if

it were perfected, was poor, inasmuch as the man's free will was

intromitted with, I answer: 'The development of the free will was

the one object. Hitherto it was not free.' I ask the man who says

so: 'Where would your free will have been if at some period of your

life you could have had everything you wanted?' If he says it is

nobler in a man to do with less help, I answer, 'Andrew was not

noble: was he therefore to be forsaken? The prodigal was not left

without the help of the swine and their husks, at once to keep him

alive and disgust him with the life. Is the less help a man has

from God the better?' According to you, the grandest thing of all

would be for a man sunk in the absolute abysses of sensuality all at

once to resolve to be pure as the empyrean, and be so, without help

from God or man. But is the thing possible? As well might a hyena

say: I will be a man, and become one. That would be to create.

Andrew must be kept from the evil long enough to let him at least

see the good, before he was let alone. But when would we be let

alone? For a man to be fit to be let alone, is for a man not to

need God, but to be able to live without him. Our hearts cry out,

'To have God is to live. We want God. Without him no life of ours

is worth living. We are not then even human, for that is but the

lower form of the divine. We are immortal, eternal: fill us, O

Father, with thyself. Then only all is well.' More: I heartily

believe, though I cannot understand the boundaries of will and

inspiration, that what God will do for us at last is infinitely

beyond any greatness we could gain, even if we could will ourselves

from the lowest we could be, into the highest we can imagine. It is

essential divine life we want; and there is grand truth, however

incomplete or perverted, in the aspiration of the Brahmin. He is

wrong, but he wants something right. If the man had the power in

his pollution to will himself into the right without God, the fact

that he was in that pollution with such power, must damn him there

for ever. And if God must help ere a man can be saved, can the help

of man go too far towards the same end? Let God solve the

mystery--for he made it. One thing is sure: We are his, and he will

do his part, which is no part but the all in all. If man could do

what in his wildest self-worship he can imagine, the grand result

would be that he would be his own God, which is the Hell of Hells.

For some time I had to give Falconer what aid I could in being with

his father while he arranged matters in prospect of their voyage to

India. Sometimes he took him with him when he went amongst his

people, as he called the poor he visited. Sometimes, when he wanted

to go alone, I had to take him to Miss St. John, who would play and

sing as I had never heard any one play or sing before. Andrew on

such occasions carried his flute with him, and the result of the two

was something exquisite. How Miss St. John did lay herself out to

please the old man! And pleased he was. I think her kindness did

more than anything else to make him feel like a gentleman again.

And in his condition that was much.

At length Falconer would sometimes leave him with Miss St. John,

till he or I should go for him: he knew she could keep him safe. He

knew that she would keep him if necessary.

One evening when I went to see Falconer, I found him alone. It was

one of these occasions.

'I am very glad you have come, Gordon,' he said. 'I was wanting to

see you. I have got things nearly ready now. Next month, or at

latest, the one after, we shall sail; and I have some business with

you which had better be arranged at once. No one knows what is

going to happen. The man who believes the least in chance knows as

little as the man who believes in it the most. My will is in the

hands of Dobson. I have left you everything.'

I was dumb.

'Have you any objection?' he said, a little anxiously.

'Am I able to fulfil the conditions?' I faltered.

'I have burdened you with no conditions,' he returned. 'I don't

believe in conditions. I know your heart and mind now. I trust you

perfectly.'

'I am unworthy of it.'

'That is for me to judge.'

'Will you have no trustees?'

'Not one.'

'What do you want me to do with your property?'

'You know well enough. Keep it going the right way.'

'I will always think what you would like.'

'No; do not. Think what is right; and where there is no right or

wrong plain in itself, then think what is best. You may see good

reason to change some of my plans. You may be wrong; but you must

do what you see right--not what I see or might see right.'

'But there is no need to talk so seriously about it,' I said. 'You

will manage it yourself for many years yet. Make me your steward,

if you like, during your absence: I will not object to that.'

'You do not object to the other, I hope?'

'No.'

'Then so let it be. The other, of course. I have, being a lawyer

myself, taken good care not to trust myself only with the arranging

of these matters. I think you will find them all right.'

'But supposing you should not return--you have compelled me to make

the supposition--'

'Of course. Go on.'

'What am I to do with the money in the prospect of following you?'

'Ah! that is the one point on which I want a word, although I do not

think it is necessary. I want to entail the property.'

'How?'

'By word of mouth,' he answered, laughing. 'You must look out for a

right man, as I have done, get him to know your ways and ideas, and

if you find him worthy--that is a grand wide word--our Lord gave it

to his disciples--leave it all to him in the same way I have left it

to you, trusting to the spirit of truth that is in him, the spirit

of God. You can copy my will--as far as it will apply, for you may

have, one way or another, lost the half of it by that time. But, by

word of mouth, you must make the same condition with him as I have

made with you--that is, with regard to his leaving it, and the

conditions on which he leaves it, adding the words, "that it may

descend thus in perpetuum." And he must do the same.'

He broke into a quiet laugh. I knew well enough what he meant. But

he added:

'That means, of course, for as long as there is any.'

'Are you sure you are doing right, Falconer?' I said.

'Quite. It is better to endow one man, who will work as the Father

works, than a hundred charities. But it is time I went to fetch my

father. Will you go with me?'

This was all that passed between us on the subject, save that, on

our way, he told me to move to his rooms, and occupy them until he

returned.

'My papers,' he added, 'I commit to your discretion.'

On our way back from Queen Square, he joked and talked merrily.

Andrew joined in. Robert showed himself delighted with every

attempt at gaiety or wit that Andrew made. When we reached the

house, something that had occurred on the way made him turn to

Martin Chuzzlewit, and he read Mrs. Gamp's best to our great

enjoyment.

I went down with the two to Southampton, to see them on board the

steamer. I staid with them there until she sailed. It was a lovely

morning in the end of April, when at last I bade them farewell on

the quarter-deck. My heart was full. I took his hand and kissed

it. He put his arms round me, and laid his cheek to mine. I was

strong to bear the parting.

The great iron steamer went down in the middle of the Atlantic, and

I have not yet seen my friend again.

CHAPTER XXI.

IN EXPECTATIONE.

I had left my lodging and gone to occupy Falconer's till his return.

There, on a side-table among other papers, I found the following

verses. The manuscript was much scored and interlined, but more

than decipherable, for he always wrote plainly. I copied them out

fair, and here they are for the reader that loves him.

Twilight is near, and the day grows old;

The spiders of care are weaving their net;

All night 'twill be blowing and rainy and cold;

I cower at his door from the wind and wet.

He sent me out the world to see,

Drest for the road in a garment new;

It is clotted with clay, and worn beggarly--

The porter will hardly let me through!

I bring in my hand a few dusty ears--

Once I thought them a tribute meet!

I bring in my heart a few unshed tears:

Which is my harvest--the pain or the wheat?

A broken man, at the door of his hall

I listen, and hear it go merry within;

The sounds are of birthday-festival!

Hark to the trumpet! the violin!

I know the bench where the shadowed folk

Sit 'neath the music-loft--there none upbraids!

They will make me room who bear the same yoke,

Dear publicans, sinners, and foolish maids!

An ear has been hearing my heart forlorn!

A step comes soft through the dancing-din!

Oh Love eternal! oh woman-born!

Son of my Father to take me in!

One moment, low at our Father's feet

Loving I lie in a self-lost trance;

Then walk away to the sinners' seat,

With them, at midnight, to rise and dance!

THE END

FOOTNOTES:

1 In Scotch the ch and gh are almost always guttural. The gh

according to Mr. Alexander Ellis, the sole authority in the past

pronunciation of the country, was guttural in England in the time of

Shakspere.

2 An exclamation of pitiful sympathy, inexplicable to the

understanding. Thus the author covers his philological ignorance of

the cross-breeding of the phrase.

3 Extra--over all--ower a'--orra--one more than is wanted.

4 Tennyson's Morte d'Arthur.

Atque animum nunc huc celerem, nunc dividit illuc.

?neid: IV. 285

5 This line is one of many instances in which my reader will see

both the carelessness of Ericson and my religion towards his

remains.

6 Why should Sir Walter Scott, who felt the death of Camp, his

bullterrier, so much that he declined a dinner engagement in

consequence, say on the death of his next favourite, a grayhound

bitch--'Rest her body, since I dare not say soul!'? Where did he

get that dare not? Is it well that the daring of genius should be

circumscribed by an unbelief so common-place as to be capable only

of subscription?

7 Amongst Ericson's papers I find the following sonnets, which

belong to the mood here embodied:

Oft, as I rest in quiet peace, am I

Thrust out at sudden doors, and madly driven

Through desert solitudes, and thunder-riven

Black passages which have not any sky.

The scourge is on me now, with all the cry

Of ancient life that hath with murder striven.

How many an anguish hath gone up to heaven!

How many a hand in prayer been lifted high

When the black fate came onward with the rush

Of whirlwind, avalanche, or fiery spume!

Even at my feet is cleft a shivering tomb

Beneath the waves; or else with solemn hush

The graveyard opens, and I feel a crush

As if we were all huddled in one doom.

Comes there, O Earth, no breathing time for thee?

No pause upon thy many-chequered lands?

Now resting on my bed with listless hands,

I mourn thee resting not. Continually

Hear I the plashing borders of the sea

Answer each other from the rocks and sands.

Troop all the rivers seawards; nothing stands,

But with strange noises hasteth terribly.

Loam-eared hyenas go a moaning by.

Howls to each other all the bloody crew

Of Afric's tigers. But, O men, from you

Comes this perpetual sound more loud and high

Than aught that vexes air. I hear the cry

Of infant generations rising too.

8 This sonnet and the preceding are both one line deficient.

9 To these two sonnets Falconer had appended this note.

'Something I wrote to Ericson concerning these, during my first

college vacation, produced a reply of which the following is a

passage: "On writing the first I was not aware that James and John

were the Sons of Thunder. For a time it did indeed grieve me to

think of the spiritual-minded John as otherwise than a still and

passionless lover of Christ."'

Note from John Bechard, creator of this Electronic text.

The following is a list of Scottish words which are found in George

MacDonald's "Robert Falconer". I have compiled this list myself and

worked out the definitions from context with the help of Margaret

West, from Leven in Fife, Scotland, and also by referring to a word

list found in a collection of poems by Robert Burns, "Chamber's

Scots Dialect Dictionary from the 17th century to the Present" c.

1911 and "Scots-English English-Scots Dictionary" Lomond Books c.

1998. I have tried to be as thorough as possible given the limited

resources and welcome any feedback on this list which may be wrong

(my e-mail address is JaBBechard@aol.com). This was never meant to

be a comprehensive list of the National Scottish Language, but

rather an aid to understanding some of the conversations and

references in this text in the Broad Scots. I do apologise for any

mistakes or omissions. I aimed for my list to be very

comprehensive, and it often repeats the same word in a plural or

diminutive form. As well, it includes words that are quite obvious

to native English speakers, only spelled in such a way to

demonstrate the regional pronunciation.

This list is a compressed form that consists of three columns for

'word', 'definition', and 'additional notes'. It is set up with a

comma between each item and a hard return at the end of each

definition. This means that this section could easily be cut and

pasted into its own text file and imported into a database or

spreadsheet as a comma separated variable file (.csv file). Failing

that, you could do a search and replace for commas in this section

(I have not used any commas in my words, definitions or notes) and

replace the commas with spaces or tabs.

Word,Definition,Notes

a',all; every,also have

a' gait,everywhere,

a' thing,everything; anything,

abeelity,ability,

abettin',abetting,

a'body,everyone; everybody,

aboon,above; up; over,

aboord,aboard,

aboot,about,

aboot it an' aboot it,all about,

abune,above; up; over,

accep's,accepts,

accoont,account,

accoonts,accounts,

accordin',according,

acquant,acquainted,

a'-creatin',all-creating,

ae,one,

aff,off; away; past; beyond,

aff-gang,outlet,

afflickit,afflicted,

affoord,afford,

affront,affront; disgrace; shame,

affrontet,affronted; disgraced,also ashamed; shamed

afit,afoot; on foot,

afore,before; in front of,

aforehan',beforehand,

aften,often,

aftener,more often,

agen,against,

aheid,ahead,

ahin',behind; after; at the back of,

ahint,behind; after; at the back of,

aiblins,perhaps; possibly,

aidin',aiding,

ailin',ailing; sick,

ain,own,also one

airin',airing,

airm,arm,

airm-cheir,armchair,

airms,arms,also coat of arms; crest

airmy,army,

airth,earth,

aise,ashes,

ait,eat,

aither,either,

aiths,oaths,

aitin',eating,

aits,oats,

alane,alone,

alang,along,

Algerine,Algerian,

alloo,allow,

allooed,allowed,

Almichty,Almighty; God,

amaist,almost,

amang,among; in; together with,

amen's,amends,

amo',among,

amuntit,amounted,

an',and,

ance,once,

ane,one,also a single person or thing

aneath,beneath; under,

anent,opposite to; in front of,also concerning

Anerew,Andrew,

anes,ones,

angert,angered; angry,also grieved

anither,another,

answerin',answering,

answert,answered,

a'ready,already,

aricht,aright,

aside,beside,also aside

aspirin',aspiring,

astarn,astern,

'at,that,

ate,hate,also eat

a'thegither,all together,

a'thing,everything; anything,

'at's,that is; that has,

attreebuted,attributed,

atweel,indeed; truely; of course,

atween,between,

aucht,eight; eighth,also ought; own; possess

aul',old,

auld,old,

aulder,older,

aumrie,cupboard; pantry; store-closet,

aumry,cupboard; pantry; store-closet,

a'-uphaudin',all-upholding; all-supporting,

ava,at all; of all,exclamation of banter; ridicule

awa,away; distant,also off; go away

awa',away; distant,also off; go away

awaur,aware,

Awbrahawm,Abraham,

aweel,ah well; well then; well,

awfu',awful,

awpron,apron,

ay,yes; indeed,exclamation of surprise; wonder

aye,yes; indeed,

ayont,beyond; after,

bade,did bide,

badena,did not bide,

bagonet,bayonet,

bailey,civic dignitary; magistrate,

bairn,child,

bairnie,little child,diminutive

bairns,children,

baith,both,

bakehoose,bakery,

baneless,insipid; without pith,

banes,bones,

barfut,barefoot,

barrin',barring,

barrowfu',wheelbarrow full,

baubee,halfpenny,

baubees,halfpennies,

bauchles,old pair of shoes,also shoes down at the heel

baukie,bat,

beggit,begged,

beginnin',beginning,

begud,began,

behaud,withhold; wait; delay,also behold

behavin',behaving,

bein',being,

beir,bear,

beirer,bearer,

beirs,bears,

bejan,first year's student,at a Scottish university

belangs,belongs,

believin',believing,

ben' leather,thick leather for soling boots/shoes,

bena,be not; is not,

bend-leather,thick leather for soling boots/shoes,

benn,in; inside; into; within; inwards,also inner room

benn the hoose,in/into the parlour,best room of the house

beowty,beauty,

beuks,books,

beyon',beyond,

bide,endure; bear; remain; live,also desire; wish

bides,endures; bears; remains; lives,also stays for

biggit,built,

bilin',boiling,also the whole quantity

bin',bind,

binna,be not,

birse,bristle; hair; plume of hair,

bit,but; bit,also small; little--diminutive

bitch,,term of contempt usually applied to a man

bitin',biting,

bittie,little bit,diminutive

bittock,a little bit; a short distance,

blaeberries,blueberries,

blastit,blasted,

blate,over-modest; bashful; shy,

blaud,spoil; injure; soil,

blaudit,spoiled; injured; soiled,

blaw,blow,

blecks,nonplusses; perplexes; beats,

blessin',blessing,

blether,talk nonsense; babble; boast,

bletherin',talking nonsense; babbling; boasting,

blethers,talks nonsense; babbles; boasts,nonsense; foolish talk

blin',blind,

blink,take a hasty glance; ogle,also shine; gleam; twinkle; glimmer

blinner,blinder,

blude,blood,

bluidy,bloody,

boasom,bosom,

boatles,bottles,

boddom,bottom,

body,person; fellow,also body

boglet,bamboozled; terrified,

bonnet,man's cap,

bonnetfu',bonnetful; capful,

bonnets,man's caps,

bonnie,good; beautiful; pretty; handsome,

bonniest,best; most beautiful; prettiest,also considerable

bonny,good; beautiful; pretty; handsome,

boodie,ghost; hobgoblin,

booin',bowing,

bools,marbles,

boon',bound,

boord,board (i.e. room and board),

bothie,cottage in common for farm-servants,

boucht,bought,

bourach,heap; cluster; mound,

bowat,stable-lantern,

bowie,small barrel or cask,

boxie,little box,diminutive

brae,hill; hillside; high ground by a river,

braid,broad; having a strong accent,

brak,break,

brakfast,breakfast,

brat,child,term of contempt

braw,beautiful; good; fine,also lovely (girl); handsome (boy)

brawly,admirably; very; very much; well,

breedth,breadth,

breeks,breeches; trousers,

breid,bread,

breist,breast,

breists,breasts,

breith,breath,

breme-bush,broom-bush,also simpleton

brewin',brewing,

brig,bridge,

brither,brother,

brithers,brothers; fellows,

brithren,brethren; brothers,

brocht,brought,

broo,brow; eyebrow,

broucht,brought,

browst,brewage; booze,also the consequences of one's own acts

bruik,broke,

brunt,burned,

bude,would prefer to; behoved,also must; had to

budena,must not; could not; might not,

buff,nonsense,

buik,book,also Bible

buiks,books,

bund,bound,

burd alane,quite alone,also the only surviving child of a family

burn,water; stream; brook,

burnin',burning,

burnside,along the side of a stream,

buss,bush; shrub; thicket,

butes,boots,

butt,main room in a croft; outside,includes kitchen and storage

butt the hoose,into the house; into the kitchen,

by ordinar,out of the ordinary; supernatural,also unusual

by ordinar',out of the ordinary; supernatural,also unusual

by-ordinar,out of the ordinary; supernatural,also unusual

byous,exceedingly; extraordinary; very,

ca,drive; impel; hammer,

ca',call; name,

ca'd,called,

cadger,carrier; pedlar,

ca'in',calling,

cairds,cards,

cairriage,carriage,

cairriet,carried,

cairry,carry,

cairryin',carrying,

calfie,little calf,diminutive

callant,stripling; lad,term of affection

cam,came,

cam',came,

camna,did not come,

camstairie,unmanageable; wild; obstinate,

camstairy,unmanageable; wild; obstinate,

camstary,unmanageable; wild; obstinate,

can'le,candle,

canna,cannot,also cotton-grass

canny,cautious; prudent; shrewd; artful,

cap,wooden cup or bowl,

capt'n,captain,

carena,do not care,

carldoddies,stalks of rib-grass,also term of endearment

carritchis,catechism,

ca's,calls,

cast up,taunt; reproach,

catchin',catching,

cattle,lice; fleas,used contemptuously of persons

cauld,cold,

caure,calves,

'cause,because,

caw,drive; impel; hammer,

cawed,driven; impeled; hammered,

cawin',driving; impeling; hammering,

ceevil,civil,

'cep',except; but,

chackit,checkered,

chairge,charge,

chap,knock; hammer; strike; rap,

chappit,knocked; hammered; struck; rapped,

chaps,knocks; hammers; strikes; raps,

chaumer,chamber; room; bedroom,

cheep,chirp; creak; hint; word,

cheerman,chairman,

chessel,tub for pressing cheese,

chice,choice,

chiel',child; young person; fellow,term of fondness or intimacy

chield,child; young person; fellow,term of fondness or intimacy

chimla-lug,fireside,

chits,sweetbreads,

chop,shop; store,

circumspec',circumspect,

claes,clothes; dress,

claikin',clucking (like a hen),also talk much in a trivial way

claith,cloth,

clams,vice or pincers,used by saddlers and shoemakers

clap,press down; pat; fondle,

clashes,blows; slaps; messes,also gossip; tittle-tattle

clash-pyet,tell-tale; scandal-monger,

clean,altogether; entirely,also comely; shapely; empty; clean

cleant,cleaned,

clear-e'ed,clear-eyed,

cleed,clothe; shelter,

cleedin',clothing; sheltering,

cleuks,claws; hands; paws,

clo'en,cloven,

clomb,climbed,

clood,cloud,

cloods,clouds,

cloody,cloudy,

close,narrow alley; blind alley,also enclosed land

closin',closing,

clype,tell tales; gossip,

coaties,children's coats; petticoats,

coaton,cotton,

coats,petticoats,

coch,coach,

coches,coaches,

coff,buy,

colliginer,college student,also college boy

Come yer wa's butt.,Come on in.,

comin',coming,

comman'ment,commandment,

compleen,complain,

con thanks,return thanks,

considerin',considering,

contradickit,contradicted,

contrairy,contrary,

contred,contradicted; thwarted; crossed,

convence,convince,

conversin',conversing,

convertit,converted,

coorse,coarse,also course

coort,court,

corbie,crow; raven,

cornel,colonel,

correck,correct,

cottar,farm tenant; cottager,

cottars,farm tenants; cottagers,

cottar-wark,stipulated work done by the cottager,

couldna,could not,

coupit,tilted; tumbled; drank off,

couples,rafters,

crackin',cracking,

cracklin',crackling,

crap o' the wa',natural shelf between wall and roof,

crappit,topped; cropped; lopped,

crappit heids,stuffed head of cod or haddock,

crater,creature,

cratur,creature,

craturs,creatures,

cried,called; summoned,

crookit,crooked,

croon,crown,

croudin',cooing; croaking; groaning,

Cry Moany,Cremona,make of violin

cryin',calling; summoning,

cryin' doon,decrying; depreciating,

cud,could,

cudna,could not,

culd,could,

cumber,encumbrance; inconvenience,

cunnin',cunning,

curst,cursed,

cuttin',cutting,

cutty pipe,short tobacco-pipe,

cwytes,petticoats,

dacent,decent,

dame,young unmarried woman; damsel,also farmer's wife

damnin',damning; condemning,

dancin',dancing,

dang,knock; bang; drive,also damn

darnin',darning,

dauchter,daughter,

daunerin',strolling; sauntering; ambling,

daur,dare; challenge,

daured,dared; challenged,

daurna,dare not; do not dare,

daursay,dare say,

dauty,darling; pet,term of endearment

dawtie,darling; pet,term of endearment

daylicht,daylight,

debosh,excessive indulgence; debauch,also extravagance; waste

deboshed,debauched; worthless,

deceitfu',deceitful,

deceivin',deceiving,

dee,do,also die

deed,died,also deed; indeed

'deed,indeed,

dee'd,died,

deein',doing,also dying

deevil,devil,

deevil-ma'-care,devil-may-care; utterly careless,also no matter

deevilry,devilry,

deevils,devils,

deid,dead,

deif,deaf,

deil,devil,also not

de'il,devil,also not

De'il a bit!,Not at all! Not a bit!,

deith,death,

deleeberately,deliberately,

dementit,demented; mad; crazy,

denner,dinner,

desertit,deserted,

desperate,exceedingly; beyond measure,also irreclaimable; very bad

didna,did not,

differ,difference; dissent,also differ

dingin',overcoming; wearying; vexing,also raining/snowing heavily

dinna,do not,

direckly,directly; immediately,

dirt,worthless persons or things,term of contempt

dishcloot,cloth for washing dishes,

disna,does not,

disoun,disown,

distinckly,distinctly,

div,do,

divots,thin flat pieces of sod,

dochter,daughter,

doesna,does not,

doin',doing,

doin's,doings,

doited,foolish; stupefied; crazy,

dominie,minister; schoolmaster,slightly contemptuous

dooble,double; duplicate,also double dealing; devious

dooble-sole,double-sole,

doobt,suspect; know; doubt,have an unpleasant conviction

doobtin',suspecting; knowing,also doubting

doobtless,doubtless,

doobts,suspects; knows,also doubts

dooce,gentle; sensible; sober; prudent,

dooms,extremely; exceedingly; very,

doon,down,

doonricht,downright,

door-cheek,door-post; threshold; doorway,

door-stane,flagstone at the threshold of a door,

dother,daughter,

dottled,crazy; in dotage,

douce,gentle; sensible; sober; prudent,

dowie,sad; lonely; depressing; dismal,also ailing

draigon,dragon; also boy's paper kite,reference to Revelation 12-13

draigons,dragons,also boys' paper kites

dram,glass of whisky,

drap,drop; small quantity of,

drap i' the hoose,presence of someone unknown,

drappit,dropped,

drappy,little drop; a little (liquor),diminutive

drauchts,plans; schemes; policies,also lineaments of the face

drave,drove,

drawin',drawing,

dreadfu',dreadful,

dreamin',dreaming,

drear,dreary; dreariness; tedium,

dreidfu',dreadful; dreadfully,

drift,snow driven by the wind,

driftin',drifting,snow driven by the wind

drinkin',drinking,

drivin',driving,

droont,drowned,

drucken,drunken; tipsy,

drum-heid,drum head,

drunken,drank; drunk,

du,do,

duin',doing,

dumfoundered,perplexed; stunned; amazed,

dune,done,

dunna,do not,

duv,do,

duvna,do not,

dwalls,dwells,

d'ye,do you,

dyke,wall of stone or turf,

eaves-drapper,eavesdropper,

Ebberdeen,Aberdeen,

ee,eye,

een,eyes,

e'en,even; just; simply; equal,also eyes; evening

efter,after; afterwards,

efterhin,after; afterwards,

efternune,afternoon,

eident,industrious; diligent; steady,

elbuck,elbow,

eleckit,elected,chosen by God for salvation (Calvinism)

ellwand,ell-wand; ruler; yardstick,1 ell = 37 inches or 94 cm

en',end,

endit,ended,

eneuch,enough,

Englan',England,

enjoyin',enjoying,

eppiteet,appetite,

er,ere; before,

er',ere; before,

Erse,Irish; Gaelic,

etairnity,eternity,

ewie,young ewe,

exackly,exactly,

excep',except,

expairience,experience,

expeckin',expecting,

expecs,expects,

eyther,either,

fa',fall; befall,

fac',fact; truth; reality,

fac's,facts; truths; realities,

factor,manager of a landed property,lets farms; collects rents

fact'ry,factory,

faddom,fathom,

fa'en,fallen,

failin',failing,

faimilies,families,

faimily,family,

fain,eager; anxious; fond,also fondly; gladly

fa'in',falling,

fairmy,little farm,diminutive

Faith!,Indeed!; Truly!,exclamation

fallow,fellow; chap,

fan',found,also felt

fand,found,

farrer,farther,

fash,trouble; inconvenience; vex,

faun't,found,

faured,favoured; featured,

faut,fault; blame,

fau'ts,faults,

feared,afraid; frightened; scared,

fearfu',fearful; easily frightened,

fearsome,terrifying; fearful; awful,

feart,afraid; frightened; scared,

feelin',feeling,

fegs!,truly!; really!; goodness!,mild oath; exclamation of surprise

feifteen,fifteen,

fell,very; potent; keen; harsh; sharp,intensifies; also turf

feow,few,

ferlie,wonder; novelty; curiosity,

fess,fetch; bring,

fest,fast,

festen,fasten; bind,

fiddlin',fiddling,

fin',find,also feel

fir-can'le,a torch; 'firwood' used as a candle,

fishin',fishing,

fit,foot; base,also fit; capable; able

flax,flax; wick,

flech,flea,

fleys,terrifies; frightens,

fleyt,terrified; frightened,

flingin',kicking; throwing,

flittin',shifting; removing; departing,

flooers,flowers,

flure,floor,

flurin',flooring,

forby,as well; as well as; besides,also over and above

forbye,as well; as well as; besides,also over and above

foresicht,foresight,

foret,forward,

forgather,assemble; encounter,also meet for a special purpose

forgathert,assembled; encountered,also met for a special purpose

forgettin',forgetting,

forgie,forgive,

forgien,forgiven,

fortnicht,fortnight; two weeks,

fou,full; well-fed,

fouchten,fought,

fower-hoors,four o'clock tea,

fowk,folk,

frae,from,

freely,quite; very; thoroughly,

freits,superstitions; charms,also superstitious fancies

fremt,stranger,also strange; foreign

fren',friend,

fricht,frighten; scare away,also fright

frichtit,frightened; scared away,

frichtsome,frightful,

frien',friend,

frien's,friends,

frien'ship,friendship,

fu',full; very; much,

fule,fool,

fummles,fumbles,

fun',found,

fun-buss,whin-bush,

fund,found,

furbye,as well; as well as; besides,also over and above

fushionless,pithless; tasteless; feeble,

fut,foot,

gae,gave,

gaed,went,

gaein',going,

gae's,gave us; gave his,

gaird,guard; watch,

gait,way; fashion,also route; street

gaither,gather,

ga'le,gable,

gane,gone,

gang,go; goes; depart; walk,

gang yer wa's,go on,

gangs,goes; walks,

gar,cause; make; compel,

garred,made; caused; compelled,

garrin',making; causing; compelling,

gars,makes; causes; compels,

gart,made; caused; compelled,

gar't,make it; cause it; compel it,

gate,way; route,also method; fashion; habit

gatherin',gathering,

gaun,going,

'gen,by; in time for; whether,

German Ocean,,old reference to the English Channel & North Sea

gether,gather,

gettin',getting,

gey,fairly; considerably,also considerable

gi',give,

gie,give,

gie a lift,give a helping hand,

gied,gave,

giein',giving,

gien,if; as if; then; whether,also given

gi'en,given,

giena,do not give,

gies,gives,

gie's,gives; give us; give his,

gill,tipple; drink,

gin,if; as if; then; whether,

gird,hoop for a barrel or tub,

girn,grimace; snarl; twist the features,

glaid,glad,

glaidly,gladly,

glaiss,glass,

gleds,kites; buzzards,

gleg,quick; lively; smart; quick-witted,

Glendronach,particular brand of whisky,

glimmerin',glimmering,

gloamin',twilight; dusk,

gloggie,insipid; artificial; unnatural,

glowered,stared; gazed; scowled,

goin',going,

goon,gown,

goul,howl; yell; whine,

gowd,gold,

gowk,cuckoo; fool; blockhead,

gran',grand; capital; first-rate,

grandmither,grandmother,

gran'father,grandfather,

gran'mither,grandmother,

grat,cried; wept,

gravestane,gravestone; tombstone; headstone,

greet,cry; weep,

greetin',crying; weeping,

greit,cry; weep,

greitin',crying; weeping,

greits,cries; weeps,

grew,greyhound,

grip,grasp; understand,also hold

grips,grasps; understands,seizures; colic

growin',growing,

grun',ground,

grup,grip; grasp,

grups,grips; grasp,

grutten,cried; wept,

gude,good,also God

gude-bye,goodbye,

gude-hertit,good-hearted,

gudeness,goodness,

guid,good,also God

guide,treat; handle; look after; save; keep,

Guidsake!,For God's sake!,

ha',have,also hall; house

haddie,haddock,

hadna,had not,

hae,have; has,also here

ha'e,have,also here

haein',having,

haena,have not,

hae't,have it,

haill,whole,

hairm,harm,

hairps,harps,

hairst,harvest,

hairst-play,school holidays during harvest,

Haith!,Faith!,exclamation of surprise

haithen,heathen,

haiven,heaven,

halesome,wholesome; pure,

half-dizzen,half-dozen,

half-stervit,half-starved,

hame,home,

han',hand,

han'fu',handful,

hangin',hanging,

hangt,hanged,

hang't,hanged,

han'le,handle,

han'led,handled; treated,

han'let,handled,

han's,hands,

hantle,much; large quantity; far,

hard,heard,also hard

hash,mess; muddle,

hasna,does not have,

haud,hold; keep,

hauden,held; kept,

haudin',holding; keeping,

hauld,hold,

haveless,careless (therefore helpless),also wasteful; incompetent

haven,heaven,

haverin',talking incoherently; babbling,

havers,nonsense; foolish talk; babble,

hay-sow,long oblong stack of hay,shaped like a sow

he that will to Cupar maun to Cupar,a wilful man must have his way,

heap,very much,also heap

heardna,did not hear,

hearin',hearing,

hearken,hearken; hear; listen,

hearkened,hearkened; heard; listened,

hearkenin',hearkening; listening,

hearkent,hearkened; heard; listened,

Hecklebirnie,Hell,

hecklet,cross-questioned; examined,

hed,had,also hid

heepocreet,hypocrite,

heicht,height,

heid,head; heading,

heids,heads; headings,

helpin',helping,

helpit,helped,

her lane,on her own,

hersel',herself,

hert,heart,

hertily,heartily,

herts,hearts,

het,hot; burning,

hev,have,

Hielan',Highland,

Hielan'man,Highland man,

hillo,,a call to attract attention

him lane,on his own,

himsel',himself,

hinder,hinder; hind; latter,

hine,away; afar; to a distance,

hing,hang,

hingin',hanging,

hings,hangs,

hinnerance,hinderance,

hinney,honey,

hintit,hinted,

hips,borders of a district,

hiz,us,emphatic

hizzies,hussies; silly girls,

hoo,how,

hooever,however,

hooly,slowly; cautiously; gently,also 'take your time'

hoomble,humble,

hoombly,humbly,

hoor,hour,

hoo's,how is,

hoose,house,

hooses,houses,

hoot,pshaw,exclamation of doubt or contempt

Hoot awa!,tuts!; nonsense!,also exclamation of sympathy

hoot toot,tut!,exclamation of annoyance

hoots,pshaw,exclamation of doubt or contempt

horse-huves,horse hooves,

hose,stocking,

hostit,coughed,

houp,hope,

houpe,hope,

houps,hopes,

humblet,humbled,

hunger,hunger; starve,

hungert,starved,

hunner,hundred,

huntin',hunting,

hurdies,buttocks,

hurry an' a scurry,uproar; tumult,

hurtit,hurt,

huves,hooves,

hynd,straight; by the nearest road,

i',in; into,

I doobt,I know; I suspect,

I wat,I know; I assure (you),

ilk,every; each,also common; ordinary

ilka,every; each,also common; ordinary

ilkabody,everybody; everyone,

ill,bad; evil; hard; harsh; badly,also misfortune; harm

'ill,will,

ill-contrived,tricky; mischievous,also badly behaved; ill-tempered

ill-doin',badly behaved,also leading an evil life

ill-fashioned,vulgar in habits; ill-mannered,also quarrelsome

ill-faured,unbecoming; ill-mannered; clumsy,also unpleasant

ill-mainnert,ill-mannered,

ill-tongued,foul-tongued; abusive,

ill-used,used wrongly,

ill-willy,ill-tempered; spiteful; grudging,also reluctant

'im,him,

impidence,impudence,

imputin',imputing,

inheritin',inheriting,

in't,in it,

interesstin',interesting,

interferin',interfering,

interruppit,interrupted,

intil,into; in; within,

ir,are,

Ishmeleets,Ishmaelites,

isna,is not; is no,

is't,is it,

ither,other; another; further,

'ither,other; another; further,

itsel',itself,

iver,ever,

jabberin',chattering; idle talking,

jaloosed,suspected; guessed; imagined,

jaud,lass; girl; worthless woman,old worn-out horse

jaw,billow; splash; surge; wave,

jawin',talking; chattering,

Jeames,James,

Jeck,Jack,

jeedgment,judgement,

Jeroozlem,Jerusalem,

jined,joined,

jines,joins,

jist,just,

judgin',judging,

jumps,tallies; coincides,

justifee,justify,

justifeein',justifying,

jyler,jailer,

kailyard,kitchen garden; small cottage garden,

keek,look; peep; spy,

keekin',looking; peeping; prying,

keepit,kept,

kelpie,water-sprite; river-horse,

ken,know; be acquainted with; recognise,

kenna,do not know,

kennin',knowing,

kens,knows,

kent,known; knew,

kep,keep; catch,also intercept; encounter

kickin',kicking,

kickit,kicked,

kin',kind; nature; sort; agreeable,also somewhat; in some degree

kin'ness,kindness,

kirk,church,

kirks,churches,

kirkyaird,churchyard,

kirstened,christened,

kirstenin',christening,

kissin',kissing,

kist,chest; coffer; box; chest of drawers,

kists,chests; coffers; boxes; luggage,

kitchie,kitchen,

kittlins,kittens,

kneipit,knocked,

lad,boy,term of commendation or reverence

laddie,boy,term of affection

laddies,boys,term of affection

lads,boys,term of commendation or reverence

laicher,lower,

laird,landed proprietor; squire; lord,

lameter,cripple,also lame

lammie,little lamb,term of endearment

lan',land; country; ground,

lane,lone; alone; lonely; solitary,

lang,long; big; large; many,also slow; tedious

langed,longed,

langer,longer,

lang-leggit,long legged,

lang's,long as,

lang-tailed,tedious,

lan'less,landless,

lap,leaped,

lapstane,stone on which a shoemaker,hammers his leather

lass,girl; young woman,term of address

lasses,girls; young women,

lassie,girl,term of endearment

lat,let; allow,

lat's,let's; let us; let his,

latten,let; allowed,

lattin',letting; allowing,

lauch,laugh,

lauchin',laughing,

lauchter,laughter,

lave,rest; remainder; others,also leave

laverock,lark (type of bird),

Lawlands,Lowlands,

lea,leave,

lea',leave,

leadin',leading,

leal,loyal; faithful; sincere; true,

learnin',learning,also teaching

learnt,learned,also taught

leavin',leaving,

leddy,lady,also boy; lad; laddy

lee,pasture; fallow ground,also shelter from wind or rain; lie

leear,lier,

leebrary,library,

leed,lied; told lies,

leein',lying; telling lies,

lees,lies,

leevin',living; living being,

leiser,leisure,

len',lend; give; grant,also loan

len'th,length,

leuch,laughed,

leuk,look; watch; appearance,

leys,grasslands,

licht,light,

lichtlie,make light of; disparage,

lickin',thrashing; punishment,

lien,lain,

lift,load; boost; lift; helping hand,also sky; heavens

liket,liked,

likit,liked,

likliheid,likelyhood,

likly,likely,

limmer,rascal; rogue,also loose woman; prostitute

lingel,shoemaker's thread,

links,stretch of sandy grass-covered ground,near the seashore

lint-bells,flowers of the flax,

lippen,trust; depend on,also look after

list,enlist as a soldier,

livin',living,

'll,will,

lockit,locked,

longin',longing,

Lonnon,London,

loon,rascal; rogue; ragamuffin,also boy; lad

loot,let; allowed; permitted,

Losh!,corrupt form of 'Lord',exclamation of surprise or wonder

losin',losing,

loup,leap; jump; spring,

loup-coonter lads,shopkeepers; salesmen,

loupin',leaping; jumping; springing,

loupin'-on-stane,horse-block,

lowse,loose; free,also dishonest; immoral

luckie-daddie,grandfather,also fondly regarded forefather

luckie-daiddie,grandfather,also fondly regarded forefather

luckie-minnie,grandmother,

lucky,old woman,

lucky-daiddy,grandfather,also fondly regarded forefather

lug,ear; fin (fish); handle,also shallow wooden dish

lugs,ears,

luik,look,

luikin',looking,

luikit,looked,

luiks,looks,

luve,love,

lyin',lying,

lythe,shelter,

'm,him,

ma,my,

magistrand,student about to become M.A.,at Aberdeen University

maijesty,majesty,

mainner,manner,

mainners,manners,

mair,more; greater,

mairch,march,

mairry,marry,

maist,most; almost,

'maist,almost,

maist han',almost,

maister,master; mister,

maistly,mostly; most of all,

maitter,matter,

maitters,matters,

mak,make; do,

mak',make; do,

makin',making; doing,

maks,makes; does,

mak's,makes; does,

man-body,full grown man,

Markis,Marquis,

maukin,hare,also a reference to a poem by Burns

maun,must; have to,

maunna,must not; may not,

mayna,may not,

meanin',meaning,

meddlin',meddling,

meenit,minute,

meenits,minutes,

meenute,minute,

meesery,misery,

mell,mix; be intimate; meddle,

mem,Ma'am; Miss; Madam,

men',mend,

men'in',mending; healing,

men't,mended,

merchan's,merchants; shopkeepers,

mercifu',merciful; favourable,

mere,mare,also mere

merried,married,

merry,marry,also merry

micht,might,

michtna,might not,

michty,mighty; God,

midden,dunghill; manure pile,

middlin',tolerable; mediocre; fairly well,

mids,midst; middle,

mids',midst; middle,

min',mind; recollection,also recollect; remember

min' upo',remember,

mind,mind; recollection,also recollect; remember

ministert,ministered,

minit,minute,

mint,insinuate; hint; feign,also aim at; attempt

mintin',insinuating; hinting; feigning,also aiming at; attempting

mintit,insinuated; hinted; feigned,also aimed at; attempted

mirk,darkness; gloom; night,

mischeef,mischief; injury; harm,

misdoobt,doubt; disbelieve; suspect,

missionar',missionary,

mistak,mistake,

mither,mother,

mithers,mothers,

mizzer,measure,

moedesty,modesty,

mony,many,

moo',mouth,

moose,mouse,

mornin',morning,

morn's,tomorrow,

mou',mouth,

moufu',mouthful,

mou'fu',mouthful,

mould,mould; loose earth; top soil,

muckle,huge; enormous; big; great; much,

muckler,bigger; greater,

mull,snuff-box,

mune,moon,

munelicht,moonlight,

murnin',mourning,

mutch,woman's cap with protruding frill,worn under the bonnet

mutchkin,liquid measure,equal to an English pint

my lane,on my own,

mysel',myself,

na,not; by no means,

nae,no; none; not,

naebody,nobody; no one,

naething,nothing,

nane,none,

nanetheless,nonetheless,

nater,nature,

nat'ral,natural,

natur',nature,

naything,nothing,

nearhan',nearly; almost; near by,

near-han',nearly; almost; near by,

nears,kidneys,

nebs,tips; points; nibs; beaks,

neebor,neighbour,

neebors,neighbours,

neebour,neighbour,

needfu',needful; necessary; needy,

needna,do not need; need not,

ne'er-do-weel,an incorrigible; troublemaker,

neist,next; nearest,

nesty,nasty,

neuk,nook; recess; interior angle,also corner

news,talk; gossip,

nicht,night; evening,

niffer,exchange; barter,

no,not,

no',not,

noething,nothing,

noo,now,

noo',now,

noo a-days,now; in these days,

nor,than; although; if,also nor

nor's,than is,

notwithstandin',notwithstanding,

nuik,corner,

o',of; on,

objeck,object,

obleeged,obliged,

och,,exclamation of sorrow or regret

och hone,alas,

Od,disguised form of 'God',mince oath

odds,consequence; change,

o'er,over; upon; too,

ohn,without; un-,uses past participle not present progressive

Ohone!,Alas!,

on',and,possibly a mispelling--should be an'

onlike,unlike,

onsays,unsays,

ony,any,

onybody,anybody; anyone,

onything,anything,

ook,week,

ooks,weeks,

oor,our,

'oor,hour,

oors,ours,

oorsel's,ourselves,

oot,out,

ootcast,outcast,

oots,outs,

ootside,outside,

opingon,opinion,

opingons,opinions,

opposit,opposite,

or,before; ere; until; by,also or

ordinar,ordinary; usual; natural,also custom; habit

ordinar',ordinary; usual; natural,also custom; habit

orra,odd job (man); exceptional; over all,also idle

o't,of it,

oucht,anything; all,also ought

ouchtna,ought not,

oursel's,ourselves,

ow,oh,exclamation of surprise

ower,over; upon; too,

owerta'en,overtaken,

oye,grandchild; grandson; nephew,

pailace,palace,

paintit,painted,

pairt,part,

pandies,strokes on the palm with a cane,

papistry,Romanism; Popery,

Paradees,Paradise,

parritch,oatmeal porridge,

partic'lar,particular,

pat,put; made,

peacefu',peaceful,

pecks,blows; strikes,

pernickety,precise; particular; fastidious,also difficult to please

perris,parish,

piana,piano,

picter,picture; sight; spectacle,

pictur',picture,

piece,slice of bread; lunch,

pint,point,

pipit,piped; played the (bag)pipes,

pirn,reel; bobbin,on which thread is wound

pit,put; make,

pitawta,potato,

pits,puts; makes,

pitten,put; made,

plack,the smallest coin,worth 1/3 of a penny

plaguit,plagued; troubled,

plaid,plaid used as a blanket,

plaistered,plastered,

plash-mill,fulling-mill,

playacks,playthings; toys,

play-actin',acting,

playin',playing,

playt,played,

pliskie,trick; prank; practical joke,

plisky,trick; prank,

ploy,amusement; sport; escapade,

ploys,amusements; sports; escapades,

poassible,possible,

poddock,frog,

pooch,pocket; pouch,

pooer,power,

pooerfu',powerful,

poored,poured,

poothers,powders,

pop',pope,

porkmanty,portmanteau,

positeeve,positive,

pouch,pouch; pocket,

poun',pound (sterling),

prayin',praying,

preachin',preaching,

pree,taste; try; prove; experience,

prent,print,

prentice-han',novice,

press,wall-cupboard with shelves,

preten',pretend,

preten't,pretended,

prood,proud,

pruv,prove,

pruved,proved,

pu',pull,

public,public house; pub,

public-hoose,public house,

pu'd,pulled,

puddin's,intestines,

puir,poor,

pun',pound (sterling),

putten,put,

quaiet,quiet,

quaiet sough,quiet tongue,

quaieter,quieter,

quaietly,quietly,

quaietness,quietness,

quean,queen; young girl; hussy,

queston,question,also sum

questons,questions,also sums

quest'ons,questions,

quibblin',quibbling,

rade,rode,

rael,real,

railly,really,

raither,rather,

rale,real; true; very,

rampaugin',rampaging,

randy,rough; wild; riotous,also coarse-tongued; abusive

rase,rose,

rash,needle used in weaving,

readin',reading,

reamy,creamy,

rebukit,rebuked,

receipt,recipe,

reckonin',reckoning,

reconceelin',reconciling,

reconcilet,reconciled,

reekit,rigged out; well-dressed,

regairdit,regarded,

reg'ment,regiment,

reid,red,

reik,smoke; vapour,

rejeckit,rejected,

remainin',remaining,

remeid,remedy; cure; redress,

repentin',repenting,

resentin',resenting,

respec',respect,

respecks,respects; considers worthy,

richt,right; correct,also mend

richteous,righteous,

richteousness,righteousness,

richtly,certainly; positively,

rig,ridge; space between furrows,also long narrow hill

rin,run,

rinnin',running,

rins,runs,

risin',rising,

rist,rest,

rivin',renting; tearing; tuging; wrenching,

rizzon,reason,

rizzonin',reasoning,

rizzons,reasons,

roarin',roaring,

rockit,rocked,

ro'd,road; course; way,

Rom',Rome,

roof-tree,beam forming the angle of a roof,

roomy,little room,diminutive

roon,around; round,

roon',around; round,

roset,resin; cobbler's wax,

roset-ends,shoemaker's waxed thread-ends,

rottan,rat,

rouch,rough,

rowdie,hag; beldame,

ruck,bulk; mass; majority,

ruggin',pulling forcibly; tugging; tearing,

ruggin' and rivin',draging forcibly,also contending for possession

runklet,wrinkled; creased; crumpled,

's,us; his; as; is,also has

s',shall,

sae,so; as,

saft,muddy; soft; silly; foolish,

saiddlet,saddled,

sair,sore; sorely; sad; hard; very; greatly,also serve; satisfy

sair heid,headache,

sair-vroucht,hard-worked,

saitisfee,satisfy,

saitisfeed,satisfied,

saitisfeet,satisfied,

salamander,large poker with a flat heated end,for lighting fires

sall,shall,

sang,song,

sangs,songs,

sanna,shall not,

Sanny,Sandy,also Scotsman

sark,shirt,

sarks,shirts,

sattle,settle,

saven,wise; knowledgeable,also seven

savin',saving,also except

savin's,savings,

Sawtan,Satan,

sax,six,

saxpence,sixpence,

sayin',saying,

scar,cliff; precipice,

scart,scratch; strike a match; scrape,

schuil,school,

schuilin',schooling; education,

schuilmaister,schoolmaster,

schule,school,

schule-time,time for school,

scoonrel,scoundrel,

scoon'rel,scoundrel,

Scotlan',Scotland,

scraich,shriek; scream; bird's shrill cry,

scrattit,scratched; dug,

screed,recite rapidly; talk tediously; reel off,also scraping sound

Scripter,Scripture,

sculduddery,fornication; grossness; obscenity,

scunner,disgust; disgusting; revolting,

scunnert,disgusted; loathed,

scurry,scour; got about from place to place,also wander aimlessly

seck,sack,

seein',seeing,

seekin',seeking,

se'enteen,seventeen,

sel',self,

self-forgettin',self-forgetting,

sellt,sold,

semies,second year's university students,at Aberdeen University

sen',send,

sendin',sending,

sen'in',sending,

servan',servant,

servan's,servants,

sessions-buik,church record of its proceedings,

set,set out; start off; become,also inclined; disposed

Setterday,Saturday,

shacken,shaken,

shackle-bane,wrist; wrist-bone,

Shackspear,Shakespeare,

shak'-doon,shakedown; crude makeshift bed,

shanna,shall not,

sharpset,keen; sharp-witted,

sharp-set,keen; sharp-witted,

shaw,show; reveal,also grove

shawn,shown,

shaws,shows,

shearin',shearing (sheep),

shillin',shilling,

shillin's,shillings,

shinin',shining,

shochlin,waddling; in-kneed,

shochlin',waddling; in-kneed,

shoothers,shoulders,

shortcomin's,shortcomings,

shortent,shortened,

shouldna,should not,

shuit,suit,

shune,shoes,

shutin',shooting,

sib,relation; akin; closely related,

sic,such; so; similar,

siccan,such a; such an,

sicht,sight,

sichtit,sighted,

sicker,secure; safe; firm; sure,

sic-like,suchlike; likewise,like such a person or thing

side,district; region,also the side of

sidin',siding,

siller,silver; money; wealth,

simmer,Summer,

sin,since; ago; since then,also sin; sun

sin',since; ago; since then,

sinfu',sinful,

singin',singing,

sittin',sitting,

skelf,shelf,also splinter

skelpin',digging; ploughing,also beating; striking

skirl,scream; sing shrilly,

slack,slow,

slauchtert,slaughtered,

sleepin',sleeping,

sleepit,slept,

sleicht o' han',sleight of hand,

sliddery,slippery; smooth,also sly; deceitful

slinkin',slinking,

slip,let slip; convey by stealth,

slippin',slipping,

slips,tricks,

sma',small; little; slight; narrow; young,

smacks,single-masted sailing boats,not necessarily a Scottish word

smeddum,spirit; mettle; liveliness,

smilin',smiling,

smokin',smoking; smouldering,

smokin' flax,smouldering wick,reference to Matthew 12:20

smorin',smothering; suffocating,

snappin',snapping,

snaw,snow,

sneck,door-latch; catch (gate),also latch

snod,smooth; neat; trim; tidy; snug,

sod,sad,

sodger,soldier,

sodgers,soldiers,

sojer,soldier,

some,somewhat; rather; quite; very,also some

somehoo,somehow,

sookit,sucked,

soon',sound,

soonds,sounds,

sornin',taking food or lodging; sponging,taking by force of threat

sortit,sorted,

soucht,sought,

sough,sigh; sound of wind; deep breath,

soun',sound,

soun's,sounds,

soutar,shoemaker; cobbler,

sowl,soul,

sowls,souls,

spak,spoke,

spak',spoke,

spark,speck; spot; blemish; atom,

spaud,spade,

speakin',speaking,

speerit,spirit,

speik,speak,

speikin',speaking,

speir,ask about; enquire; question,

speired,asked about; enquired; questioned,

speirin',asking about; enquiring; questioning,

speirs,asks about; enquires; questions,

speirt,asked about; enquired; questioned,

spen',spend,

spence,storeroom; larder,

speyk,speak,

speykin,speaking,

speykin',speaking,

spier,ask about; enquire; question,

spring,quick lively tune,

spult,spilt,

spunes,spoons,

Squaur,square,

stack,stuck,

stair,stairs; staircase,

stamack,stomach,

stamacks,stomachs,

stampin',stamping,

stan',stand; stop,

stane,stone; measure of weight,1 stone = 14 pounds

stanes,stones,

stan'in',standing,

stan's,stands,

starnie,very small quantity,

startit,started,

steek,shut; close; clench,also stitch (as in clothing)

steekit,shut; closed; clenched,

stept,stepped,

sterve,starve,

stew,dust; vapour; smoke,also stench; stink

stickin',sticking; goring,

stingin',stinging,

stinkin',stinking,

stockin'-fit,feet clothed in stockings,i.e. without shoes

stook,arranging the sheaves in a stook,

stoun',ache; throb,

stown,stolen,

Straddle Vawrious,Stradivarius,make of violin

strae-deith,death in bed; natural death,not a violent death

straik,streak; stroke; blow; caress,

straiks,streaks; strokes; blows; caresses,

strang,strong,

strathspey,Highland dance,like a reel but slower

straucht,straighten; straight,

straught,straight,

stravaguin',saunter; stroll; go about aimlessly,

stren'th,strength,

stucken,stuck,

stud,stood,

stule,stool,

styte,nonsense,

subjec',subject,

subjeck,subject,

subjecks,subjects,

substrackin',subtracting,

sudna,should not,

sufferin',suffering,

suffert,suffered,

suld,should,

suldna,should not,

sumph,soft blunt fellow; simpleton; fool,

sune,soon; early,

sune's,soon as,

sung,singed,

sunk,drivel; loiter,also be in a low dejected state

sup,drink,

supped,drank,

supposin',supposing,

swack,elastic; limber; supple,

swarf,swoon; faint,

sweer,swear,

sweir,swear,

sweirer,swearer,

sweirin',swearing,

sweirs,swears,

sworn,swore,

syde,wide and long; hanging low down,

syne,ago; since; then; at that time,also in (good) time

't,it,

tae,toe; also tea,also the one; to

taed,toad,

ta'en,taken; seized,

taes,toes,

taings,tongs; prongs,

tak,take; seize,

tak',take; seize,

tak tent,look out; pay attention; watch,

takin',taking,

taks,takes; seizes,

talkin',talking,

tane,the one,also taken

tap,top; tip; head,

tastin',tasting,

taucht,taught,

tauld,told,

tawtie,potato,

taxed,found fault with; scolded,

tay,tea; supper,

tay-time,tea time; supper,

teachin',teaching,

teep,type,

telled,told,

tellin',telling,

tellt,told,

tell't,told,

telt,told,

tent,attention; care; heed; notice,

thae,those; these,

thairm,fiddle-string,also intestine; gut; belly

than,then,also than

thankfu',thankful,

thankit,thanked,

thanksgivin',thanksgiving,

that'll,that will,

the day,today,

the morn,tomorrow,

the nicht,tonight,

the noo,just now; now,

the piece,apiece,

thegither,together,

themsels,themselves,

themsel's,themselves,

thereaboots,thereabouts,

thimmel,thimble,

thinkin',thinking,

thinksna,does not think,

this mony a day,for some time,

tho',though,

thocht,thought,

thochtna,did not think,

thochts,thoughts,

thoo,thou; you (God),

thoomacks,violin-pegs,

thoucht,thought,

thouchts,thoughts,

thrapple,windpipe; throat,

thrivin',thriving,

throu,through,

throu',through,

throuw,through,

throw,through,

thrum,particle; tangle; mess,

ticht,tight,

til,to; till; until; about; at; before,

till,to; till; until; about; at; before,

timmer,timber; wood,

tint,lost; got lost,

'tis,it is,

tither,the other,

tod,fox,

toom,empty; unload,

toomin',emptying; unloading,

toon,town; village,

toon-piper,town piper,

toot,tut!,exclamation of annoyance

Toots!,Tuts!; Tush!,

towie,string,

trailin',dragging forcibly; hauling along,

traivel,travel,

traivellin',travelling,

tramp,trudge,also tramp

transe,passage within a house,also alley; narrow space

tribble,trouble,

trimlin',trembling,

troo,trust; believe,

troosers,trousers,

troth,truth; indeed,also used as an exclamation

trowth,truth; indeed,also used as an exclamation

tryin',trying,

'ts,its,

tu,too; also,

tuik,took,

tum'ler,tumbler; glass (of whisky),

turnin',turning,

turnt,turned,

twa,two; a few,

twa three,several,

twal,twelve,

twalmonth,twelvemonth; year,

'twas,it was,

twise,twice,

tyke,dog,also rough clownish fellow

tyne,lose; get lost; miss,

'ull,will,

umquhile,former; of old; late,

unbecomin',unbecoming,

unco,unknown; odd; strange; uncouth,also very great

unco',unknown; odd; strange; uncouth,also very great

understan',understand,

unner,under,

unnerstan,understand,

unnerstan',understand,

unpleasin',unpleasing; unpleasant,

unsoucht,unsought,

unweel,unwell,

up the stair,upstairs,also to heaven

uphaud,uphold; maintain; support,

uphaudin',upholding; maintaining; supporting,

upo',upon; on to; at,

upsettin',forward; ambitious; stuck-up; proud,

vailue,value,

vainishin',vanishing,

vainities,vanities,

verra,very; true; real,

vex,trouble; vexation,

vraith,apparition,

vrang,wrong,

vratch,wretch,

vrote,wrote,

vroucht,wrought; worked,

wa',wall,also way; away

wad,would,

wadna,would not,

wailin',wailing,

waitin',waiting,

wakin',waking,

wall,well; spring of water,

wallopin',dancing; galloping,also beating; thrashing; knocking

wame,belly; stomach; womb; hollow,

wamlin',rolling; undulating,

wan,reached; gained; got,

wan'erer,wanderer,

wantin',wanting; lacking; without; in want of,

wantit,wanted,

war,were,

wark,work; labour,also show of affection

warl',world; worldly goods,also a large number

warld,world,

warldly,worldly,

warna,were not,

warran',warrant; guarantee,

warst,worst,

wa's,walls,also ways

washin',washing,

wasna,was not,

was't,was it,

wastit,wasted,

wat,wet,see also 'I wat.'

watchin',watching,

watter,water,

wauken,awake; wake,

waukens,wakes,

waukin',waking,

waukit,woke,

waukmill,fulling mill,

wauk-mill,fulling-mill,

waur,worse,also spend money

waure,ware,

weddin',wedding,

wee,small; little; bit,also short time; while

weel,well; fine,

weel-behaved,well-behaved,

weelfaur,welfare,

weel's,well as,

weet,wet; dew; rain,

weicht,weight,

weir,wear,also hedge; fence; enclosure

weirs,wears,

weyver,weaver; knitter,also knitter of stockings; spider

wha,who,

wha',who,

whaever,whoever,

whan,when,

wharever,wherever,

wha's,who is,also whose

whase,whose,

What for no?,Why not?,

What for?,Why?,

whaur,where,

whaur'll,where will,

whaur's,where is; where has,

wheen,little; few; number; quantity,

whiles,sometimes; at times; now and then,

whilie,short time,

whilk,which,

whumle,whelm; overwhelm; upset,

whusky,whisky,

whustle,whistle,

whustled,whistled,

wi',with,

wice,wise,

wife,woman; landlady,also wife

wight,fellow,

willin'ly,willingly,

willna,will not,

win,reach; gain; get; go; come,

win',wind,also reach; gain; get; go; come

winkit,winked,

winna,will not,

winnin',reaching; gaining; getting,

winnock,window,

winsome,large; comely; merry,

wi'oot,without,

wirrycow,scarecrow,

wis,was,also wish

wiss,wish,

wissed,wished,

wit,intelligence; information,also sense; wisdom

wite,blame; reproach; fault,

withoot,without,

withstan',withstand,

wob,web; woven material,

wolums,volumes,

wonner,wonder; marvel,

wonnerfu',wonderful; great; large,

wonnerin',wondering,

wonnert,wondered,

wordy,little word; little saying or proverb,diminutive

workin',working,

worryin',worrying,

wouldna,would not,

wow,woe,exclamation of wonder or grief or satisfaction

wrang,wrong; injured,

writin',writing,

wud,wood; forest,adj.-enraged; angry; mad; also would

wuddyfous,gallows' birds; scamps,also small ill-tempered persons

wull,will; wish; desire,also astray; stray; wild

wuman,woman,

wumman,woman,

wuss,wish,

wynd,narrow lane or street; alley,

wynds,narrow lanes or streets; alleys,

wyte,blame; reproach; fault,

yaird,yard; garden; farmyard,also yard (36 inches)

yairds,yards; gardens,also yards (1 yard = 36 inches)

ye,you; yourself,

year,years,also year

ye'll,you will,

Yellow-beak,first year's student,at Aberdeen University

yer,your,

yer lane,on your own,

ye're,you are,

yersel,yourself,

yer'sel,yourself,

yersel',yourself,

yersels,yourselves,

ye've,you have,

yird,earth,

yon,that; those; that there; these,

yonner,yonder; over there; in that place,

yon's,that is; that (thing) there is,

yoong,young,

yowth,youth,

End of The Project Gutenberg Etext Robert Falconer, by George MacDonald

Livros Grátis
( http://www.livrosgratis.com.br )
 
Milhares de Livros para Download:
 
Baixar livros de Administração
Baixar livros de Agronomia
Baixar livros de Arquitetura
Baixar livros de Artes
Baixar livros de Astronomia
Baixar livros de Biologia Geral
Baixar livros de Ciência da Computação
Baixar livros de Ciência da Informação
Baixar livros de Ciência Política
Baixar livros de Ciências da Saúde
Baixar livros de Comunicação
Baixar livros do Conselho Nacional de Educação - CNE
Baixar livros de Defesa civil
Baixar livros de Direito
Baixar livros de Direitos humanos
Baixar livros de Economia
Baixar livros de Economia Doméstica
Baixar livros de Educação
Baixar livros de Educação - Trânsito
Baixar livros de Educação Física
Baixar livros de Engenharia Aeroespacial
Baixar livros de Farmácia
Baixar livros de Filosofia
Baixar livros de Física
Baixar livros de Geociências
Baixar livros de Geografia
Baixar livros de História
Baixar livros de Línguas

Baixar livros de Literatura
Baixar livros de Literatura de Cordel
Baixar livros de Literatura Infantil
Baixar livros de Matemática
Baixar livros de Medicina
Baixar livros de Medicina Veterinária
Baixar livros de Meio Ambiente
Baixar livros de Meteorologia
Baixar Monografias e TCC
Baixar livros Multidisciplinar
Baixar livros de Música
Baixar livros de Psicologia
Baixar livros de Química
Baixar livros de Saúde Coletiva
Baixar livros de Serviço Social
Baixar livros de Sociologia
Baixar livros de Teologia
Baixar livros de Trabalho
Baixar livros de Turismo
 
 